Rourke swung the scope, working the bolt action fast and ripping the last three shots into the group of bikers whom the last man he’d killed had been running toward. Three bodies fell. The other three jumped onto their machines. Rourke swapped magazines on the Steyr and brought the rifle back to his shoulder, firing twice more, killing two more of the bikers as their machines moved out of the campsite.
He brought the rifle down from his shoulder and clicked the safety on.
Rubenstein, lying on the rocks beside him, said, “You just killed twelve men!”
“No,” Rourke said. “Eleven men and one woman. Come on, let’s see if any of the passengers are still alive down there.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Rourke tossed the rifle to Rubenstein and started running along the rocks down toward the campsite. The wind started to whip up from the lower ground, catching the dark Stetson he wore and blowing it from his head. He ran the long fingers of his right hand through his hair, then reached under his coat and snatched out one of the Detonics pistols-in case any of the bikers had survived his fire and decided to return it. As he reached the flat space beneath the rocks, he broke into a crouching run toward the lifeless form of Sandy Benson.
He dropped to his knees beside her, rolled the body of the dead biker away, and leaned over the girl. He raised her head in his hands. She opened her eyes. Her blonde hair fell back from her face, as she looked up and smiled at him.
Rourke said, “Like I told you before-you got a pretty smile, Sandy.”
“I knew you’d come-I knew it, Mr. Rourke.” Her head fell back, and after a moment, Rourke bent over and kissed her forehead. He closed her eyelids with the tips of his fingers, then rested her head back down on the ground. He found his Python beside her in the dirt, picked it up, and opened the cylinder. All six rounds had been fired. Searching through her purse, he found the two speedloaders he’d left with her and emptied one into the gun, tossing the empty cases into his pocket.
He looked up. Rubenstein had come up behind him. Standing, Rourke blew the sand from the big Colt revolver, closed the cylinder, and stuffed the gun in his waistband.
“I found Quentin-the Canadian. He’s dead. I started checking some of the others. I think they’re all dead.”
“Will you help me here?” Rourke asked, looking down at the dead girl by his feet. “I want to haul all the bodies up by the plane, then torch the plane. We can’t possibly bury them.”
“The bikers, too?” Rubenstein asked.
“I wouldn’t spit on them,” Rourke answered.
The grisly task of getting the bodies to the makeshift funeral pyre took more than an hour. Before they set the plane ablaze, Rourke sifted through the passengers’ belongings and the things the dead bikers had with them or had left behind. With Rubenstein’s help, he placed everything that might be of use to them in a pile in the center of what had been the camp. He told Rubenstein to wait for a few moments, and left. When he returned, he had his flight bag and gun cases. “I stashed these,” he said, “back on the other side of the plane.”
“You always plan ahead, don’t you John?”
“Yeah, Paul,” Rourke whispered. “I try to.”
Rubenstein was half in shock. He could not get over the mass slaughter committed by the bikers. More than forty people had been murdered for no reason, no sense.
Rourke changed into his own clothes from the flight bag, packing the clothes he’d taken in Albuquerque inside it. He wore a pair of well-worn blue denims, black combat boots, a faded light blue shirt, and a wide leather belt. He squinted toward the rising sun through his dark glasses. About his waist was a camouflage-patterned Ranger leather gunbelt, the Python nestled in a half-flap holster on his right hip. The double Alessi shoulder rig was across his back and shoulders like a vest, magazine pouches for the twin .45’s on his trouser belt. The Sting 1A boot knife was inside the waistband of his trousers on the left side.
He took his two-inch Lawman Paul had found-the Canadian, Quentin, dead with the little revolver locked in his right fist-and placed it inside his flight bag. He walked over to the bikes left behind by the killers, selected a big Harley, and strapped the flight bag to the back of it. Then he slid his SSG sniper rifle into a padded case and secured it to the side of the bike.
All the time, Rubenstein kept talking. Finally, Rourke turned to the smaller man and said, “Can you ride one of these things, or do you want the car?”
“I’m goin’ with you. You’re goin’ after the rest of the bikers, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Rourke said, pulling the leather jacket on against the predawn cold that still clung to the desert.
“I was thinking about what you said earlier. My parents-in St. Petersburg. Maybe they’re alive, maybe they could use my help. And I wasn’t much good back there against the bikers. Maybe I could learn to be better. I want to get them, too.” Rourke looked down to the ground. He checked his spare Rolex in the winking sunlight on the horizon. “Let’s call it seven-fifteen,” he said.
He walked over to the pile of weapons and accessories by the burnt-out fire. “One of ’ems got my CAR-15,” he said absently. He picked up a World War Two-vintage MP-40 submachine gun from the pile, sifted through the debris, and came out with four thirty-round magazines. “Call this a Schmeisser. In the vernacular,” he said.
“Can I come with you?” Rubenstein asked.
Rourke smiled and looked over at the younger, smaller man. “Wouldn’t have it any other way. Now, like I asked before,” and Rourke gestured toward the motorcycles. “You know how to ride one of these things?”
“Nope,” Rubenstein grunted, shaking his head.
Rourke sighed hard. “Can you ride a bicycle?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I’ll show you how the gears and the brakes work. You’ll catch on. Between New Mexico and the East Coast lies more than two thousand miles. You should get the hang of it. Now, give me a hand here.” With Rubenstein helping, Rourke searched the guns that had been dropped by the bikers, scrounging some .38 Special ammo that would work in his .357 revolvers in a pinch and some additional .308 ammo in the process.
“Should I take a handgun?” Rubenstein wondered.
“Yeah-you won’t need a rifle. Once I get my CAR-15 back, we’ll have two. Here, use this for now.” Rourke reached into the pile and found a vintage Browning High Power. “This is a nine-millimeter. One of the best there is. After I get through using this,” and Rourke gestured to the German MP-40 submachine gun on the ground beside him, “There should still be plenty of nine-millimeter stuff available.”
They siphoned off gas from the other bikes to fill the tanks of the Harley that Rourke had selected for himself and the second Harley he had chosen for Rubenstein. While Rubenstein gathered his belongings and strapped them on the bike, Rourke took the remaining loose ammo from his gun cases-which he was leaving behind-and replenished the magazines for his Detonics pistols and the Steyr-Mannlicher rifle, packing away the spare magazines for his CAR-15 for when he got it back.
By early morning, Rourke and Rubenstein were ready. Foodstuffs from the airplane were their only provisions. Rourke had checked it all with the Geiger counter. They were low on water, so took the two-day-old coffee as well. Then, filling every container they could find with gasoline from the remaining bikes, they prepared the crashed aircraft for the funeral pyre.
Standing well back, Rourke took a gasoline-soaked rag and started to light it. Rubenstein stopped him.
“Aren’t you gonna say anything over them?”
“You do it,” Rourke said quietly.
“I’m Jewish, most of them weren’t.”
“Well, pick something, nondenominational,” Rourke responded.
Rubenstein, looking uncomfortable, coughed, then began. “The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters…”
Rourke, almost without realizing it, began saying it with him. “He restoreth my soul.”
Rubenstein turned and looked at Rourke, and both men went on. “He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His Name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.” Rourke’s thoughts were filled with images of Mrs. Richards, and Sandy Benson, whose courage had seemed unending. There was the Canadian businessman whom Rourke had started out disliking-Quentin.
“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou anointest my head with oil. My cup runneth over.”