Rourke threw the stick into reverse, the truck’s gearbox
grinding. Rourke’s right foot hammered down on the gas pedal. The Chevy
was already twenty yards ahead of him; the Dodge, customized and massive,
locked beside him. There was a tearing sound, metal against metal. The
right side of Rourke’s truck locked into the left rear wheel well of the
Dodge with the shot-out windshield. Rourke stomped the clutch again,
throwing into first, then hammering down the gas pedal. There were more
tearing sounds; then his truck lurched ahead. The Ford’s bumper twisted
upward suddenly, protruding aver the hood as Rourke stomped the clutch
again, into second with the gearbox, his foot barely leaving the gas
pedal.
The Chevy was wheeling a sharp right, trying to cut Rourke off. The man
from the bed of Rourke’s pickup, who had been thrown to the ground an
instant earlier, got unsteadily to his feet. Rourke cut his wheel sharp to
the left, barely missing him, then hard to the right. The Chevy still
trying to cut him off.
The first truck, its windshield all but gone now, was right behind him.
Rourke stomped his brake pedal, wrenching the stick back into reverse.
There was a massive hitchbali on the rear end of the Ford and Rourke aimed
it blindly now toward the grillwork of the Dodge behind him. There was a
crashing, crunching sound, and Rourke braced himself against the wheel as
the Ford impacted. Rourke stomped the clutch, then worked the stick into
first and gave the Ford the gas. There was a groaning sound. His truck
stalled a little, then ripped free. Behind him, in the rear-view, as he
upshifted to second, he could see the front bumper and part of the Dodge’s
grill—twisted and wrecked.
The Chevy was alongside him again. Rourke cut his wheel sharp right,
impacting the right fender against the
left fender of the other truck, then cutting back away, keeping the wheel
in a sharp left, circling back over the ground they had just traversed,
the Chevy still coming.
Gunfire—an assault rifle, the burst long, too long. The rear windshield of
the truck Rourke drove shattered, the rear-view mirror was shot out, too,
as bullets passed through the opening in the glass behind him and
hammered against the front windshield from the inside.
Rourke ducked his head down. Under the impact of more slugs, the gas gauge
shattered, the steering wheel chipped—too near his fingers.
“Hell,” he rasped, cutting the wheel into a hard left, then a hard right,
then a hard left again, zigzagging as the Chevy kept coming and the
assault-rifle fire as well. He cut the wheel sharp right and worked the
emergency-brake, locking the rear wheels. The truck skidded into a flick
turn, almost overending.
He was aimed the right way now, his left hand snatching for the second
Detonics pistol as he released the emergency brake. He rammed the
transmission into first, into second, then into third, his feet working as
if they rode a balance beam, his right hand stirring the transmission.
The Chevy was coming at him—dead-on.
“Play chicken with me!” he snarled. Ramming the Detonics pistol out the
driver’s-side window, his thumb jerked the hammer back, his first finger
started the squeeze.
One round, then a second—the enemy truck’s windshield gone with two hits.
Two more shots—one headlight and maybe a puncture to the radiator. The
truck was still coming.
One round—the driver’s-side West Coast mirror. The truck wasn’t swerving,
coming at Rourke like a rival
knight in a tournament. The gap between them was less than twenty yards.
Rourke fired the last round from the pistol. The driver of the Chevy threw
his hands up to his face; the pickup swerved left and right. Rourke
stomped down on the Ford’s clutch, wrenching the stick into second as he
double-clutched, working the emergency brake again, cutting the wheel in a
sharp left, then releasing the brake and stomping the gas. The Ford
fish-tailed under him, bounced up, and drove over a hummock of ground,
airborne for a split second. He could feel the suspension of gravity in
the instant that it happened, feel it in the pit of his stomach. The truck
hit hard, Rourke fighting the wheel to control it. He stomped the clutch,
wrenching the stick into third, revving his way out of the fishtail,
accelerating, the engine moaning in front of him, the cab vibrating,
shards of glass tinkling to the floor of the cab as the air of the truck’s
slipstream pressured his bullet-shattered windshield.
The twin-engine light cargo plane was just ahead of him again, this time
barely a hundred yards away.
Rourke upshifted into fourth as he hit the runway tarmac. The truck
skidded—the treads of the tires would be packed with clay and dirt, he
knew. The Ford fish-tailed again, then straightened out as Rourke started
downshifting, braking at the same time. The toes of his right foot worked
the gas pedal, his heel worked the brake, his ieft foot worked the clutch.
The truck was skidding, and Rourke cut the wheel hard right, riding into
the skid as he braked. The truck lurched once, then stopped.
Rourke wrenched open the driver’s-side door; shards of windshield glass
showered down on him from the dashboard.
Natalia’s face—her brilliantly blue eyes framed in the bell of her almost
black, past-shoulder-length hair—was visible through the pilot’s-side
storm window. Ruben-stein, framed in the open cargo bay, pushed his
glasses back off the bridge of his nose as he shouted, “John— what the
hell—”
Rourke cut the younger man off “Paul—get everything nailed down fast, if
it isn’f already ” Without another word, Rourke ran toward the wing stem
and jumped for it, the pilot’s-side door opening under his right hand
Natalia was seated behind the controls.
“Move over,” Rourke ordered her.
Her blue eyes were wide—not terror, but recognition, he thought;
recognition, perhaps, of the insanity of what wab happening “They want
me—don’t they, John? To kilt me ”
“They’d try killing the Virgin Mother right now if she were a Russian.
Move over I said.” She slipped out of the pilot’s seat as Rourke slid down
behind the controls.
He checked the parking brake “You through pre-fhghting”
“Yes,” she answered, sounding lifeless “Everything’s fine—ready ”
He didn’t say anything Through the pilot’s-side storm window, he could see
at least three dozen armed men running across the field; and one of the
trucks—the Chevy—was rolling again “Damn it,” he rasped to himself, then
he shouted, “Paul’ Get that cargo hold buttoned up Then get up here with a
gun!”
“You can’t ask him to shoot those people—for me,” Natalia almost whispered
Not looking at her as he spoke, Rourke ran a visual check of the avionics.
“You listen to me—and good Rus-
sian or whatever—I don’t even have the words for it. Maybe Paul would. But
the three of us—we’ve come this far together. And that means something.”
Rourke checked the oxygen. The cowl flap switches were open. He set the
fuel selector valves to “main,” the induction air system to “filtered.”
Visually, he surveyed the circuit breakers and switches; there wasn’t time
for a full check. He flipped the battery switch to “on.”
Glancing at the main and auxiliary fuel indicators, he started throttling
open, the prop controls at low pitch. He adjusted the mixture
controls—full rich. He checked the auxiliary fuel pump; it was registering
high. He switched it off.
Glancing out the cockpit storm window again, he hit the magneto/start
switch.
“Paul—up here with a gun!”
Already, Rourke was exercising the props, watching the rpms build. He
throttled out, checked the magneto variances, throttled again. “Little
late to ask—the wheel chocks gone?”
“Yes.” She smiled, laughing for an instant.
Rourke nodded, feathering the props, the mob less than a hundred yards
away now, the Chevy pickup closing fast. There was no glass in its
windshield, and men, packed in its truck bed, were firing rifles and
shotguns.
“Paul!”
“Right here.”
Rourke glanced behind him; the younger man held Rourke’s CAR- in his
right hand; his left was pushing the wire-rimmed glasses back from the
bridge of his nose.
“Put a few shots out the storm window,” Rourke ordered. Then,
concentrating on getting airborne, he
ignored the mob. Trim tabs, flaps—he set them for takeoff.
He released the parking brake. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Rourke
almost whispered.
“Brace )ourself Paul—and keep shooting.” For the last ten seconds, pieces
of hot brass had pelted his neck and shoulders—Rubenstein firing the Colt
assault rifle toward the mob. The younger man stood almost directly behind
him.
Rourke glanced at the oil temperature, then rasped half to himself, “Full
throttle—God help us.”
He checked the fuel altitude setting as he released the brake. The
aircraft was already accelerating. “Buckle up, Paul,” Rourke ordered. More
of the hot brass pelted him, then suddenly stopped. Above the roaring of
the engines there were sounds now of gunfire from the field, of