He turned his head, his head aching more intensely, the dead Mongol staring back at him, the skull neatly cracked and blood trickling down across the forehead and the bridge of the nose. “Thanks for the help” Michael gasped, to his feet, coughing, doubling over.
Prokopiev — Michael swayed toward the base of the pole, pocketing his gun, Prokopiev coming too fast. There was nothing else for it, Michael reaching down, dragging the hulking dead man into the wheel at the base of the pole, then stepping back, Prokopiev impacting the dead body, bouncing away from it and sprawling across the floor in a skid.
Michael drew his pistol, ran to Prokopiev. “Go on! I am done!”
“Bullshit!” Michael Rourke reached for the wounded arm, hauling it across his shoulders, Vassily Prokopiev wincing with the pain as Michael hauled him to his feet.
“I can hold them off—run for your own life.”
“Shut up!” Michael started ahead, Prokopiev’s left wrist locked in Michael’s left fist, Michael’s right hand holding the partially shot out Glock 17. But there was no time to change magazines.
They were in what seemed to be some sort of lobby, beyond it a doorless entryway and beyond that the commons Michael had seen from above. A, siren was beginning to sound, like one of the old air raid sirens he had heard as a child in the days before the Night of The War.
He was almost running, dragging Prokopiev who
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could, it seemed, barely walk, Prokopiev’s face dripping sweat despite the cool temperatures of the air here.
They were through the lobby, into the commons, old Mongol vendors everywhere, younger people, dressed alike in peasant clothes looking like pajamas, soldiers rushing through the rapidly dissipating crowd. Michael fired two shots into the air, screams panic. Panic would slow the progress of the soldiers, even if just a little.
They were midway along the commons, the white robed women he had seen from above as the size of ants now clearly discernible, braziers, smoke rising from them, placed before the base of the missile, the women running in panic as Michael dragged Prokopiev toward them, the shrine, if that was what it was, near the gates leading out of the commons — to what?
One of the women screamed. Michael pumped two more shots into the air, rammed the pistol into his beltless waistband. “Gimme your gun —can you reach it.”
“My waistband —I am sorry, Michael.”
Michael Rourke nearly dropped Prokopiev as he twisted his right hand for the gun, grasped it, ripped it free, fired twice behind him into the air over the heads of the oncoming soldiers but to avoid hitting bystanders.
The gates were less than a hundred yards off, but already starting to close. He quickened his pace. “Move those feet, soldier! Now!” Prokopiev was trying, lurching forward, Michael only half-dragging him now.
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Fifty yards, the gates nearly shut. A Second City regular was dragging at one of the gates, to close it faster. Michael shot him with a double tap from the Glock, the Maoist’s body tumbling sideways and into the path of the automatically closing gate section, blocking it, a loud pneumatic hum getting louder as the machine strained against the obstacle.
Michael looked behind him. He’d come back if he made it. The missiles. The strangely evil looking, beautiful looking woman —they had his guns, the knife old Jan had made for him. He’d be back.
To the gates, dragging Prokopiev through the gap, Michael letting Prokopiev fall to his knees for an instant, dragging the partially crushed body of the Maoist away from the gate, the gate slamming shut so rapidly Michael almost lost his left hand to it.
They were in the open now, a vast field, some sort of platform set up near the far right side —to the west, he thought. It was gray banded darkness just before the sun would wink over the horizon.
There were high rocks five hundred yards or so distant. He grabbed Prokopiev’s wrist and hauled the man fully over his shoulder into a fireman’s carry, Prokopiev sucking in his breath against the pain.
Michael threw himself into a heavy, shallow strided run, Prokopiev’s stolen Clock in Michael’s right fist.
He heard something like thunder. He didn’t look back. The thunder grew louder. He pushed himself harder into the run, firing blindly behind him, running.
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The thunder was nearly upon him. Michael Rourke looked back. Mongol horsemen, riding down hard on him, in their hands, stretched between them, a net. Michael fired, one of the ponies stumbled, regained its balance, the two riders out of sync now, Michael firing again, but wildly this time, running on.
“Michael!”
It was Prokopiev’s voice. Michael Rourke looked back, the net hurtling over them, the horses closing on them, Michael’s balance going as he fired out the Glock, Prokopiev slipping from his shoulder, falling, Michael stumbling, the net suffocatingly tight around him.
He tried reaching for the other Glock. There were a few shots left in it, but his right hand was bound up in the netting. A rifle butt arced downward toward his face —
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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Nicolai Antonovitch sat at his field desk. It was no more than a table.
The senior ranked among the pilots to have extracted Prokopiev and his reconnaissance party stood off to the side, the lieutenant, who along with a private soldier, had reached the rendezvous, standing at rigid attention immediately in front of the desk.
“When the squadron overflew the battle zone, if I understand you correctly, Comrade, there was nothing but carnage on either side of the gap. Correct?”
“That is correct, Comrade Colonel. In the far distance, as we climbed, a large party of men mounted on horseback could be seen, riding in the direction of the Second Chinese City.”
“And you inspected the battle area?”
“That is correct, Comrade Colonel. The body of the young American, Rourke, was nowhere to be found, nor the bodies of the comrade major, nor of Senior Sergeant Yaroslav. Two private soldiers were missing as well.”
“And you have no knowledge as to the whereabouts of the Chinese civilian and the German
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officer who went to locate this army the young Rourke spoke of?”
“That is correct, Comrade Colonel. No attempt was made to follow them, as I was under strict orders by the comrade major to make all haste to the rendezvous site. Afterward, no trace of them could be seen from the air, nor any trace of the army which the young American referred to.”
“And,” Antonovitch said, looking at the senior pilot, the squadron leader, “the clogged fuel line caused one of your craft to be forced down and, following standard procedures, all of your flight landed and waited while the fuel line was repaired, this necessitating a delay of some two hours.”
The officer stepped forward. “Yes, Comrade Colonel. That is what happened.”
“No one is at fault here, except perhaps Prokopiev for naively trusting a Rourke. And, it would appear, Prokopiev, Rourke and the other personnel are likely prisoners of Second City forces.” He was thinking out loud, he knew, but Prokopiev’s number two, Nikita Achinski, a captain, could lead the raid on the Second City.
“Nothing has changed,” Antonovitch declared, rising, both men already at attention stiffening, raising their heads. “Rejoin your respective units. You — instruct Captain Achinski to join me here in five minutes” Antonovitch looked at his watch. “The attacks will begin on schedule. Carry on.”
He had no choice, the commitment too great now.
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They had watched it, powerless to intervene, Han forcibly restraining him. Hammerschmidt cursed the luck.
And now he waited as he watched the crowds assembling before the gates of the Second City, through his binoculars able to see Michael’s face, bruised and bleeding, and the Russian held up beside him. A woman with long dark hair walked past them and then on toward the platform at the far edge, attended by a group of women in white robes and surrounded by a group of Mongols. Where was Han? Hammerschmidt lit a cigarette .
Prokopiev virtually dragged, his legs unmoving.
Han Lu Chen’s mind raced.
If he could reach the platform area and create a diversion — but was Michael strong enough to attempt another escape. And to where.
Han kept moving. If he could reach the platform, somehow get to the woman in the dragon robes or Mao when he arrived, put a gun to one of their heads. It was the only thing he could think of and he didn’t think it would work.
Mao ascended the platform . . .
Han Lu Chen moved along the far edges of the crowd. He had originally hoped to throttle one of the Mongols privately, then steal clothing for Hammerschmidt, but it all moved too fast. There would be no time for any of that. The sun was rising and the four horses with their heavy, studded saddles, four of the Arabian mixes, powerful and fast, were already tethered at the four compass points. They were going to kill one first, then the other.