by Jerry Ahern
Rourke stepped back from the plane— it was, once again, well camouflaged. But from the air only. To land the craft he had selected the only spot available, and there was little peripheral wooded area nearby to which he could "snuggle" the plane to obscure it at least partially on the ground. He had made the plane tamperproof— unless someone happened by with a parts replacement kit for an F-111 and a machine shop to alter parts, for this was a prototype model based on the F-111 only— it would be impossible to get it off the ground.
He turned, walking toward Natalia and Rubenstein, Rubenstein already straddling his Harley, Natalia standing beside hers, her motor not yet started either.
"Not much more than an hour to the Retreat from here," Rourke called out.
"And then rest for Paul—"
"And for you," Rourke told her. "I will help you—"
"Paul will need those dressings changed at least once a day— he can't do it himself," Rourke told Natalia. "Besides— I have to get moving fast. You're still a little weak from the operation— you know that yourself."
"I am not," she insisted.
"All right— you're not," he smiled. He straddled the Low Rider. "Ready?" he asked both of them.
Rubenstein nodded, starting his engine, Natalia mounting her machine. "Ready," she said, glaring at him.
Rourke gunned the Harley ahead— there was a shortcut he thought he could use, taking him through the park that surrounded Anna Ruby Falls outside Helen, Georgia.
He aimed the Harley's fork toward it...
The body was a fresh kill, or so it seemed, Bill Mulliner thought, peering through the field glasses, down onto the bridge that crossed the rocky stream at the base of the falls.
He scanned the binoculars up toward the falls themselves, estimating the drop at well more than a hundred feet— and he had always been a poor judge of exact distances.
He scanned the area to the far side of the falls, high rocks and a muddy path leading up into woods.
He looked back to the bridge— the man was an American, not looking like a Brigand— too clean, Bill Mulliner thought.
Then he saw the movement, almost dropping his binoculars, refocusing them. On a flat rock about fifty feet further downstream beyond the bridge and the falls was another body—
American-seeming, too. And the body still had life in it.
"We've gotta go down there," Bill Mulliner whispered hoarsely to his three men.
"Bullshit— probably Brigands or somethin'," one man, taller than Bill by a head or more, bearded, rasped.
"The man on the rock is alive." Bill Mulliner peered through his binoculars— as the body moved again, he saw the face. He had seen it once before, in passing, during a Resistance attack. The man would not remember him— but he remembered the face, the man who owned it—
Koenigsberg, the Resistance leader he had come to find.
"That's Koenigsberg."
"Then we go home," the bearded man murmured. Bill Mulliner put down his glasses and looked at the older, taller man.
"We can go around and circle to the other side to our left, or we can go around to our right and come up the gorge, or we can head straight down— either way of the first two will take at least a half-hour. He'll be dead by then, maybe, and all three ways we're wide in the open for anybody lookin' down at us from the other side of them rocks. There's a human being— a fellow Resistance fighter, down there. We go get him. And any man who's too cowardly to go and help— well, damn well stay here and cover me— or just run."
Bill Mulliner swept the far side of the gorge behind the falls with the binoculars again. He saw no movement except for a squirrel moving almost lazily up a tree trunk. It was like the deerwoods on a smoky afternoon.
"Let's go— those that are goin'," and Bill Mulliner pushed himself up, the binoculars swinging from his neck, the M-16 in his hands. He started out of the rocks and toward the long, steep, dirt— and rock side of the gorge. It would be a hard climb down, he thought.
"Wait up," one of the men called in a loud stage whisper, and Bill Mulliner turned around.
Rifle shots— the bearded man who had complained fell flat backwards and never moved. Bill wheeled, his M-16 coming up, something hammering into his chest as there was another burst of gunfire. There was a scream from behind him as he heard more of the gunfire.
Bill fell backward, hitting his head on a rock, shaking his head to clear it. He looked down— his chest was bleeding, bubbles of blood pumping from over his right lung. "Jesus— I'm shot," he said to himself.
He pushed himself to his feet, stumbling. There was more gunfire, but this time from behind him.
"Come on, Billy— come on," the voice of Thad Fricks came to him.
Thad was alive, Bill thought. He turned, trying to move away from the edge of the rocks. Another burst of gunfire— Thad Fricke's rifle went off and he fell, disappearing into the trees.
Bill Mulliner gasped, a pain gripping his chest.
A single rifle shot, and already he was falling, his left leg burning, his face and his hands skidding along the rocks as he fell downward, his rifle gone, his head bumping against a pine tree stump, a clump of brush— a handhold, but he slipped from it and fell, sliding again, rolling, rolling, rolling.
"Sweet Jesus!" he screamed...
"Those shots were from the falls," Rourke almost whispered, his bike stopped near the top of a hilly rise.
"What do you think, John?" Rubenstein asked.
"Whatever you want to do," Natalia murmured.
"Can't be too many— not too many shots— sound like assault rifles— but too high-pitched for AK-47s— not your people," Rourke said, looking at Natalia.
"Agreed—.223s— all of them."
Rourke gunned the Harley—"Let's go," and let out the machine, starting ahead, up a gully and alongside a row of yearling Georgia pines and then into a sparse woods, hearing the roar of Rubenstein's and Natalia's bikes behind him, feeling the throb of the Harley's engine between his legs.
He hit the top of the rise and bounced a hummock of dirt, seeing the drop off into the gorge ahead, slowing the bike, braking, kicking down the stand, dismounting, the CAR-15 in his hands. He saw three bodies on the ground as he ran toward the edge, hearing Paul's and Natalia's bikes stopping behind him.
At the bottom of the steep side of the gorge there were bodies— one on a bridge across the stream at the base of the falls, still another on rocks there beneath the bridge and fifty feet or so beyond. And a third— the third body and the second body still moved. And there were men—
Brigands— moving down from the far side of the gorge, what looked from the distance like M16s in their hands— five of them.
They had not heard the motorcycles coming, Rourke realized— the steady, drowning roar of the falls itself obscuring the noise.
They were Brigands— Brigands— the cut of the men, the dirt, the faces, the way they moved. He saw the lead man raise his M-16 and fire into the man on the rocks who had still moved— the man moved no more. They were Brigands— cold blooded murderers.
Rourke shouldered the CAR-15, ripping away the scope covers— he was cold-blooded, too.
He flicked the safety, pumping a two-shot burst into the man who had just murdered. The body fell, Rourke shifting the scope, finding another target, killing.
There was gunfire from beside him— Natalia's M-16, Rubenstein's German MP-40— Paul had called it a Schmeisser so long Rourke thought of it that way too now.
The bodies fell.
All five were down. Rourke shifted his rifle— one shot to each man, to each head— five dead.
"John— the one at the base of the grade here— a boy with red hair— he's moving." Rourke handed her his rifle, "Take the bikes and start along the side here until you can climb down safely— watch your stitches and watch Paul's arm. I'll go this way."
"All right," she whispered.
Rourke— his rifle with Natalia— started to the edge, found a spot that look
ed the least steep, and started down, slipping onto his rear end, sliding, catching himself, skidding on the heels of his boots, getting to a standing position, running to keep up with his momentum, slipping, falling back, skidding, then getting his balance.
He half jumped, half fell, but was standing— in a crouch— as he hit the bottom of the gorge. He picked his way across the spray-licked, moss-greened rocks, toward the red-haired boy, the roar of the falls louder now.
No other body moved— but the boy moved. Rourke skidded across a low boulder— blood there— and dropped to his knees beside the boy. "Easy, son," Rourke said, raising the boy's head— the hand he held the head in was sticky and wet with blood.
"Ambushed us," the boy gasped.
"It's all right— we got 'em for you— Brigands—"
"Yeah— we— we call 'em that— that, too," the boy sighed.
"Don't try to talk— don't—"
"Gotta help— help the man— the man on the rocks—"
"He's dead," Rourke whispered. "One of the Brigands got him— I killed the guy who did it—
rest easy." He wondered if it would help the boy to say that he was a doctor— for his skills as a doctor would not— blood loss, a lung that seemed collapsed— there was a chest wound that did not suck— and obviously, from just a superficial examination, numerous bones broken. The boy was dying. He decided to say it anyway, to lie that the boy would live, or could. "I'm a doctor, son— I'll do what I can for you to make you comfortable." He couldn't lie.
"I'm dyin'-you're a doc— you know that," and the boy coughed up a slimy mixture of blood and spittle.
"I'm a doctor— and I know that," Rourke nodded, holding the boy closer. "You with the Resistance?"
"Yeah— you, too?"
"No— I'm with some friends— a man and a woman— they're coming," and Rourke heard footfalls on the rocks behind him. He glanced back— it was Natalia only.
"John— I left Paul— the climb was too steep with his arm."
"John?" The boy hissed the word.
"Yeah, son— my name's John—"
"A doctor?"
"Yeah—"
"John Rourke," the boy gasped.
"I don't know you," Rourke said, studying the boy's face more closely.
"Sarah," the boy gasped. "Boy Michael— a little girl— Annie—"
Rourke tightened his left hand's grip on the boy's shoulder—"My wife and children— you've—"
"Cunningham— Cunningham horse farm— near Mt. Eagle, Tennessee," the boy gasped.
"Mt. Eagle," Rourke whispered. "You're— you're— Mulliner— the red-haired boy with the gun that night at the door— the Mulliner farm."
"Bill Mulliner," the boy coughed. "Bill Mulliner— tell my mom— tell her I love her— tell her—
and— tell Mrs. Rourke— good— good..." The boy's eyes stayed open, blood drooled from the right corner of his mouth as his head sagged away.
"Good-bye," Rourke said for the dead boy, and he looked up into Natalia's blue eyes. She closed her eyes and said nothing.
"Sarah," Rourke whispered.
The End
Published by
peanutpress.com, Inc.
www.peanutpress.com
ISBN: 0-7408-0510-X
First Peanut Press Edition
This edition published by
arrangement with
Boondock Books
www.boondockbooks.com
FB2 document info
Document ID: 72d61dfb-8cf6-43a6-be57-75db7d32aab1
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 27.12.2012
Created using: calibre 0.9.11, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Jerry Ahern
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