Miami Run by David Robbins

Author:David Robbins [Robbins, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: sf_postapocalyptic, sf_action
ISBN: 9780843927863
Publisher: Leisure Books
Published: 1989-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

“So where is it?”

“It’s just up ahead.”

“That’s what you said a mile ago,” Blade noted.

“Cut me some slack!” Barbish retorted. “The cutoff isn’t easy to see in broad daylight, let alone at night! Just look for a dirt road on the left. The road leads south to Paolucci’s estate.”

The gold car was heading west on Highway 41, its headlights illuminating the trees and other vegetation lining both sides. Traffic during the hours preceding the dawn was sparse.

“Any sign of a turnoff?” Blade asked Hickok.

The gunman shook his head. “Not yet, pard.” He was driving at 30 miles an hour, hunched over the steering wheel, his gaze riveted to the left side of the highway.

Blade stared at the Dealer, wondering if the man was leading them on a wild-goose chase. He doubted Barbish would be that stupid. Perhaps the cutoff was genuinely hard to spot at night. In any event, he—

“Blast!” Hickok muttered, applying the brakes. “Missed it.”

Blade looked out the rear window, spying a break in the vegetation, a lighter patch of gravel.

Hickok executed a tight U-turn and drove to the turnoff, then braked.

The gravel road receded into the distance without any trace of a light or indication of habitation.

“I don’t see an estate,” Blade remarked.

“We have about ten miles to go,” Barbish said. “Arlo lives in the middle of nowhere, on forty acres surrounded by swamp. He likes his privacy.”

“Keep driving,” Blade instructed the gunman.

Hickok shrugged and accelerated. The gravel road was bumpy, filled with shallow ruts, causing the car to bounce and vibrate with each bump and jar.

“Arlo had this road built,” Barbish commented. “One day he may get around to blacktopping it.”

“Does every Director live out in the country?” Blade inquired.

“Some live in Miami,” Barbish replied. “Some, like Arlo, prefer the rural life.”

“How many guards protect his estate?”

“I don’t know,” Barbish said.

Blade sighed and placed his right hand on the Paratrooper in his lap.

“I don’t know!” Barbish insisted. “I’ve never counted them! I’ve seen a dozen or so, but there are probably more.”

“Describe the estate.”

“Most of it, up to the edges of the swamp, is wooded,” Barbish detailed.

“An eight-foot-high brick wall encloses five acres, the main area. There’s a house to the north, a barn to the east—”

“A barn?”

“Arlo raises horses,” Barbish said. “He likes the races. The gate to the compound is located in the north wall.”

“What about quarters for the guards?”

Barbish grinned. “Did I forget to mention that? Their quarters consists of a barrackslike building on the west side.”

“And the southern section of the five acres?”

“Gardens,” Barbish said. “Arlo fancies himself a horticulturist, another reason he lives in the country.”

“Do the guards make regular rounds?”

“Yes,” Barbish responded. “But I don’t know their schedule.”

Blade peered out the window at the darkened landscape, reflecting. He estimated there were three hours until dawn, ample time to reach the estate and penetrate it before sunrise. The predawn assault would give the Warriors a decided advantage; any guards awake would be sluggish, either just waking up to start their day or closing out a night shift and ready to hit the hay.

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