Sarah pulled the trigger on her .45.
The woman screamed, fell back, and the revolver dropped to the ground. Both hands clasped her chest.
“Annie!” Sarah screamed. Then, “Michael! Get your sister to the back of the barn. The other two men will be coming.”
Sarah Rourke started toward the open barn doors. One of the men was already running across the yard. She fired the .45 once, then again, and the man turned and ran back toward the house.
“It’s the broad and the kids!” he shouted.
Sarah fired again, kicking up dust near his heels, but missing the man. She stayed by the barn doors, waiting.
“Give up, lady. We ain’t gonna hurt you. Give up or we’ll burn down the barn with you and the kids in it!” a voice shouted from the house. “Mommy?”
“It’s all right Michael,” Sarah said, surprised that her voice was so even and calm.
She looked down at the gun in her hand, remembering what John had said about the safety catch, and raised it. She saw now why it hadn’t fired the first time-John had told her about the grip safety. She hadn’t been holding the gun tightly enough. She looked around on the floor of the barn, then walked over to the first man-the one Michael had killed. The thought of that was still hard for her to accept. How one night can change your life she thought. She was proud of Michael for defending her.
She reached down and tried to pick up the dead-man’s military rifle. The sling for the rifle was still over his shoulder, and she had to lift his dead arm to pry the gun loose. She read the legend on the left side of the gun. “Colt AR-15.” It was like her husband’s gun. It was better than the shotgun. She moved what she thought was the safety but the clip started to come out. She pushed the magazine back in and searched again for the safety. She found it and pointed the gun in the direction of the floor and pulled the trigger. The dirt and boards started to fly up and she took her finger off the trigger. “A machine gun?” she muttered. She remembered, then, having read an article dealing with how some people took sporting rifles and changed them to submachine guns, illegally. She guessed that this was one of them. Her husband’s gun-the stock was definitely different-fired only one shot at a time. She moved the safety lever, then touched the trigger to see if she had it right. The gun fired, but only one shot. She tried the safety lever again. She pressed the trigger and nothing happened. She moved it all the way back, and the gun fired like a submachine gun again. In the second position, it fired one round at a time. She took a deep breath and searched the dead man’s clothes, finding four extra magazines. She would have to empty one and count how many rounds they held, she told herself. “But first things first.”
Already, she knew what she would do about the two men in the house. There had been others who had drifted by during the night. Outlaws, brigands-just people who wanted to steal. She’d frightened one group away with the shotgun, not even firing it. And she realized these men who had almost killed the children and herself wouldn’t be the last. She would have to leave the farm. The pickup truck or the station wagon would only run out of gas. She looked at the two horses, standing peacefully in their stalls-her mind flashed back to the last time she and John had gone riding. She could load the belongings and both children on the horses, and still ride herself.
She turned toward the house and began to walk toward the barn doors. She had to get rid of the men in the house before she could do anything else. Several times through the night, when the wind had shifted, she had smelled the gas from the house. The basement had only one window-a small one that somehow hadn’t blown out. The basement still had to be full of gas.
She got down on her knees and put the rifle to her shoulder, setting the selector lever to single-shot. Semiautomatic. She remembered the term. John used it frequently in his weapons articles. She found the sights and lined them up, then aimed toward the house.
The bullet hit the dirt in the front of the house. She raised the barrel, aimed again, and tried to squeeze the trigger-the few times John had forced her to try shooting, he had always said, “Squeeze the trigger-don’t snap it back.”
She squeezed the trigger. She saw a piece of one of the house boards fly off. One of her hanging planters was still attached to the top of the front porch, and she aimed at it. When she fired, the planter moved. She fired again and the planter disintegrated.
“Dammit, lady, keep up that shootin’ and we’ll burn down the fuckin’ barn with you and the kids in it-so help me!”
A smile lifted the corners of her mouth. She would have never thought of what she was going to do if they hadn’t threatened-twice now-to burn down the barn. She was going to burn down the house-blow it up, with the men inside.
She pointed the rifle’s muzzle toward the small, unbroken window of the cellar, lined up the sights, and squeezed the trigger. The window smashed. Nothing happened. She fired again, then fell back on her haunches. There was a loud roar, then fire belched, first from the small window, then from the first floor of the house. Then a fireball engulfed the house for an instant. Flames leapt skyward. She could hear screams from the house, one of the men yelling, “Gas-I’m on fire”‘
One of the men-she thought it was the one the dead woman had called Pete-ran from the front door, his clothes burning. She fired, and he fell over. “I’m a killer,” she whispered.
Chapter Twenty-five
“Mr. President,” Thurston Potter said. “Mr. President?”
The president of the United States rolled over and opened his eyes. “Thurston?”
“Yes, sir. You fell asleep on the couch.”
“Oh-yes. I guess I did. And it isn’t a dream, then, is it?”
“No, sir. I wish-”
“Whan’s the current situation?”
“We’ve just received word, Mr. President. The Russians are broadcasting on a low-frequency FM band that’s getting past all the static. We must formally surrender or they’ll destroy the few remaining cities. I don’t know what to-”
“Well, what is it, Thurston?” The president swung his feet off the couch.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“If I surrender, then most of the resistance to them will stop-it won’t even begin when they land here.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“If I just let them take us, then they can put any words in my mouth that they want, can’t they?”
“Well, I suppose so, sir.”
“The vice-president, the speaker of the house, all of my cabinet-dead. Dead?”
Thurston Potter squirmed on his heels. “Yes. Yes, sir.”
“If I were dead, there would be no United States government to surrender. No one who had the power to surrender. Correct?”
“Well, sir, there were a few members of Congress who were out of Washington. A few may have survived.”
“But it would take the Russians forever to find them-if they were still alive. Right?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Do we have a way of getting news out?” Potter thought for a moment. “We could send out some of the intelligence people to spread the word, I suppose. It would be slow, but once it got started, if the news were important enough, the people would hear it.”
“That’s what I thought. Get me Paul Dorian. Then, after he leaves, I want to see my wife and the children. After that, the chief of the Secret Service detail here. Hurry. You come back with Paul.” The president leaned over the coffee table and took up one of his cigarettes. He was smiling as he lit it.
***
“All right, Mrs. Richards. I’ve decided to try to bring this thing down just south of Albuquerque. There’s a lot of flatland south of there, and a drop in the desert looks like the best chance we have. I’m betting the Albuquerque airport is finished.”
“You can’t be sure,” the woman said.
“I can overfly it,” Rourke said. “You’re right.” Looking away from the instruments a moment, Rourke said, “Mrs. Richards, take the controls. Don’t move anything.” He consulted the plastic-covered maps and checked them against his approximate position. “Albuquerque should be ten minutes ahead.” Already, as Rourke looked through the windshield and down toward the ground, the sun was starting to rise. The ground had a gray cast to it. The mountains off to his right were still partially steeped in heavy shadow.
He’d driven into Albuquerque many times, through the mountain passes and down-the view had been breathtaking. It still was he thought, but as he followed about a mile from the closest high ridge, flying low, he could see that the view had changed.