by Jerry Ahern
“Gimme a gun!”
He reached out his right hand, feeling the memory-grooved smooth Goncalo Alves stocks of one of her matched L-Frames coming into his palm. He switched the revolver to his left hand, ramming the hand out the driver’s side window, his right fist locked at the top of the wheel. Natalia was rolling over into the back seat, an M-16 in her hands as he glanced at her.
The LMG on the M-72 combination to Rourke’s left was firing, and then the LMG from the sidecar to his right—AKM fire streamed toward them from the passenger side of the solitary police car.
Natalia’s assault rifle fire—it reverberated from the back seat, the sounds of empty brass pinging against the frame of the open window, Rourke’s left fist clenched tight on the L-Frame, his right rock-steady on the wheel to give as sure a firing platform as possible—he was aiming for the police car—aiming the LTD straight at it.
The L-Frame in his left fist—he pumped the trigger, double-actioning two rounds toward the M-72 combination to his left. He fired twice more—the motorcyclist threw his hands out from his handlebars, slumping back, the machine gunner in the sidecar reaching for the bike’s controls suddenly, then jumping clear, Rourke shouting to Natalia, “Watch out!”
He cut the wheel hard left, evading the motorcycle, the combination crashing into one of the bridge supports to his left, Natalia’s M-16 still firing as they passed the squad car, AKM fire ripping across the driver’s compartment, his windshield shooting out, the rearview mirror gone, the speedometer, the gas gauge—all of it shattered, a ribbon of bullet holes across the dashboard.
Rourke accelerated—past the underground tunnel running parallel to the river, into what looked like a box canyon of building walls ahead of him, shouting, “Natalia? You all right?”
“So far,” he heard her shout back to him.
“Hold on—flick turn,” and Rourke dropped the L-Frame to his lap, holding it between his legs, cutting the wheel sharply to the left as he stomped the emergency brake, locking the rear wheels, then popping the brake as the car rotated a full one hundred eighty degrees, accelerating as he fought the wheel, then flooring it as he aimed toward the last of the motorcycle combinations, the police car turning behind it.
Rourke could see the face of the machine gunner in the sidecar—and then it was gone, Rourke rocking the wheel hard left, into the combination, then hard right and away, hearing a scream die on the slipstream, blood splattering the few shards of glass left in the windshield, Natalia’s M-16 firing again toward the oncoming police car, the AKM firing from the passenger window, Rourke’s left hand finding the L-Frame—two shots left.
He stabbed the revolver through the open windshield ahead of his face, his right fist white-knuckled on the top of the Ford’s steering wheel.
He fired once, then once again, the windshield of the advancing police car shattering, Natalia’s M-16 fire increasing its rate—she had to have shot through a full magazine in seconds, he realized, but the gunfire continued, sparks coming from the police car’s hood, a stricken face suddenly visible behind the wheel as Rourke swerved the Ford to avoid a head-on collision, the LTD’s single headlight catching the face in freeze frame.
A bridge support—Rourke fought at the wheel—there was no response—he stomped the brakes, the rear end of the Ford fishtailing right, Rourke shouting to Natalia, “Hit the floor! Hit the floor!”
He held the wheel as long as he dared, then threw himself down to the floor over the hump, his body shuddering as he felt the impact, heard the twisting and tearing of steel.
Smoke—he smelled gasoline fumes.
His back hurt a little—he pushed himself up.
Natalia was already up— “I’ve got the packs and everything—all the gear— “
“Out of the car and—”
“Run like hell,” she almost laughed, Rourke seeing her streak through the rear driver’s side door and out, Rourke, the L-Frame in his belt now beside the Detonics, half rolling, half falling from the driver’s side of the front seat.
On his feet, his hands grabbing at the lapels of the overcoat, ripping it free of his body as he ran—
He felt it—like a giant’s breath blowing at him, throwing himself to the road surface, shouting to Natalia, “Down!”
He shielded his face and head, the roar of the explosion—the gas tank—deafening as it echoed from the steel of the bridge above him and below.
The bridge shook—Rourke’s mind raced—if it collapsed it collapsed—
The shaking stopped, and John Rourke looked up, the crackle of the fire from the LTD that had served them so well all that he could hear over the ringing in his ears. And Natalia was beside him—holding him.
Chapter Forty-six
The Low Alpine Systems Loco pack on his shoulders, his guns back where they belonged, Natalia’s hands cleaned and clothing checked for fleas or ticks, they walked through the underground now—gray light in patches only through gratings leading up to the street. If he remembered his Chicago streets well enough, they had a short distance only to go until coming up on Lake Street between Michigan and Wabash.
But Rourke stopped—hearing sounds.
“Dogs?” Natalia whispered hoarsely.
The growling sounds increased.
“Not dogs—” and he looked back—shadowy figures moved in the edge of light from the still burning Ford—it looked like one of the figures carried a human limb. “Imagination,” he whispered, more to himself than Natalia.
He risked no flashlight, moving ahead.
The growling sounds again.
Natalia close beside him, Rourke hearing the telltale click of the selector on her M-16.
Rourke spoke into the darkness. “If you’re hungry—there are dead men all over the bridge behind us. We’re heavily armed and in too much of a hurry to be gentle—let us pass and we’ll leave you unharmed.”
The growling sounds again.
“John!”
And then Rourke heard a voice, nearly human sounding, “A woman—”
Rourke turned toward the origin of the voice in the darkness. “Let it be—or you’re meat, too.”
“Woman!” It was another voice now. “Woman!” Still another. And then, like chanting, “Woman—woman—woman—woman—woman—” and with each repetition, the chanting grew louder, voices adding to it.
“I guess they aren’t just hungry,” Rourke observed, Natalia close beside him—very close.
“Woman—woman—woman—woman—woman—woman—woman—”
Rourke raised the Kel-Lite in his left fist, high over his head, snapping the switch—eyes glowed in the beam of the flashlight, more eyes than he could count, human eyes, but strangely not human. To Natalia, Rourke rasped, “Stay close to me—we’re backing out of here—I am—you walk forward—we stay back to back—shoot anything that moves—when we reach what looks like a ramp, take the left and start up it.”
“I’m afraid,” she whispered.
“Me too,” he told the darkness where she was.
He felt her move, felt her rear end pressing against him, as they stood back to back.
“Start walking,” Rourke almost whispered.
“Woman—woman—woman—woman—woman—woman—woman—”
Rourke pumped the M-16’s trigger once, a short, two-round burst— “Automatic weapons—you don’t stand a chance—”
There was a moan in the darkness.
The chanting never stopped, “Woman—woman—woman—woman—woman—”
“On my left, your right,” he heard Natalia whisper—
Rourke shot a glance right—movement in the shadows, and now, above the chanting he could hear the shuffling of feet.
Rourke killed the light, ramming it into his belt as he swung the muzzle of the M-16 left to right and back left, pumping the trigger, fighting the muzzle climb, blowing half a magazine into the darkness— “Run for it—fast!”
Rourke reached into the
darkness—he had Natalia’s shoulder—he knotted his fist into her pack-strap, running beside her on her right, firing into the darkness, Natalia firing now, but louder than the firing, the chanting, “Woman!”
They ran toward the brighter grayness that would be the exit up to Lake Street, and as the light grew, Rourke’s fear grew—flanking them and behind them were men, dozens, more than that—clubs, machetes, axes in their hands, trash can lids held like shields, men in rags, filth seeming to drip from them, their flesh as gray as the light, and as one man can—Rourke almost retched and he heard Natalia gasp, almost scream—the man chewed a still living rat, the rat between the man’s teeth.
The M-16 was empty, Rourke taking no time to reload or shift to another firearm—almost dragging Natalia with him as they ran.
The ramp up to Lake Street—they turned into it, the darkness of the outside world bright by comparison, running up the steep incline, rocks and bottles pelting the street beside them, windows in the buildings on both sides smashing as faces appeared there—the chanting— “Woman!”
He didn’t know whether they wanted to consume her flesh, rape her, or do both simultaneously—they were insane.
An automobile, wrecked, and then another—they were being pushed into the mouth of the street, blocking them into the ramp—flame—one automobile, then the second—afire now, the howling chants from behind them louder, from both sides of them as more rocks and bottles hammered down toward them.
Rourke rammed a fresh magazine into the M-16, shouting to Natalia over the screaming and wailing din— “Your purse—protect your face with it—I’ll take care of the shooting!”
He looked at her once—terror in her eyes—and she obeyed, her M-16s swinging on their slings, her black shoulder bag up over her head as she bent into the run.
Rourke fired his M-16 to right and left, into the windows of the flanking buildings, to stop the fusillade of rocks and bottles and bricks and chunks of paving stones.
Natalia stumbled—he could see her—but she kept running as a brick hammered against her, bouncing from her backpack—a bottle thudded against Rourke’s face, his right cheek taking the impact—he lost his cigar butt.
The bottle shattered at his feet as he ran.
The M-16 was empty and he let it fall to his right side on its sling, Rourke’s hands going under his coat, finding both Detonics pistols, firing one from each hand simultaneously as they raced for the burning cars blocking their path.
Men—if men they still were—were beside the burning cars, hurtling rocks and bottles.
Rourke killed as many as he could until the pistols came up empty.
Actions still open, he rammed both pistols into his belt, taking the Colt Government model, working the slide, jacking a round into the chamber, firing as he ran.
Natalia’s purse was back at her side—her revolvers in her hands, belching fire, thundering as she ran toward the burning automobiles.
The .45 was empty, Rourke rammed it into his belt—crowded with the twin Detonics pistols already there. The Python. He drew with his right hand, shifting to his left. He found the two-inch Lawman in the Thad Rybka holster in the small of his back, the Lawman in his right fist—both revolvers firing.
Natalia’s revolvers were empty, he realized—the revolvers gone, the second M-16 in her hands, spitting fire.
Rourke’s revolvers emptied as they reached the burning cars, few of the men there now, some running, most dead.
Rourke holstered his revolvers, his hands going out to Natalia—there was a section of the barrier already burned out— “Don’t touch the metal—jump when I get you up there—hurry!”
Rourke had her up in his arms, her feet on the blackened hood of a wrecked Cadillac, and she ran one step, jumped—he heard her scream.
“Shit!” Rourke snarled—he ran back from beside the cars, the CAR-15 his only loaded gun now as he threw himself into a dead run for the Cadillac’s hood—he jumped, nearly slipping, the metal hot through the soles of his combat boots as he jumped clear, Natalia on the other side of the barricade, the silenced Walther in her right fist, the slide back—the gun was empty. She crashed it down across the face of a rag-clad man grabbing for her—the man fell in a heap at her feet.
More men coming for her—the chanting loud now from both sides of the burning barrier, Rourke’s CAR-15 firing from his right hand—the trigger pumping, bodies falling as he closed toward her, killing his way to her.
The Bali-Song knife was in her right hand, the fancy Gerber-Mk II in her left, men lunging for her—not attacking, but wanting to grab her, he realized—to touch her.
The knives flashed, like a well-practiced martial arts Cata, ears, hands, noses, and fingers falling to the sidewalk as she fought.
Rourke’s CAR-15 empty, he worked the telescoped stock like a club, a horizontal butt stroke to the face of one of the men, a forward butt stroke to another, using the flash deflector like a bayonet now, knifing down, slashing across the neck and face of another.
The big Gerber from his belt—it was in his right hand now as he let the rifle fall on its sling—he hacked with it, like a short sword, slicing across faces and necks, stabbing out with it—the attackers were endless.
Natalia screamed to him— “John!” She had fallen—at least six men lunging for her.
Chapter Forty-seven
Rourke threw himself toward the men, his left foot snaking out as he half wheeled right, the sole of his combat boot impacting a jaw in a double Tae-Kwon-Do kick, his right hand still holding the knife stabbing into a second man.
He finished the turn, his right foot in a short, jabbing kick to the groin of a third man, Rourke’s knife blade hacking upward, catching the nose and cheek—ripping flesh as blood sprayed.
He wheeled again, his right elbow hammering back as a man came from his right flank, the point of his elbow contacting bone—Rourke hissing with the pain—but feeling bone crunch, not his own.
He sidestepped, knifing another man in the throat, as a swordsman would make his lunge, Rourke’s left hand stabbing outward, the middle knuckle impacting beneath the nose of another man, breaking it, bringing the bone up and puncturing the ethmoid bone—the nose driven up into the brain, the man’s eyes rolled as he fell back dead.
The knife in his right hand flashed again—slick and red and wet with blood now—chopping through the neck of another man.
And Rourke was beside Natalia, Natalia up, her knives working, cutting and stabbing.
Rourke stabbed a man with a club—in the center of the adam’s apple—he withdrew the knife, finding a spare magazine for one of the .45s—one of the eight-round extension magazines. He buttoned out the magazine in the big Colt, losing it on the sidewalk, ramming the fresh magazine home, working down the slide stop—he fired point blank, shooting away the face of one of the attackers, the Gerber in his left fist now slashing outward—another man down.
He fired the .45 a second time and a third, two men going down— “An opening, John!”
It was Natalia—he looked to his right, pumping the trigger of the Colt again—another man down—an opening in the wall of attackers, Natalia running for it, Rourke almost shoving her ahead.
He fired the .45 into the gaping mouth of a man with a machete—
Natalia was through the opening, the opening closing, Rourke hacking it open again with the knife, blasting it open with the remaining rounds in the magazine of his one loaded pistol.
He was through, Natalia looking behind her as she ran—she was loading an M-16, perhaps twenty yards ahead of him.
He ran for her—Natalia shouted, “John—flat on the ground!”
Rourke threw himself forward and down, rolling, gunfire over his head, Natalia’s M-16, firing into the wall of attackers as they pursued.
On his back, Rourke dropped his knife, rammed the Colt into his belt, found the M-16—he snatched two spare magazines, both from the musette bag at hi
s left side, buttoning out the spent magazine, letting it be lost, ramming one of the two fresh sticks up the well of the assault rifle, working the bolt release—
He was rolling again, Natalia’s rifle empty—
The Gerber in his left fist along with the spare thirty-round stick for the M-16, Rourke was up, pumping the M-16’s trigger, cutting down men in waves as they ran from the still burning barricade.
And then Rourke started to run, firing out the stick, dropping the empty to the pavement, ramming the fresh one home, hands reaching for him—he hacked out with the knife, hearing a shriek of pain.
He wheeled, firing point blank into four men, cutting them down.
The nearest of the pursuers was ten yards back—but there were dozens behind this nearest man.
Rourke ran, Natalia running just ahead of him, her M-16 spitting three-round bursts—bright tongues of yellow light in the night—
Rourke’s breath was coming in gasps—his M-16 firing behind him, he ran.
Michigan Avenue—Natalia turned right—instinctively, he thought, heading for the lake, for
her uncle, despite the KGB, despite the fact that she was wanted—dead.
Rourke was after her, firing out the M-16, dropping out the empty to the sidewalk, Natalia running diagonally across Michigan Avenue, toward the park between Michigan Avenue and the lake, Rourke after, a fresh magazine going up the well of the M-16.
Behind him as he reached the opposite curb—the pursuers had stopped.
“John!”
Natalia’s hoarse whisper from the darkness beside a statue.
Rourke ran to her, his stomach aching with the exertion, his breath in short gasps—he coughed, fresh loading the CAR-15 - he had lost three M-16 magazines—but he had plenty more. He had lost one .45 ACP magazine, standard Colt—but it had been an ordinary magazine and was not irreplaceable.
They had burned he didn’t know how many hundred rounds of ammo.
“Get that—that—that—the eight hundred-round box—bottom of my pack—strapped there—reload magazines.”