by Jerry Ahern
As Rourke turned toward his bike, he heard Rubenstein's voice and over it the clicking of bolts—from assault rifles. Without moving he looked up, heard Rubenstein repeat, "John!"
Slowly, Rourke raised to his full height, squinting against the glare through his sunglasses. A dozen men—in some sort of uniform—were on the far side of the road. Slowly, he turned around, and behind him, on Rubenstein's side of the road beside the abandoned truck trailer, were at least a half-dozen more.
All the men carried assault rifles of mixed heritages—and all the guns were trained on Rourke and Rubenstein...
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Created 5/24/2000
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