the strength of the brigand force at better than four hundred men and women. For some reason he couldn't fathom, they were heading back in the direction of Van Horn, speed approximately fifty miles per hour. A smile crossed Rourke's lips, but then vanished quickly. As he watched the brigand column began turning off the road, moving into a long, single column and heading into the desert.
'Shit!' he muttered, dropping the field glasses and staring down into his hands.
The change of direction into the desert would keep the brigands ahead of him, and the paramilitary force was still behind him. Rourke reslung the CAR-15 on his right shoulder and revved up his bike. The brigands' turning had forced his hand, he realized, and any way he decided to go, the odds for staying alive were dropping.
Chapter Thirty
Rourke had left early in the morning, awakening the slightly hung-over Rubenstein to let him know his intentions, letting the girl continue to sleep.
As Rourke slowed the Harley and drove it up the grade into the sheltered campsite where the truck was parked, he spotted Rubenstein sitting by the Coleman stove, a cup of coffee in both hands, his glasses off. Natalie was standing by the front of the truck and all Rourke could see of her as he eased the bike to a halt was her back.
'I didn't recognize you without your glasses,' Rourke said to Rubenstein, smiling.
'Shut off the motor, huh? My head is—'
Rourke laughed, killing the Harley's engine and dismounting, then walking over toward Rubenstein. Rourke set the CAR-15 against the bumper of the truck and dropped to a crouch beside the younger man, snatching a cup and pouring himself some coffee. 'What's with her?'
'What? Oh—I don't know—she's been that way ever since she woke up and found you were gone,' Rubenstein answered, his voice shaky.
'So what did you find out, Rourke?'
Rourke looked up. It was the girl, hands on her hips, feet a little apart, tiny chin jutted forward, her eyes fixed and staring at him. 'You look cheerful this morning,' Rourke told her, then, 'What I found out was that the paramilitary is a few hours behind us with a large force. The brigands are a few hours ahead of us with a large force. Even larger than the paramils. If we bump into the paramils, we've had it. Paul and I had a run-in with one of their patrols before we bumped into you. The officer who commanded the patrol is with the paramil force I saw. He'll spot us, we'll get shot—and probably you too since you're with us. They're southwest of us now, heading northeast along the road. The brigands were heading southwest, and for a while I thought they'd run into the paramils, but then they turned off into the desert. Probably going to be staying in this area for a while.'
'So what do we do?' the girl asked him.
'Can't go southwest and run into the paramils. Just have to take our chances on butting up against the brigands.'
Rubenstein, rubbing his eyes with his hands, said, 'But if we do run into the brigands, what then?'
'Well,' Rourke said slowly, staring into his coffee, 'we sort of promised that woman with the refugees that we'd look for that blonde guy who killed her baby.
I guess we can do that, then move on.'
'How many brigands are there?' Natalie asked, her voice tense.
'Better than four hundred, I make it. But we can't just stay here—the paramils will find us. I make it that within the next few days both units should lock horns—looks unavoidable with their sizes—couldn't miss one another. Then maybe we can get clear of the area.'
'But what do we do until that happens?' Rubenstein asked.
'Stay just shy of the brigands and try to pass around them—if we can. If we can't, though, we only have one additional option. We join 'em.'
'What!' Rubenstein exclaimed.
Rourke lit a cigar and leaned back against the truck. 'They've never seen us, must have picked up a lot of their force from bikers driftin' in two or three at a time. If we have to, we'll fake it.'
'And what if they don't buy that?' the girl asked, her voice emotionless.
'Then we'll buy it,' Rourke answered slowly, then sipped at his coffee.
Chapter Thirty-One
Samuel Chambers, necktie at half-mast, suitcoat gone, two empty packs of Pall Malls crumpled on the small table beside his chair, the standing glass ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, squinted against the yellow lamplight from the desk. He glanced at his watch. The conference had gone on longer than he had expected without breaking. The thought came to him that if this was what being the president of the United States was really like, he could see why the job had aged all the men who had gone before him. 'Heavy lies the head,' he muttered to himself, lighting another cigarette and wishing he hadn't from the bad taste in his mouth.
He looked at the notes he'd taken on the yellow legal pad on his lap, pondering silently if it would work, if the country could be sewn back together even temporarily. Parts of Louisiana and all of Texas had been consolidated into one martial law district, the paramilitary commander, Soames—Chambers didn't like the man and trusted him less—taking charge of internal matters because of the sheer numbers of his force and the capability to recruit more. The air force colonel, Darlington, would use his troops and the navy forces to handle border defense, using the stores of National Guard supplies to help with this. The National Guard unit—small—would function as a
