Survivalist - 13 - Pursuit

by Ahern, Jerry

  The four women had been placed in four of the conference-table chairs and ordered to remain seated and to remain quiet, and had been told that if they complied they would remain unmolested.

  Her mother sat to her left. Madison sat to her right, Madame Jokli behind her. Annie had a view of the library doors and grew weary of looking at them — she had begun counting studs in the ornamental chair molding that ran the length of the wall on each side of the doors between the bookcases.

  Only poor Bjorn Rolvaag was tied up. His dog howled from somewhere outside. When she turned her head left, she could see Rolvaag in the far corner, hands and feet bound, the ankles drawn up almost to his wrists, a noose about his neck lest he snap the rope binding ankles to wrists. The motion, were he to try it, would break his neck.

  There had been no gunfire from outside the building since the initial fire-fight when they had entered. Three of the Soviet captain’s men —his name had been given as Salmonov — were dead outside, leaving nineteen, including himself and a senior noncommissioned officer. Of the nineteen, two were wounded, but their wounds bandaged, they still seemed fit enough to fight. The dog, Hrothgar, had accounted for one of the

  wounds.

  And suddenly she heard her father’s voice, “This is Dr. John Rourke. You are holding my friends against their will.” Friends? Of course, she realized — Salmonov wouldn’t know he held John Rourke’s family, and the information would only make him more careful of his prize. Her father’s voice, over a PA system, went on. “I’m coming inside to discuss some resolution to this situation. I’ll be armed, as I have no desire to be taken hostage as well. This message will be repeated by a person here who speaks Russian, should you not have understood. When she concludes, I’ll enter.”

  There was a flurry of movement and she turned her head toward the windows overlooking the greenway, a harsh-sounding Soviet voice shouting, “Nyetf

  She returned her gaze to the front. The second voice began with the Russian translation. She recognized the voice as Natalia’s.

  Her father was just going to walk in here.

  Her father’s voice again, saying, “I’m coming inside in sixty seconds. There’s no need to shoot. I want to talk.” Natalia’s voice again, repeating, Annie assumed.

  Salmonov ran to the library doors, his senior non-com with him, other men as well, besides the three already at the doors.

  Salmonov turned toward her and the other women. “You will remain seated, perfectly still. I have heard of this Dr. Rourke, one whom our Hero Marshall wishes to kill. When this Rourke enters, we will talk. Then I will take him prisoner. Say nothing, or all of you will die. Once I have him, I will not need you any more. Remember — total silence —look straight forward!”

  He turned away —Annie’s fists bunched the material of her skirt.

  Her father was walking into this — did he expect that she and her mother and Madison perhaps would be

  able to help?

  She began, without moving her head, to shift her gaze —the nearest of the Soviet soldiers was ten feet away. Not a burly man —she thought she could take him if she did it quickly.

  Her father would get their attention — for an insertion through the ceiling? for an assault toward the window positions?

  Paul —he would be ready —Natalia. Michael —but for what? she asked herself.

  She realized that since only she faced the doors, any action that her father might subtly signal would be dependent on her interpretation.

  Annie Rourke began forcing out other thoughts, began focusing her attention on the doors, to shift it to her father’s face, to his eyes, to his words, his body language. He would be counting on her or her mother to read him, to react.

  There was a knock at the doors.

  Salmonov and the others stepped back, the senior noncom working the handles. Then he too stepped back.

  Annie shifted her head slightly to the right to see the center of the doorframe, past Salmonov’s shoulders.

  The doors opened, her father filling the opening, his head nearly as tall as the doorframe’s crosspiece.

  He wore his double shoulder holsters with the little Detonics pistols, his Scoremasters in his belt —she noticed the hammers of the Scoremasters were cocked. She couldn’t tell if the little .45s were cocked. But he never carried cocked, he had told her once, never cocked and locked unless trouble was immediately imminent.

  Annie Rourke licked her lips.

  Her father spoke. “Thank you? English?”

  “You will surrender your weapons, Dr. Rourke.”

  John Rourke didn’t move. His voice was low. “No —I came to talk. We do that first.”

  Salmonov laughed. “Very well, Dr. Rourke —talk if you must. But you shall not leave.”

  Her father shrugged his shoulders —Annie tensed. She studied his hands —the fingers were slightly curved, flexing a little as his hands hung loosely at his sides, but the elbows were slightly cocked to prevent any loss of circulation.

  “Your base camp was completely destroyed. Only one helicopter escaped. I presume your commander was aboard it. You are cut off, thousands of miles from assistance. If you surrender your hostages now, I give my pledge that you will be treated with dignity and allowed to sit out this war in relative comfort, and after it is through, return to your families. If you do not surrender, regardless of what demands you make, they will not be met. You will all die. I guarantee that. The decision is yours, Captain, yours and your men’s. I said my piece.”

  His eyes didn’t flicker.

  His hands didn’t move.

  Salmonov spoke. “We of course refuse to surrender, Dr. Rourke. Our demands shall be forthcoming. But, I advise that you surrender, or otherwise these innocent hostages might well come to harm. I will take your guns, sir.”

  Because of the angle at which her chair had been placed, she could see past Salmonov, could watch her father.

  She knew what was happening now, knew her mother would know. She felt her shoulders tense. She wiggled her toes to get circulation going in her legs. She was ready.

  Her father’s hands slowly moved to his waistband, slowly withdrawing the big Detonics Scoremasters.

  Her father’s hands swathed the pistols, despite their size, the butts of the cocked .45s presented toward Salmonov. He said, slowly, softly, his voice little over a whisper, “You’re making a mistake, sir.” Salmonov laughed.

  The timing would have to be perfect, Annie knew.

  She heard the clicks of the safeties, saw the blurring motion of her father’s hands, shouted, “Mom —get Madame Jokli down!” Already, as the twin blasts from the .45s began to ring in her ears, she threw herself right and back, grappling Madison from her chair and to the floor, forcing Madison’s head down —but she couldn’t draw her eyes from her father’s hands. As Salmonov fell, the pistol in his right hand discharged, the top of the noncom’s head blowing off in jagged chunks; the pistol in his left hand, his arm stabbing straight outward, firing—the soldier who had been ten feet away from her going down, his nose shattered, globs of blood pouring from it, spraying. The pistol in his right hand — a soldier near him who was raising an assault rifle. The pistol in his left hand —another of the soldiers by the door; the pistol in his right hand —the third soldier who had been at the doors as a guard. The pistol in his left —a soldier near the library windows, the body rocking back, shattering through the glass, outward, as the other library window shattered inward, Paul’s body coming through in a roll, his Schmiesser firing now.

  The pistols in her father’s hands barked simultaneously—another soldier down, the man’s assault rifle turning toward Annie and Madison, discharging into the floor near her as Annie closed her eyes. The booming of her father’s .45s —again and again. Her eyes opened.

  Natalia, jumping through the already-shattered window through which the guard had fallen, her revolvers

  blazing from each hand.

  Her father was moving across the room
now, in a long-strided walk, the Scoremasters gone from his hands, the little twin stainless Detonics mini-guns replacing them, firing.

  Michael —he was through the doorway her father had entered by, his .44 Magnum revolvers bone-shatteringly loud as they barked from each hand.

  Screams — bursts of assault rifle fire —still she could not take her eyes from her father.

  Both pistols stabbed outward, at point-blank range discharging into the head of one man —his left eyeball, the entire left side of his face seeming to disintegrate — the neck of another.

  She heard the click-click-click of Natalia’s knife as Natalia approached the trussed-up figure of Bjorn Rolvaag.

  The gunfire ceased.

  Her father, his pistols in his hands, his hands at his sides, walked across the room —toward her as she rose to her knees, then to her feet. Madison —she helped Madison up. Her mother —her mother was standing, helping a glassy-eyed Madame Jokli to her feet. Michael ran across the room, sweeping Madison into his arms. Annie turned around — Paul — he took her in his arms, kissed her, held her tight —but still Annie Rourke could not take her eyes from her father. His pistols still in his hands, he folded her mother into his arms, his eyes scanning the room as if searching still for danger.

  Her father.

  No one was like him, Annie Rourke knew.