Gehret tottered backwards, blood pouring from his nose.
Eager to aid Hickok and Blade, Rikki wanted to end the fight promptly.
He flicked his left foot in a side kick, his heel jamming into the mercenary’s right kneecap.
Gehret stiffened and cried out as his kneecap was shattered. He hobbled to the left and tripped over a log, going down on his left side at the crest of a four-foot-high drop off, the eroded vestige of a low mound.
Rikki pressed his advantage, moving to the mercenary’s right, seeking an opening.
The realization that he was hopelessly outclassed goaded Gehret to a desperate measure. He scrambled onto his good knee, his hands in front of his torso in a defensive posture. An unorthodox ploy was called for, a strategem the Warrior wouldn’t expect. But what? What was the one tactic the man in black would never anticipate? He riveted his eyes on the Warrior as the martial artist circled him, and an insane idea gave him a straw at which to clutch. He glanced at a stretch of sandy earth below the drop-off. The ground appeared slightly soggy and ideal for his purpose.
Rikki neared the edge of the drop-off to his enemy’s right.
It could work. Gehret told himself. He shifted his body to keep the Warrior in front of him, then used his uninjured knee as a crutch and retreated a yard.
The Warrior stepped along the rim of the drop-off, his back to the sandy patch below.
Gehret waited until the man in black was at the midpoint of the rim, then put his scheme into operation. He heaved erect and started to turn, pretending to flee, hoping the Warrior would take the bait.
Rikki, believing the mercenary was foolishly striving to get away, took a stride after his foe and lowered his guard slightly.
Which was precisely the reaction Gehret was counting on. He spun on his left leg and dived, his arms outstretched, tackling the Warrior, gripping the man in black about the ankles and propelling them both toward the rim.
And over the edge.
Gehret had planned it this way. He wanted them to fall to the ground below with him on top, pinning the Warrior beneath him. But he had failed to account for the Warrior’s reflexes.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi flipped his body to the right in midair, and both men landed on their sides. Rikki was surprised to feel the earth yield to the impact, to feel the dirt give out under his body. The soft ground absorbed the force of the drop, and a moist, sticky substance clung to his right ear and cheek. Although he was puzzled, he knew better than to take his eyes from the mercenary. And so it was that he observed a remarkable occurrence.
As his left shoulder sank into the sandy turf, Gehret’s eyes showed stark fear. He twisted and tried to push up, but his arms sank to the elbows in the mushy soil. “No!” he cried.
Bewildered by the sight of the mercenary sinking, Rikki remained motionless, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.
Gehret endeavored to sit up, but the motion only contributed to his rate of submersion. His arms disappeared to the shoulders, his legs to his knees. Frantic, he wrenched on his arms, his blood-stained face contorted in horror. He was sinking even faster. “No!” he shouted, looking at the Warrior with an expression of pathetic despair. “Help me!” he yelled. “It’s quicksand!”
At last Rikki understood.
Even as the damp sand touched his nose.
Chapter Sixteen
“Don’t move, señor!”
Blade had risen as he spied Hickok exiting the infirmary, but he stopped, his body poised to run.
El Gato was covering him with the M-16. “Stay right where you are, Blade.” He waved his right arm at the infirmary. “Get Hickok!”
The ten mercenaries took off in pursuit of the gunfighter.
Blade reluctantly sat down, watching the tableau unfold. He saw Hickok shoot three guards, and then the gunman wheeled and ran to the north.
Where was Hickok heading? Blade thought of the front gate and smiled.
“What is so humorous about the death of one of your fellow Warriors?”
Paolucci asked.
“Hickojc isn’t dead yet.”
“He will be soon,” Paolucci vowed.
Blade listened to the gunshots coming from the north side of the house.
He could distinguish between the boom of Hickok’s revolvers and the lighter, more metallic chatter of the mercenaries’ automatic weapons.
“And for that matter, so will you,” Paolucci said.
Distracted by the noise of the running gun battle, Blade wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly. “What?” he asked belatedly.
“Your demise is at hand.”
With a conscious effort, Blade faced the Director. “What do you have in mind? A firing squad?”
Paolucci smiled. “Nothing so prosaic.”
“You’re going to feed me to the alligators?”
“Now there’s an idea!” Paolucci stated. “But, sorry to say, no. To tell you the truth, the manner of your death is not my decision to make.”
“Then whose is it?”
“Guess.”
Boom. Boom.
Hickok was still alive and kicking! Blade focused on the Director, reflecting. Insight struck him seconds later. “The Masters want to attend to my death personally?”
Paolucci nodded.
“Why am I receiving special treatment?” Blade queried. “Or do the Masters dispose of all of your enemies?”
“The Masters only involve themselves in the exceptional cases,” the Director said. “You’re receiving quite an honor.”
“How so?”
“The Masters will sacrifice you.”
“They make sacrifices?”
“Yes.”
Blade tensed as the automatic gunfire attained a crescendo. He envisioned Hickok being hit by a storm of slugs, and he shook his head to dispel the image.
Paolucci misinterpreted the movement. “You don’t believe me? I’m offended. I have no reason to lie to you. And I know whereof I speak, because I have personally attended fourteen sacrifices.”
“You stood by and watched the Masters sacrifice humans?” Blade asked in disgust. Out of the corner of his right eye he noticed El Gato frowning.
“Most of the sacrifices were Dealers gone bad,” Paolucci detailed. “The rest were troublemakers, people who couldn’t appreciate the essential social service provided by the Dragons.”
“In other words, they were against the Dragons and everything you stand for. They opposed your drug-dealing.”
“They were fools.”
“You’re the fool, if you think you can continue to control the people of Miami with drugs,” Blade said.
Paolucci did a double take, genuine amazement flickering across his features. “My compliments. Your perception is remarkable.”
“What’s so remarkable about the obvious?”
“You’re wrong, though,” the Director said. “The Dragons have controlled southern Florida for sixty-five years. We will control this area, and much more, long after your bones are bleached white by the sun.”
“You think so?”
“I know so,” Paolucci asserted. “Your problem is that you fail to understand the nature of the human condition. Most people are sheep, content to be led by anyone with the strength to assume command. All the average person cares about are the basics. Where is the next meal coming from? Where will the money come from to put clothes on their backs and keep a roof over their heads? And there’s one more consideration.” He paused. “What can help them forget all their cares and woes? What can alleviate the pain, if only for a little while? What can give them the illusion of being on top of the world, when in reality they’re in the gutter?” He smiled. “That’s where the Dragons come in. By feeding this need to feel happy in a world of suffering and sickness, by fostering their illusions, we supply an essential social service. And therein lies the source of our power.”