The light from a floodlight at the eastern corner of the house cast a glimmering reflection on the weapons piled on the table. Blade glanced at the Paratrooper, estimating his chances of successfully making a bid for freedom. With the table encircled by mercenaries, and El Gato standing four feet to his right, any precipitous movement on his part would be met by a hail of lead. Wisdom dictated sitting tight, biding his time. He stared to his left at the infirmary 50 yards distant, suppressing his anxiety over Hickok. Why had the gunfighter pulled such an inane stunt? Hickok was impetuous, true, but the gunman wasn’t an idiot; his gambit at the south door made no sense.
“I was quite surprised to learn of your presence in Miami,” the Director commented.
“How did you find out?”
“I was called by one of Barbish’s people fifteen minutes after you took him from the Oasis,” Paolucci divulged. “It wasn’t terribly difficult to put two and two together. When my caller described the three men responsible for the abduction, I remembered the descriptions I’d been given of yourself and a few of your colleagues.”
“But how did you know it was me?”
The Director smiled. “How many seven-foot men with Bowie knives are traipsing around the country?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Blade said. “How did you know about me, about the Warriors? Where did you hear about us?”
“From the Masters,” Paolucci answered.
“How did they learn about the Warriors?”
“You’ll need to ask them,” the Director said.
“They didn’t tell you?”
“No,” Paolucci said. “And I’m not about to pry into their affairs. As a Director, my job is to carry out their wishes, not to pry into their sources.”
“How much were you told?”
Paolucci leaned back in his chair. “The Masters held a conclave with all of the Directors in attendance. We were told about this group in Minnesota, the Family, and provided with convincing evidence of the Family’s threat to our operation.”
“What are you talking about?” Blade demanded. “How can the Family be a threat when our Home is located over two thousand miles from Miami?”
“If the Masters see your Family as a threat, then you’re a threat,” Paolucci maintained.
“What else did they inform you of?”
“We were provided with a brief description of your administrative organization,” the Director said. “We learned about the Elders, about your Leader, Plato, and about the Warriors.”
“And did the Masters happen to reveal their plans for the Family?”
Paolucci nodded. “Complete eradication.”
“Then the report we heard was true,” Blade commented.
“Now it’s my turn,” the Director stated. “I’ve answered all of your questions, and I expect you to extend the same courtesy.” He paused as Maria approached with a silver tray containing liquid refreshments. She placed the tray on the table, picked up a glass filled with grape juice, and handed the drink to the Warrior.
“Your grape juice, señor.”
“Thank you,” Blade said.
“That will be all, Maria,” Paolucci stated stiffly.
Maria glanced nervously at the Director, then departed.
“I’ll talk to her about the raspberry juice,” Paolucci commented.
“Talk to her?” Blade repeated, and took a sip.
“I pride myself on running an orderly household,” the Director said.
“My servants perform their duties impeccably, or they don’t work for me very long.” His tone lowered ominously. “I despise imperfection.”
“So what if you’re out of raspberry juice,” Blade responded. “It’s not worth getting upset about.”
“To you,” Paolucci said sternly. He abruptly smiled. “But enough of this.
Where were we? I believe you were going to answer my questions.”
“I never said I’d answer anything.”
“But I answered all of yours,” the Director declared.
“That doesn’t make us best friends,” Blade quipped.
Paolucci’s lips compressed. To cover his chagrin, he reached for a pitcher of red juice. “Tomato juice,” he explained. “My favorite.” He poured the tomato juice into an empty glass, set down the pitcher, and reached for the glass. His fingers were an inch away when the predawn quietude was shattered by the blast of gunfire.
From the infirmary.
Chapter Thirteen
Sergeant Ambrose Gehret hustled his men across the cleared strip and into the trees to the south of the compound. He stopped under the willow, the same willow he’d seen the giant and the guy in buckskins dart from when they’d approached the wall. As he expected, the man in black was gone.
“We’re after one man, Sarge?” asked a tanned, experienced soldier to his rear.
Gehret nodded.
“We won’t even work up a sweat,” Stanz remarked.
Gehret turned to his men. “Listen up!” He recalled an episode earlier that night. Shooting the breeze with El Gato near the barn, both of them had been surprised to see the Director running toward them from the house. The Director, displaying an uncharacteristic uneasiness, had told them about Barbish’s abduction, about his belief that the Warriors were involved. Gehret had been secretly amused at the Director’s ill-concealed anxiety. Paolucci had expressed his belief that the Warriors were on their way to Happy Acres, based on the assumption the Warriors would not go to all the trouble to snatch the Dealer alive without a specific purpose.
And what better reason than to compel the Dealer to take them to Barbish’s superior in the Dragons? Gehret had to hand it to Paolucci. The Director had been right on the money. “In case you didn’t hear, we’re after a Warrior.” He said the name scornfully.
“What’s a Warrior?” Stanz asked.
“They’re supposed to be real hotshots,” Gehret replied. “The one we’re after is dressed in black. He must know his pals have been caught. I doubt he’ll go very far. We’ll divide up into three teams. Stanz, take two men with you and sweep to the west, then north. Check under every tree and behind every bush.”
Corporal Stanz nodded. He looked at two of the mercenaries and wagged his right thumb westward. The trio hurried off.
Sergeant Gehret glanced at one of his men. “Weber, take two men with you,” he directed. “Go east, all the way around the compound until you join up with Stanz.”
Private Weber selected a pair of men and off they went.
“Right,” Gehret said, staring at the remaining duo. “The south side is all ours. Let’s go.” He advanced into the undergrowth, his men flanking him.
The mercenaries dispersed in three directions of the compass, and as their stealthy footfalls faded, a lithe, pantherish form dropped from the overspreading limbs of the willow to the ground.
The hunted was now the hunter.
Sergeant Gehret was becoming increasingly annoyed at the minutes elapsed without a sign of the Warrior. No trace at all! Not one of the other search parties had signaled, not so much as a single shot had been fired.
Where the hell was the guy in black?
Gehret paused on a low mound and surveyed the terrain. In front of him was a 15-foot incline covered with weeds, and then a sea of sawgrass.
They were nearly to the southern edge of the estate; beyond was the reptile-infested swamp. Dawn was streaking the eastern horizon, the increasing sunlight lending the murky water a golden hue. He turned to the west, intending to head for the airboat dock.
“Sarge!” one of his men exclaimed, pointing to the north, at a tree 20 yards distant.
Gehret swiveled, doing a double take when he saw the cause of the man’s alarm.
There he was!
The son of a bitch was standing next to the tree, just watching them, an M-16 slung over his left shoulder, his hands empty!