A wave of dizziness struck him and he leaned against the car for support, breathing deeply until the sensation passed.
Blade noticed an alley ten feet away and he shuffled into it. Maybe he could locate a secluded spot where he could lay down and sleep for a spell.
The alley was packed with old, rusted trash cans, broken furniture, and other articles.
Blade weaved between the obstructions, forging ahead.
Loud cries abruptly broke the silence behind him.
Had the Wacks returned?
Blade worriedly glanced over his right shoulder. He couldn’t see any of the crazies, but they might have returned, backtracking, realizing he had given them the slip.
He had to hide!
Blade stumbled forward, bumping into a trash can and knocking it over, creating a racket, but not caring anymore. He was too tired, and depressed. He’d failed. Failed miserably. Failed Plato, and he hit another can, and Jenny, and he was picking up momentum, and Hickok, and he kicked another can out of his path, and Joshua, and…
He saw the end of the alley coming up, and he ran, drawing his Bowies in case they were waiting for him, catching a glimpse of a leg suddenly poking out and tripping him, and his vision spun as he went down, hard, knowing the Wacks had caught him and determined to give them an accounting they would recall for generations to come.
Blade scrambled to his feet, surprised to discover the business end of a revolver staring him in the face.
“Blade?”
It took Blade a moment to recognize the man standing in front of him.
He was covered with sewage and filth and grime, his skin almost black from the dirt.
“Geronimo?” Blade asked incredulously.
“Blade! It’s you!” Geronimo impetuously embraced his friend, hugging him close.
Blade returned the affection. “I can’t believe it,” he mumbled.
“Believe it!” Geronimo elatedly exclaimed.
Blade held Geronimo at arm’s length, and stared into his eyes. “I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my whole life.”
“The feeling is mutual.” Geronimo’s brown eyes twinkled. “Where have you been? I thought the Wacks had you.”
The Wacks!
“It’s a long story.” Blade glanced at the alley. “Right now we’ve got to get the hell out of here or we’ll wind up being the prime rib on someone’s plate!”
“Are they after you?”
“Yeah. And I don’t mind telling you, I’m running out of steam.”
“Don’t worry,” Geronimo assured him, smiling, the white of his teeth a stark contrast to the smudged dirt all over his face. “We’ll get out of this mess in one piece.”
“I hope,” Blade stated as they jogged away from the alley, “the same can be said for Hickok, Joshua, and Bertha.”
“You and me both!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Hickok raised the C.O.P. and blasted the shocked Porn in the face, the man tumbling backward from the door he’d just opened and collapsing on the floor.
The men at the table froze, some with their spoons or forks in midair.
Hickok knew he couldn’t afford to miss a beat. He rushed into the dining room, the Winchester already at his shoulder. By all rights, and his Warrior training, he should have gone for the men nearest him, the ones posing the immediate threat, but he picked another target, the big gun booming and the slug ripping into Maggot’s right shoulder and propelling the fat man from his chair. Hickok went after Maggot for two reasons, two personal justifications, violating every precept of his long and arduous instruction and discipline. First, he wanted Maggot away from the Pythons and the Henry. Secondly, and an overwhelming sentiment, he hated the son of a bitch!
The Porns began to recover from their initial astonishment, some reaching for revolvers, others trying to get to their rifles stacked against the wall.
Hickok swiveled, firing twice, downing the two men to the right of Maggot’s chair.
A grizzled Porn on the left side of the table had cleared leather and was pointing a pistol in Hickok’s general direction.
The Winchester blew the top of his head off.
A bullet whined by Hickok’s right ear.
Hickok spun, snapping a shot at a man who had reached his rifle, catching the man in the head as he gripped his gun.
Another bullet buzzed by Hickok.
Where? He spotted Rat at the far end of the table, crouched behind it for cover, firing.
A burly Porn, one of those closest to the door, decided the best defense was a good offense. His rifle was out of reach, so he lowered his head and charged.
Hickok sidestepped, another slug missing him as he did. He emptied the Winchester, the sixth shot smacking into a Porn’s chest and flipping him over.
The burly Porn returned, grappling for Hickok, attempting to confine his arms.
Hickok dropped the Winchester and brought the C.O.P. up.
Rat popped out from under the table and quickly fired, the bullet catching the burly Porn in the left cheek as the Porn pivoted for a better position. The man clutched the side of his face, his eyes rolled, and he fell.
A tall Porn brought an automatic into play, the gun booming, the slug tearing a furrow along Hickok’s left side.
Hickok flinched, steadied his hand, and let the Porn have a bullet in the brain from the C.O.P.
Only two Porns remained. Rat cowered at the far end of the table, under cover. The final Porn, a young kid still in his teens, had turned to ice when the shooting erupted, fear immobilizing him, his right hand inches from the revolver he wore on his right hip.
Now, in the momentary lull, the kid came to life, his hand going for the revolver.
“Don’t do it!” Hickok tried to warn him.
No good.
The kid drew, the gun barely out of the holster when Hickok shot him in the right eye.
Hickok crouched, searching for Rat. Where was he? Still under the table? Cautiously, holding the C.O.P. in front of him, he bent and peered under the table, finding a maze of chair legs and table legs.
But no Rat.
Hickok stood and walked to his left, stepping over the bodies, puzzled.
The table and chairs were the only furniture in the room. Where could Rat be?
He reached the far end of the dining table, speedily placing the C.O.P.
on the wood and retrieving his Pythons. The instant the Colts were in his hands, the pearl handles snug in his palms, he felt renewed confidence surge through him.
Hickok glanced down at the floor, at the spot where Maggot’s body should be.
Only it wasn’t.
What the hell?
A faint scraping came from his left, and he whirled, the Colts cocked and ready.
In the corner of the room, hidden in shadow, twenty feet from the nearest torch, was a door.
So!
Hickok warily crossed to the door, noting it was open a crack.
Distinctly, from the other side of the door, sounded the click of a hammer being drawn back.
Hickok grinned.
Someone is in for a big surprise, he mentally noted. He blasted at the center of the door, four times in rapid succession.
The wood splintered as the slugs penetrated, and someone screamed and dropped to the floor.
Hickok stepped to the door and kicked it open with his right foot.
Maggot was lying on the floor, clutching his stomach, wheezing. A sawed-off shotgun was on the floor too, at his feet.
Hickok pushed the shotgun aside with his left foot.
The room was lit by a solitary torch, and at the opposite side was another door. Open.
No sign of Rat.
“So, ugly.” Hickok glared at Maggot. “We meet again.”
Maggot coughed, doubling over.
“I wouldn’t have thought a few more ounces would hurt that big tummy of yours,” Hickok spitefully remarked.