by David Robbins



Asked by the Flathead Indians for help in destroying the Breed, Blade and the Warriors descended on Yellowstone with the fury of the damned. But soon, the mutants had captured the whole force, except Blade and an untested Warrior. It was two against an army and the odds were with Blade.


There had been two shots.

Two shots blending as one.

"Hickok!" Blade exclaimed, and surged toward the west bank, stepping past Achilles, and even as he moved there were two more shots. "Let's go!"

A large, vague shape suddenly came into view on the left, angling to intercept them.

"Blade!" Achilles cried in warning.

"I see it," the giant replied, and aimed the Commmando on the run. He squeezed the trigger, shooting by instinct, and his aim turned out to be unerring.

The thing clutched at its torso and toppled.

Blade faced front, his legs pounding, his heart doing the same. What if he was too late? What if the mutations had killed his friends and the others? What if his blunder wound up costing lives, the lives of the two best friends he had?