by Jerry Ahern
Rourke was fewer than thirty feet from the elevator when he heard the gunfire start, Natalia’s M-16s on full auto firing in short, textbook-perfect three-round bursts.
From ahead of him, there was the sound of an explosion, then another and another. And small-arms fire, then, both cartridge and energy. Michael ran toward him, a pistol in his right hand. “I’ll take Mom!”
Annie, an M-16 in her hands, dashed past, running back toward the elevators, to help Natalia.
Rourke handed off his wife to his son, then wheeled toward the elevators. Natalia, feet spread apart, perhaps twenty feet away from the elevator bank, fired out the last bursts from the M-16s in her hands, at least six men dead between her and the elevator door.
Annie’s M-16 was opening up as Natalia drew her revolvers.
Running in a headlong assault through the open blast doors were another dozen of the SS commandos.
Rourke swung his HK-91 forward and fired. Paul, beside him, Wolfgang Mann over his shoulder still, started emptying the German MP-40 into their ranks.
Rourke’s assault rifle empty, no time to change magazines, he let the weapon drop to his side on its sling and broke the two Detonics miniguns from their double shoulder rig, thumbs sweeping back the hammers.
Paul’s submachine gun was still firing.
Kneeling beside them, his body shielding his mother, Michael kept his .44 Magnum revolver booming again and again.
The Nazi commandos were still coming.
Rourke had no choice but to advance, take the action away from his wife. His pistols at shoulder level, firing, Rourke marched forward, killing, shooting one of the SS men in the face, another in the thorax, still another in the chest.
As a man wheeled the muzzle of his assault rifle toward him, Rourke shot the man in the left eye.
Firing, killing, both pistols empty. Rourke smashed the butt of the gun in his right hand across the forehead of one of the commandos.
Slides locked back, Rourke stuffed the twin stainless Detonics miniguns into his belt, drawing the partially spent ScoreMasters.
As he got ready to fire, there was another explosion from beyond the blast doors, and through the inrushing smoke ran gas-masked Navy SEALs. Rourke heard Commander Washington shouting, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!”
John Thomas Rourke held his fire, belting one of the pistols only.
He tore the mask from his face, blinked, looked around him.
Paul stood beside him, smoke still trailing from the muzzle of his submachine-gun, Wolfgang Mann still over his shoulder. Rourke looked back toward the elevator bank. Natalia leaned on Annie as the two of them walked over toward him. Natalia called out, “It’s not even a bleeder, but it hurts!” and she gestured toward her left thigh.
Rourke looked at his son.
Michael, cradling his mother in his arms, looked back. He said, “Mom’s gonna be okay.”
John Rourke exhaled, closed his eyes and prayed that his son was right.
Rourke opened his eyes, stood there, as Commander Washington’s SEAL personnel came swarming through the opening now, German Long Range Mountain Patrol Commandos with them.
Rourke walked over to stand beside his son and his wife, then dropped to one knee. Sarah’s eyelids fluttered and opened. She looked up at him.
“John?”
There was nothing John Rourke could say, but he bowed his head and touched his lips to her cheek.
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