A heightened resolve flooded over the martial artist, and he released his right handhold and speared his arm upward, trying for a higher grip.
As if the quicksand was a living entity endowed with a malevolent will, the suction intensified at that precise moment.
Rikki felt himself sliding under, and the grainy sand was up to his neck, his arms above his head, when a hand clamped on his right wrist, arresting his descent. He looked up.
“You Zen types sure are loco,” commented the figure in buckskins above him.
“Hickok!”
“You were expecting maybe the tooth fairy?” the gunman retorted. He was lying flat, his right hand gripping Rikki, his left arm looped over the edge of the drop-off.
Rikki’s elation changed to dismay as he beheld the gunfighter’s bandaged right shoulder. Blood was seeping from the bandages, and Hickok’s face was distorted in profound pain.
The gunman grunted as he hauled on Rikki’s arm, straining to the maximum.
Rikki, the focus of the tug of war between the gunfighter and the quicksand, racked his brain for something he could do to aid his friend.
The lighter the load, the easier it would be for Hickok to pull him out.
With the idea came action; he used his left hand to unsling his M-16 and allowed the rifle to drop into the mire.
Hickok’s neck muscles were quivering and his face was beet red. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “And I thought Blade was overweight,” he muttered.
There was one more item he could discard. Rikki used his left hand and drew his katana, his arm protesting the sharp angle required to draw the sword straight up. Once the blade was clear of the scabbard, he glanced over his left shoulder at the backpack strap. Working swiftly, he slid the katana under the strap, pressed the razor edge against the fabric and sliced. The strap parted, the backpack dangling from his right side. He gazed over his right shoulder, locating the strap, then bent his left arm behind his head as he slanted the blade under it.
Two seconds later the backpack fell into the quicksand.
“Your katana!” Hickok exclaimed.
“Never!” Rikki responded.
Hickok grunted once more as he nodded at the bank. “The katana!” he repeated urgently.
And Rikki abruptly understood. He brought his left arm back and drove the sword into the drop-off, all the way to the hilt. The katana held fast, and Rikki had the added leverage he needed to combine his strength with the gunman’s.
Together, the Warriors achieved the success denied them singly. Inch by laborious inch, with the quicksand resisting every gain, Rikki’s body came clear of the sandy ooze. Once his elbows were out, he dug them into the ground and arced his hips upward. With an airy hiss the suction was broken and Rikki scrambled free. Hickok kept pulling, drawing the martial artist up and over the drop-off, Rikki tugging the katana free as he went, and as one they sprawled on the crest, breathing deeply.
“Thank you,” Rikki said softly, sincerely.
Hickok made a waving gesture with his left hand. “Piece of cake.”
Rikki stared at the quicksand, thinking of the mercenary. “I came close…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
“Just one thing I need to know,” Hickok remarked breathlessly.
“What is it, my friend?”
“What the blazes were you doing takin’ a mud bath at a time like this?”
Chapter Eighteen
“So those are airboats?” Blade commented.
Arlo Paolucci nodded, his red hood bobbing. “They are the only practical mode of transportation for navigating in the Everglades. They have a very low draft and can maneuver in shallow water. They’re powered by aircraft engines.”
Blade was intrigued by the unusual craft. They were box-shaped, a dull, gray metal. There were two flat seats the width of the boat, one a few feet from the prow, the second situated in the center. Immediately behind this second seat was a platform affair, an elevated chair for the person operating the craft. And to the rear of the platform chair was a huge fan or propeller enclosed in a circular housing of wire mesh. Attached aft were the large metal fins used for steering the airboat. Eight of the fifteen airboats secured to the dock had two tail fins, the rest only one.
“It will take us about an hour to reach the Shrine,” Paolucci remarked, stepping onto the dock in front of the Warrior.
Blade paused and glanced over his shoulder at the 12 Directors walking toward the dock on the southern boundary of the estate. All 12 were attired in red robes, as was Paolucci.
“Keep going,” El Gato directed. Cat and two mercenaries were right behind the giant.
Blade strolled after Paolucci. The swamp stretched to the east, west, and south as far as the eye could see. “Where is this Shrine, exactly?” he asked.
“A man about to die should not be concerned over trifles,” Paolucci said. He was holding the Bowies in his right hand.
“Do the Masters live at the Shrine?”
“No. They live elsewhere, on an island deep in the Everglades. Not even the Directors are privileged to know its location,” Paolucci replied.
“How do the Masters get to the Shrine?” Blade inquired.
Paolucci looked at the Warrior. “Didn’t you ever hear about what curiosity did to the cat?”
“What have I got to lose?” Blade responded.
Paolucci chuckled. “I see your point. The Masters use airboats, just like we do.”
“What do the Masters look like?”
Paolucci grinned. “In due time.” He halted next to one of the airboats and faced those following. Everyone else stopped. “Cat,” he said. “You know what to do.”
El Gato reached into his left rear pocket and produced a set of handcuffs.
Blade’s eyes narrowed. “For me?”
“I’m afraid so, amigo,” Cat said.
“It’s standard procedure,” Paolucci explained. “The Masters require all prisoners to have their wrists secured.”
“They don’t like their victims to fight back?” Blade said, baiting the Director.
El Gato reached into the same pocket and extracted a small key. “Your wrists, Blade.”
The two mercenaries elevated the barrels of their machine guns.
The Warrior frowned as he offered his wrists to Cat.
“Were it up to me, you would die like a man,” El Gato stated. “Not like an animal.” He snapped the handcuffs onto the giant’s wrists, then handed the key to the Director.
Blade studied the cuffs for a moment.
“We should return shortly after dark,” Paolucci said to Cat. “Tell Maria I’ll be expecting my supper.”
“Si, señor.”
Blade gazed at the airboats. On three of them, seated in the platform chairs, were mercenaries.
“Let’s load up,” Paolucci instructed the other Directors.
As they had done on many occasions, the Directors stepped onto the airboats, four to a boat, and sat down.
Paolucci indicated the first boat with a jab of the Bowies. “On this one,” he said to the Warrior.
Blade entered the boat. Three Directors were sitting on the center seat, and one was in the front. He moved next to the Director in the front and took a seat.
Arlo Paolucci came on board, standing alongside the Warrior. He looked at Cat. “By the time I get back, I trust you will have found the other two Warriors.”
“We will find them,” El Gato assured him.
“That’s what you said five hours ago,” Paolucci mentioned. “Inspire your men to perform as if their lives depend on it.” He paused. “They do.”
“We will find them,” El Gato reiterated.
Paolucci, sat, positioning the Bowies between his legs.
“You still haven’t told me the reason you’re bringing my knives,” Blade noted.