Free Doomsday Warrior 01 by Ryder Stacy Page B

what was happening, Rock,” Detroit said, bending over and opening the jaws of one of the killers and whistling. “But we sure could hear the growls and gunshots. We figured a little flash bulb might make ’em shy.”
    Rock reloaded the four empty chambers of his .12-gauge pistol, taking the thick cartridges from his utility belt.
    “It did. I would have been dogfood in another five seconds,” Rock said, putting the pistol back into its hip holster. “This is getting to be a habit,” Rock said, turning to the other men with an ironic grin. “I’ve got an image to protect. I’m supposed to be the tough guy here.”

Six
    T he Freefighters kept on the move for two days after they left the vast woodlands. They had to be more careful out here because the Russian spydrones flew regular patterns overhead, searching the dusty, rocky terrain for signs of trouble. But because of their regularity, the drones were easy enough to avoid and the men would just take a break when the next one was due over, hiding behind rocks or under trees.
    At last they reached the narrow mountain trail thought impassable by the Reds. They hit the start of the winding path that wove thousands of feet in the air, around two peaks, in the early morning, just as the sun shot out of the darkness, piercing the clouds just above them with orange-purple rays. It took nearly two hours to traverse the crumbling trail that sometimes narrowed to under a foot in width. Even the sure-footed hybrids were nearly stumbling as they rounded the last of the four thousand foot drops, straight down, past sheer rock walls of smooth granite. Then down the long, even slope that ended in a thick-wooded valley.
    They came to the three pine trees beside two large, square boulders that was the only sign of the main entrance into Century City. They walked silently past the trees and into a tunnel of brush and thickets nearly twelve feet in diameter. An owl hooted.
    “That’s the signal this week,” Carver whispered to Rockson, cupping his mouth to his hands. He gave out three rapid renderings of a wood thrush. The owl hooted twice rapidly—too rapidly for an owl—and there was a grating sound. What looked like a twenty ton, black boulder at the end of the little tunnel of brush slid sideways and there appeared a dimly lit ramp of black-painted concrete on the other side, lit by faint green lights overhead. The fourteen Freefighters, pulling their pack hybrids behind them, walked into the cavernous space. After the last man had entered, the boulder slid effortlessly shut behind them.
    There was a click and overhead arc lights came flaring on. On all sides, khaki-clad guards, with silencer-equipped Sten guns stood, barrels pointing at the arrivals.
    “There is nothing like a . . .” demanded the closest figure, his gun at chest level.
    “Dame,” Rockson replied clearly. The guns were lowered. Greetings and slaps on the back were exchanged. Someone popped a cork and the city’s homemade wine flowed into their beat-up canteen cups as was the tradition for all returning Strike Forces. Dr. Shecter, the leading scientist of Century City and one of its most influential men politically, appeared and shook Rockson’s hand.
    “Good to see you back safe and sound. There’s something that I must talk to you about!” Shecter’s fierce brown eyes stared straight into Rockson’s. The intensity of the man was immense. The scientific “wonderboy” was responsible for half of Century City’s development over the last twenty years. An unparalleled genius in many fields, Shecter merely shrugged off any suggestion that he was a new Michelangelo with an “I don’t paint.”
    Shecter moved on to shake each man’s hand. In the absence of Council Leader Evans who was away on urgent business in a nearby Free City, Shecter was the highest ranking official around. Obviously he had been drafted for the rituals for he quickly disappeared back into the vast complex of corridors with