by neetha Napew
his stomach for drainage, but he's going to be all right."
"That's good," Rourke said, then, "Thanks— look, I know you tried. I'm not angry
at you, really— you did what you could."
She didn't say anything for a moment, then, "I saw Chambers—he's well. They
haven't sedated him or anything. There's a plane coming from Chicago to pick you
up—they'll want to take Chambers, too. General Varakov wants to see you both.
Actually, you're lucky—Varakov is a good man. He'll be easier than Vladmir would
have been."
"Yeah, real lucky," Rourke said, not trying to disguise the bitterness in his
voice.
"I brought you a cigar," she said, her face brightening. She handed it to him,
then reached into the right-hand pocket of her skirt and pulled out her
cigarettes and a lighter. She lit the cigar for Rourke, then her own cigarette.
She sat down beside him on the bed. "John?"
"What?"
"You aren't in the CIA anymore, are you?"
"I told you I wasn't—all I'm interested in for now is finding my wife and
children."
"Tell me about them, John—all of them."
"Why?"
"Just tell me about them, please," she said, her voice a whisper. Rourke stared
at her, watched the deep blue eyes, the exquisite profile.
He dragged on the cigar, saying, "Well, my son Michael is six—smart, independent
little guy, but what do you say—he's a neat little man. There's Annie—my
daughter, she's just four—kind of funny, cracks you up sometimes, pretty like
her mother. And sometimes she drives you crazy."
"What's your wife like?" Natalie asked.
"Sarah—dark hair, brown though, not like yours. Gray-green eyes, about
five-seven. She's smarter than I am. She's more—what would I say—she's more of a
diversified person, wider interests—she's—"
"Do you love her that much?"
"We talked about that already, didn't we?"
"Give me an honest answer to one question," the girl said.
"All right, if I can," Rourke told her, watching the tip of his cigar, not
wanting to look at Natalie.
"If you'd never met Sarah, didn't have Michael and Ann—would you have—ahh—never
mind, John," and she started to stand up.
Rourke put his left hand on her forearm, his hand moving down to her hand.
"Maybe I'm crazy," he said, forcing a smile.
"No," she said quietly. She looked at the door, then hitched up the skirt over
her right leg and Rourke saw the COP pistol, the little stainless steel .357
Magnum, strapped to her right thigh with a length of white surgical elastic. She
undid the elastic, stuffing it under the pillow on the cot, and weighed the gun
in her hand, then pointed it at him.
"John—your weapons, Rubenstein's weapons, they're in my husband's office. He's
learned of an attack on the base—here, late tonight. We have a spy in Chamber's
organization in east Texas. Vladmir is calling down a neutron strike at the time
the attack starts, then you and Chambers will be flown to Chicago. You'd never
find your wife and children. Rubenstein would be made to talk, when they found
out he didn't know anything, they'd kill him then. You wouldn't leave here
without Chambers, would you?"
"Honest?" Rourke asked, looking into her eyes.
"I know you wouldn't. If I help you—to get Paul out and Chambers too, would you
promise me one thing—that you wouldn't kill anyone you didn't have to?"
"Yeah—I'd promise that," Rourke answered.
"And that includes Vladmir—that you wouldn't kill him—only if you had to, to
defend yourself?"
"Do you love him?" Rourke asked her.
"I don't know," she said flatly. "Get ready—I'll get the guard in here."
She stood up and walked to the door, smoothed her hair back from her face and
tapped on the door, saying in Russian, "Corporal—come in here. This prisoner had
a weapon—I've disarmed him. Come inside immediately and assist me."
The door opened, the young corporal said, "I will assist you, comrade captain,"
then stepped through the doorway. As he passed her, the COP pistol clamped in
her right fist, she straight-armed him in the right side of the neck. Rourke
stepped forward and caught the young soldier before he hit the floor, then eased
him onto the bed. As Rourke stripped the man's weapon away, then used the
military trouser belt to tie the man, the girl stood by the door, watching.
Rourke, over his shoulder, said to her, "How are you going to get out of this?"
"Don't worry about me. We can get Chambers freed, then get Paul out. I have
already arranged for your motorcycles and equipment to be brought to one of the
elevators they use for getting the planes up onto the field. There's a prop
plane down there—it's fueled and flight checked. You can fly it?"
"Unless the gauges are in Arabic, I'll do okay. Why are you doing this?"
She looked at him, saying, "I gave my word—I keep my word, just like you do."
He didn't say anything to her as he checked the young unconscious guard's AK-47,
but he could see her smiling.
Chapter Forty-Two
The girl behind him, Rourke edged along the wall toward the base of the stairs.
The hall there was in shadow, light streaming from the head of the stairs above
on the main level of the underground complex. Chambers was being held just
beyond the head of the stairs, with two security guards outside his door and a
third inside with him as a suicide watch. On this same floor, one level below
the ground-level runways and the few ground-level hangars, was the hospital wing
and Karamatsov's office. Rourke had explained to Natalie that he had to confront
her husband, had to stop Karamatsov from calling in the neutron strike against
the attacking forces. Once he was airborne with Chambers, he'd try every
frequency he could to contact the U.S. forces on the ground and alert them that
the attack could be called off because Chambers was free—that would be Rourke's
end of the bargain with Natalie for his freedom.
He glanced up the stairwell, saw the booted feet of a guard and pulled his head
back, using hand signals to warn the girl beside him. She moved up to the base
of the stairs, smoothed her blouse and palmed the COP pistol in her right hand,
behind her skirt, then started up the stairs. Rourke held back at the edge of
the stairwell, not daring to look up lest he give the girl away. He heard bits
and pieces of a brief conversation in Russian, then a shuffling of boots and a
heavy thudding sound. He raced around the corner of the stairwell and halfway up
the stairs intercepted the body of the Russian guard, rolling down toward him.
He dragged the man down the stairwell, took the AK-47 and as he started to tie
the man, stopped, realizing the guard's neck was broken and he was dead.
Rourke started up the stairs. Natalie was standing three stairs down, looking
along the corridor. Rourke stopped a stair below her, saying, "He's dead—you do
it?"
Her face was expressionless, then the corners of her mouth turned down and she
said, "I had to—he realized something was wrong."
"At least he was right about that," Rourke said, glancing back down the stairs.
"Where are they holding Chambers—along there?"
"Around the corner," Natalie whispered. "Come on." Rourke had no plan, other
than to overpower the guards outside the door if Natalie couldn't connive her
way inside. It was the guard on the inside that he was worried about—he judged
that the man on the suicide watch was also on a death watch, ordered to kill
Chambers if it appeared he was being rescued.
Rourke flattened himself below the top stairs, watching from the floor level as
Natalie walked down the hallway and turned the corner. Rourke saw no one, heard
nothing, pushed himself up and started across the hall, along the near wall,
waiting at the corner, listening to the sounds of Natalie's shoes down the
corridor. There was—again—a conversation in Russian. He could make out enough
to realize she was having some difficulty convincing the guards she should be
allowed access. Finally, he heard her say, "Would you care for me to leave, then
come back with Comrade Major Karamatsov? Must he inform you personally that I am
to see the prisoner to secure an important item of information— immediately?
Well—what is it?" and Rourke could hear the sound of her footsteps coming back
along the hall toward him, then the heavier sound of one of the soldier's boots
against the floor, the man's gruff-sounding voice, the grammar so bad even
Rourke could recognize it as bad, saying, "Wait, Comrade Captain Tiemerovna—you
may of course see the prisoner, Chambers. We were only trying to do—"
"I know—and you should be commended for it— but there is no time. Hurry," and he
could hear footsteps going away from him, "Hurry, there is no time—open the
door!" Rourke heard the door open, then turned into the hallway and started for
the two soldiers in a dead run, hoping to get the drop on the two men. Halfway
down the length of the hall, he knew it was no good. One of the guards was
already turning toward him. Rourke's finger edged inside the trigger guard of
the AK-47 and squeezed, his first three-shot burst cutting into the nearer
guard. He heard an isolated shot then, heavy-sounding, like a big bore pistol.
He dismissed it from his mind, firing another three-round burst into the second
guard as the man reached for the alarm buzzer on the door frame. The guard
collapsed against the wall, his hand grasping toward the button. Rourke ran up
beside him, knocking the hand aside with the butt of the AK, then kicking open
the door into Chambers' room.
Natalie was standing inside. A third Russian guard lay on the floor, dead, a
neat hole in the middle of his forehead.
The graying, tall man Rourke recognized from news footage as Samuel Chambers was
staring at Natalie, then turned, looked at Rourke and said, "You the Marines?"
"No, Mr. President," Rourke said, letting out a long sigh. "Just a talented
amateur. Are you all right?"
"I am for now."
Rourke turned back into the hallway, snatching up the two AK-47s from the fallen
guards and passing one in to Chambers, then giving the second gun, plus the
spare AK he already carried, to Natalie. She slung one across her back, checking
the magazine on the one in her hands. Rourke looked at her, saying, "I'm sorry—I
tried not to have to do that."
"I know," she said quietly. "Come on—we have to get Paul."
"Who's this Paul?" Chambers asked.
Rourke started to answer, but the girl cut him off, saying, "Never mind, Mr.
President—once you meet Paul you'll love him."
Rourke just looked at her, saying, "You and the president get Paul—unless you
think you'll need me. I've gotta stop Vladmir—more than ever now since the
shooting started. Where's that elevator?"
"At the end of the corridor along here," she said, "then make a hard right and
take it all the way to the end. You'll start seeing the aircraft maintenance
area before you get there—but hurry. Every guard will be turned out."
Rourke stepped back into the hall, snatching two spare magazines from one of the
fallen guards, then starting back along the hall toward the far end where
Karamatsov's office was. When he was only halfway along the corridor's length,
he could hear a siren starting. Three uniformed Russian soldiers suddenly
appeared from a doorway, one of them carrying his AK-47 in his right hand, the
others with their weapons slung across their backs. Rourke opened up with the
AK-47 in his hands, catching the first guard before he even looked up, then
firing short bursts into the other two as they made for their weapons.
Rourke continued down the hallway, reached Karamatsov's door and stepped back
from it, firing a three-round burst into the lock and ducking aside as the door
swung open. There was a burst of automatic weapons fire from inside the office.
Rourke flattened himself along the wall, shouting, "I don't want to kill you,
Karamatsov, unless I have to—listen to me."
There was another burst. Rourke stared back down the hallway. In minutes or
less, he realized, the halls would be swarming with Soviet soldiers, and all
would be lost. Rourke dumped the nearly spent magazine from the AK-47 and
slapped in a fresh one, then, extending his right arm on line with the open door
into Karamatsov's office, he fired, angling the muzzle up and down, right and
left, in short bursts. Then Rourke dove through the doorway, rolling across the
carpet. Karamatsov was up, firing from behind the desk, and Rourke loosed a
burst just above the desk, as Karamatsov ducked down.
Rourke was on his feet, running, then he jumped across the desk as Karamatsov
raised himself to fire. Rourke's hands reached for the KGB major's throat, his
right knee smashing upward into Karamatsov's groin, both men falling to the
floor behind the desk. Rourke had a plan now, and his promise to Natalie aside,
he couldn't kill Karamatsov—the Russian was the only ticket down the corridor
and to the aircraft elevator with Chambers, Rubenstein and the girl.
Karamatsov wrestled Rourke's hands away from his throat, a small revolver
appearing in his right hand. Rourke wheeled, smashing the knife edge of his left
hand into the inside of Karamatsov's right wrist, punching the gun out of line
with his own body and onto the floor. Rourke crossed his body with his right
fist, lacing against Karamatsov's jaw, knocking the Russian back against the
wall, then diving to the floor for the revolver. Automatically, as his right
hand reached for the gun, Rourke started to roll, a desk chair crashing down
onto the floor where his head had been a second earlier. The revolver was in
Rourke's right fist now and he extended his arm, his thumb cocking the hammer as
his arm straightened, the muzzle of the little blue Chief's Special .38 on line
with Karamatsov's face. The Russian froze.
"You so much as blink, you're a dead man," Rourke said, his voice barely
audible. He got to his feet and moved toward the Russian, spinning him around
against the wall, doing a fast light frisk, keeping the muzzle of the little
revolver against Karamatsov's right temple. Rourke glanced over his shoulder.
There were four Russian soldiers crowding the doorway. Rourke shouted, "Move and
Karamatsov gets it," in Russian, then saying, "I mean it!"
Rourke punched the muzzle of the revolver against Karamatsov's temple, rasping
in English, "Tell them—now!"
In Russian, the voice edged and trembling with rage, Karamatsov commanded, "Do
as this man tells you—that is my order."
"Wonderful," Rourke whispered to Karamatsov. "Now—tell them to get out of here
and clear the corridor. In about two minutes you and I are walking out of here
and the first man I see with a gun means you're a dead man—got me?"
Karamatsov said nothing, then Rourke pushed the muzzle of the revolver harder
against the KGB man's head, repeating, "Got me?"
"Yes—yes—I understand." Then, in Russian, Karamatsov repeated Rourke's
instructions. One of the soldiers started to say something and Rourke increased
the pressure of the little Smith & Wesson's muzzle against Karamatsov's temple,
and Karamatsov shouted something Rourke didn't quite understand, but the soldier
fell silent and all four men left.
"You're being real good, Vladmir—I'm proud of you," Rourke said softly, the gun
still at the Russian's head. "Now—where are my guns—be quick about it!"
"In the closet," Karamatsov said.
"Fine, let's go get them." Rourke walked Karamatsov toward the closet, never
moving the revolver's muzzle from the man's head. Karamatsov opened the closet
and Rourke had him reach down the twin .45s, the Python and the two-inch Lawman
from the closet shelf, then had him take the CAR-15 and the Steyr from the
corner of the closet. "Where's the bag with the magazines and ammo?"
"I don't know—I think with your motorcycles."
"Good," Rourke almost whispered. "Now, on your knees, and real careful, check
out each one of those pistols and the CAR-15 so I can see they're loaded—hurry
it up!"
As Karamatsov knelt and one by one inspected the weapons, slowly so Rourke could
see that they were loaded, Rourke slipped the shoulder holster in place,
switching the Chief's Special at Karamatsov's temple from one hand to the other
as he secured the stainless Detonics pistols under his arms, then got Karamatsov
up off the floor.
"Now—hand me that belt with the Python on it," Rourke said. Rourke slung the
belt on his left shoulder, moving the muzzle of the Metalifed six-inch .357 to
