Part 16 (1/2)
She wondered what his last name was.
He hadn't hit her because he hated her. It was because he hadn't wanted to die with her.
”I hope you live, John,” she said, suddenly feeling a weight slip from her.
The manhole cover in the street outside rocketed skyward, the flame under it rising, spreading. The floor under her shook; the plate-gla.s.s window in front of her shattered.
She had one more injection-one she had saved in her desk drawer.
It would make her sleep. She gave it to herself, letting the needle fall from her hand, her hands b.l.o.o.d.y from the gla.s.s that had cut her as the window shattered around her.
There was a cool wind and as she closed her eyes, she could see her dead husband's stern face. He was scolding her for what she had tried to do, but there was love in his eyes. * .
Rourke settled himself on the seat of the Harley, the motor purring under him, the tanks full, the Detonics stainless .s reloaded and holstered in the Alessi rig across his shoulders. He was slightly cold-the exhaustion, the drugs coursing through his veins. The collar of his Drown leather jacket was snapped up.
Under the jacket he carried the musette bag on his left side, spare magazines for the Detonics pistols and for the CAR- slung under his right arm.
On his right hip was the Python, Metalifed and Mag-Na-Ported; spare ammo for the big Colt was in the musette bag, too, in Safariland Speedloaders.
There were Soviet troops on the ground, Soviet helicopters in the air above. The ground beneath him trembled. Fire was everywhere-in the houses on both sides of the street, a wind whipping it up as he looked out of the garage.
He had been breathing, slowly, evenly, getting the house (hat was his body in order, summoning up the reserves of strength he would need.
It was that or die.
His left fist worked in the clutch, his right throttled out, and the Harley started ahead.
With his right thumb he worked the CAR-'s safety off, then moved his left hand quickly, securing the dark-lensed aviator-style sungla.s.ses.
He squinted through them as he braked in the middle of the street.
In an inside pocket of his leather jacket were some of his dark tobacco cigars.
He took one and placed it between his teeth, rolling it into the left corner of his mouth, unlit.
”Ready,” he whispered to himself.
He throttled the Harley, working through the gears, lowering his frame across that of the bike, reaching the end of the street, making a sharp right, then accelerating again. In his mind's eye he could see the way he'd entered the town and that was the only way he knew to leave it.
He pa.s.sed the post office. As he cut another left, into the street angling past the library, it was a sea of flames.
”Martha,” he rasped, looking away as he gunned the jet black Harley ahead.
Despite it all, he felt a sadness for the woman.
Soviet troops on the right, two of them aflame from the gas fires, three of them wheeling toward him, started to fire their a.s.sault rifles. Rourke gave the Harley gas then s.h.i.+fted his grip to the CAR-. Firing rapid two-round semiautomatic bursts, he nailed the nearest of the men, then the one behind him.
Gunfire from the third man's a.s.sault rifle ripped into the street surface beside him. Rourke throttled out, cutting a broad arc as he made a hard right, then angled off the street and into the gra.s.sy shoulder paralleling it, Fires still raged on the far side by the school building. Soviet troops ran haphazardly about, an officer in their midst; Rourke spotted him, a tall man, his hat gone, his face dirt-smudged.
There was an overturned jeep, and though the officer called to his men, they were scattering. The officer was tugging at something under the jeep.
Rourke sped past, glancing left, seeing a form half under the jeep, the officer working with a pry bar, trying to get someone out.
Rourke slowed the Harley, cutting a wide arc. The jeep was close to the fires raging down the center of the street; the gra.s.s on the far side of it was burning.
”s.h.i.+t,” Rourke rasped, gunning the Harley back toward the jeep.
The officer dropped the pry bar, s.n.a.t.c.hing at a full-flap military holster on his right hip.
Rourke slowed the bike, stopping, the CAR- pointed straight at the Russian.
”Shoot me, then. But first help me get this man out; he's still alive!”
Rourke said nothing. His right thumb flicked the safety of the CAR- on, and he let down the Harley's stand, the engine cut off.
He walked toward the Russian, saying, ”I'm ill-not as strong as I usually am. You work the pry bar; I'll pull him out.”
”Agreed.” The Soviet officer nodded.
The man-a major, Rourke noticed-ieaned against the pry bar. Rourke dropped to his knees in the street beside the injured man pinned under the overturned jeep.
An older man-a senior noncom of some kind. The face, unconscious, was pleasant-looking.
Rourke grabbed the man's shoulders, ”Now, Major,” Rourke ordered, feeling the jeep rising slightly beside him, hearing the groaning as the Soviet officer strained on the pry bar.
Rourke put his own right shoulder to the end of the overturned jeep, then threw his weight back, sprawling backward into the street with the older man, getting him clear as the jeep fell.
”I could not hold it anymore!”
Rourke ignored the officer, looking to the older man. ”He's gonna need a hospital and quick.”
”There are helicopters-cargo helicopters. They can be used for the wounded.”
”You get him outa here fast,” Rourke rasped. ”This whole town's gonna blow.”
”What are you doing?” The major's right hand went out to Rourke's right forearm.
Rourke shook it away, then opened the leather case which had Martha Bogen's shot kit.
”Morphine,” Rourke rasped. ”Relax. Vm a doctor. Put a compression bandage on that right leg-not a tourniquet unless you want him to lose it.” Rourke pulled his knife, then cut at the noncom's sleeves, first the right, then the left, using one sleeve folded over as a bandage, the second to secure it to the leg. ”Not too tight. Looks like you've got somebody to baby-sit with, Major.” Rourke stood up.
The Soviet officer's right hand moved and Rourke started for his rifle, but the hand was extending toward him.
Rourke took it.
”I should arrest you-or have you shot.”
”That last part”-Rourke smiled-”I was kinda thinkin the same thing myself. But I'll pa.s.s on it.”
Rourke loosed the Soviet major's hand and turned to walk away. There was a chance the man would pull a gun and shoot; Rourke decided he wasn't going to count it a possibiiiiy.