When outnumbered, do the unexpected.
The gunfighter stopped, extending and elevating his left arm, and fired once.
With his arms flung wide, the sentry on the wall staggered to the inner rim and plummeted over the edge.
Hickok resumed speeding toward the gate. The layout of the compound worked in his favor; he could make a beeline for the gate from the infirmary, but the mercenaries pursuing him were thwarted by having the house between themselves and the north wall. They had to run all the way around the Director’s huge residence. Now, with less than 30 yards to go, and with the pack of mercenaries obstructed by the intervening mansion, he pumped his legs for all he was worth.
The pair of gate guards had halted ten feet from the gate and were sighting on the Warrior.
Hickok threw himself to the left, to the ground, jarring his left side. The left Colt was empty, and reloading was out of the question.
Would his right arm work?
The gunfighter rolled to his knees as the gate guards fired. He grunted as he drew his right Python, his shoulder lancing with agonizing protest.
Steady! he mentally warned himself.
Slugs smacked into the turf in front of him.
Hickok fired twice, each shot planted dead center, a slug tearing into each guard’s head and dropping them in their tracks.
Move! his mind screamed.
The gunman rose and darted for the gate, looking over his left shoulder.
The pack had not yet appeared. He might make it after all. He holstered the left Python and studied the gate ahead. Six-foot-high metal bars, spaced at one-foot intervals, formed the core of the framework, braced by heavy bars at the top and the bottom. A heavy chain was looped around the central bars and secured by a large padlock. He slowed as he neared the pair of dead guards, intending to search their pockets for the key.
A loud shout sounded behind him.
Hickok looked over his right shoulder to see the pack of mercenaries rounding the northwest corner of the house. They were hard in pursuit, and several of them yelled with excitement as they spied their quarry.
Blast!
He could forget the key.
Hickok spun and ran to the gate, sliding the right Python in its holster.
He didn’t slow or stop. Instead, he took a leap and grabbed the middle bars, holding on with all of his strength, his right shoulder twitching in excruciating torture. He resisted the waves of pain and climbed higher, hand over hand, using his left arm to bear most of his weight and shimmying upward with his legs.
The chatter of automatic fire greeted his maneuver.
Hickok heard slugs thud into the brick wall, and a few rounds pinged off the metal bars. His neck muscles bulged, his face becoming crimson, as he scaled the gate to the top horizontal bar.
Something tugged at his left leg.
Hickok draped his left arm over the top bar, girded his shoulders, and surged up and over the heavy bar. For a moment he hung suspended by his left arm alone, his right too racked with torment to use.
A stinging sensation lanced his right cheek.
He dropped to the gravel road, landing and almost losing his balance.
But he recovered and headed for the vegetation to the north, his sore right shoulder impeding his speed.
A moment later, the mercenaries pounded up to the gate and cut loose at the twisting, dodging figure in buckskins making for the shelter of the trees.
“Get the son of a bitch!”
Chapter Fifteen
In terms of experience and expertise, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was acknowledged by the Family as one of the more deadly Warriors. Rikki practiced his martial arts skills daily. He would spend hours honing his ability to throw shuriken into logs positioned upright as makeshift targets. He continuously worked at increasing his mastery of the katana, his favorite weapon. Calloused and hardened by constant striking of hard surfaces, his hands and feet were employed in unarmed contests with other Warriors, friendly affairs with a lethal undertone. Only two Warriors could hold their own against Rikki in hand-to-hand combat: Blade and Yama.
Devoted to attaining the spiritual state of a perfected swordmaster, Rikki honed his reflexes ceaselessly. He recognized the critical importance of sharpening his reflexes to a razor readiness. When on a run, if he slacked off for just a second, it could mean the difference between life and death.
Warriors had to guard against being taken by surprise. Their reflexes must be equal to the unexpected developments of any given moment. Yet despite this fundamental knowledge, Rikki knew the impossibility of maintaining a perpetual state of hypersensitivity to imminent danger.
Invariably, inadvertently, when a Warrior least expected it, his guard would falter for a crucial interval. This happened to every Warrior at one time or another.
And now it happened to Rikki.
The martial artist was listening to his prisoner describe the interior of the compound, when from the north erupted the crack of gunfire. Rikki should have kept his eyes on the mercenary. He knew to do otherwise was a major blunder. He had trained and trained for just such a contingency.
But the gunshots sounded familiar despite the distance. Countless times he had heard Hickok fire the Pythons, and eventually, after years of familiarity, his ears could register the subtle difference between a Colt Python revolver and other firearms. So when he heard the gunshots, and when he realized that Hickok could be doing the firing, he carelessly, automatically, looked up, gazing to the north.
In that moment Sergeant Gehret struck.
The mercenary had babbled to save his life, supplying the details the man in black requested. Gradually, the intense pangs in his side and jaw had subsided to a tolerable level. His arms at his sides, he had meekly complied with the Warrior’s demands for information. But he was still, first and foremost, a seasoned, professional soldier, a mercenary of outstanding ability. He was not a man to permit an opportunity to pass untaken. And when he saw the Warrior glance to the north, he reacted with all the speed and efficiency at his command. He drove his right fist into the Warrior’s groin.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi doubled over, gasping, his genitals afire. Any normal man would have clutched his privates and been oblivious to all else. But Rikki was not normal; his self control, his inner discipline were supreme.
Instead of allowing the agony to control him, he controlled it. Instead of wheezing for air, at the mercy of his foe, he threw himself backwards to put distance between them, tottering, every iota of his concentration devoted to regaining domination of his body.
Sergeant Gehret pushed to his feet and closed on the Warrior, performing a side thrust kick to his opponent’s midsection.
Rikki stepped to the right, evading the kick, his fluidity reduced to a mere shuffle.
Eager to press the initiative, Gehret delivered a sweep kick at the Warrior’s legs.
The blow was telegraphed by the mercenary’s stance and muscle movement, and Rikki skipped out of range. His legs were responding better to his mental commands.
Gehret made a mistake of his own. He stepped back and assumed a fighting stance, and then he violated the cardinal rule of martial-combat: He spoke. “I’m going to stomp you into the ground, little man!”
Rikki said nothing. He tensed his muscles, gauging his recovery, waiting.
“I’ve got to hand it to you,” Gehret said. “You’re good. But I’m better.”
So saying, he attempted to connect with a front rising kick to the Warrior’s head.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was not so easily taken. His left forearm blocked the blow and he rotated, whipping his left elbow in nearly a full circle, adding the momentum of the swing to his inherent power. His elbow caught the mercenary on the nose and crushed the cartilage, flattening the nostrils.