Rourke stepped away as Mike climbed to his feet, his lower lip split wide, blood and teeth spitting from his mouth as he tried to stand. Rourke lashed out with his left foot, catching Mike square in the face over the nose and driving him back to the ground.
Rourke wheeled, feeling, sensing rather than seeing or hearing, Kleiger coming for him. It was too late to step away, and as Kleiger's right foot punched toward Rourke's crotch, Rourke blocked the blow with both hands crossed in front of him, the scissor formed by his wrists and forearms taking its force.
Kleiger's right heel of the hand was driving up for Rourke's nose, and Rourke wheeled, his left elbow coming up and knocking the blow aside, then his left hand snapping back and downward into the side of Kleiger's neck, Rourke's right already drawn back and driving forward, the middle knuckles of the hand bunched together and hammering into the base of Kleiger's nose, and rather than driving the bone upward into the brain, withdrawing, snapping back, leaving Kleiger stunned, reeling, no guard to block the series of short left jabs Rourke hammered now toward Kleiger's jaw. As Kleiger stumbled, Rourke crossed Kleiger's jaw with a go-for-broke right and the man fell, straight back, stiff, his head snapping hard against the dirt of the field, bouncing a little.
Rourke stood, waiting. Mike was moving on the ground, but not getting up. Taco was down for the count, Rourke felt, as was Kleiger.
'Natalie,' Rourke shouted, perhaps a half-dozen feet from her, extending his left hand, watching as the CAR-15's sling slipped from her shoulder and the gun sailed from her right hand and toward him. He caught the rifle, shifting it into his right hand as he worked the safety off, his right fist wrapped around the pistol grip, as a dozen or so of the brigands started toward him in a rush. But Rourke heard a grunting sound, almost not human. Mike, the brigand leader, was on his knees, gesturing rapidly with his right hand, starting to talk, still spitting teeth and blood into the dirt, as the rain fell now in a thin mist, the clouds above them now darkening like the clouds in the northwest had been. The rain felt good against Rourke's body, the dirt and sweat intermingled there with spattered blood from the men he'd fought down.
'Wait!' Mike finally shouted. 'He won—it was fair. Could've killed Kleiger—I saw—'
Mike gestured to some of the brigand men and women standing near him and a group of them hauled him to his feet and Rourke lowered the muzzle of the CAR-15 as they approached.
'I been thinkin',' Mike said, his speech hard to understand, the smashed teeth and the cracked lips having resulted in a lisplike effect. He was less than two yards from Rourke now. He started to speak again. 'I been thinkin'—maybe you don't like to kill. So I got one more test—some stakes. You make it this time, you're in—but I don't think you're gonna make it.'
Rourke looked at Mike, his voice low, saying, 'You better hope I do—I'm a doctor and if somebody doesn't put some stitches into that lower lip of yours, you're gonna bleed to death.'
Mike's eyes flickered, but he said nothing, then, 'I want you to brace Deke—with guns.'
'Who's Deke?' the girl said, before Rourke could answer.
Mike's eyes smiled a moment, then the brigand leader said, 'He's my right-hand man—and he's so good with a piece you wouldn't believe your eyes, lady.'
'Where is he?' Rourke asked.
'Right here,' the voice answered and Rourke slowly turned to his right. There was a slim, blonde-haired man with a little imperial on his chin and pansy-blue eyes standing at the edge of the circle of brigands. Rourke's mind flashed back to the description the refugee woman had given of the man who'd shot her baby.
This was the man. And on his right hip in a cut-away Hollywood-style fast-draw rig was a glinting, nickel- plated single-action revolver, the hammer spur built up, the butt canted rearward, muzzle forward. A heavy leather glove covered the man's left hand. Rourke knew the drill—he'd tried competitive fast-draw, had had good friends who competed in the sport. And he knew the light-speed draws a trained fast-draw man could make. 'You want it now, or you wanna clean up so you make a good-lookin' corpse?' Deke said, an Aussie-style camouflage cowboy hat low over his eyes.
'Catch you in five,' Rourke said and turned away.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Rourke stood by the cab of the pickup truck, Rubenstein trying to look casual with the MP-40 subgun in his hands, the bolt still locked open, just waiting for a touch of the trigger. As Rourke splashed canteen water on his face, he could feel Natalie's hands on his back, a handkerchief or something in her one hand and cool water being rubbed across him. He splashed water on his chest as well, then took his shirt and started to dry himself with it. He started to pull the shirt on, but heard the girl murmur, 'Wait, John,' and in a moment she was back with a fresh shirt for him from his pack.
As Rourke buttoned the shirt, stuffing the shirt-tails into his jeans, the girl came up beside him, the wet handkerchief in her hand, daubing at the right side of his mouth where he'd been cut. 'I'm fine,' Rourke whispered.
The girl—Natalie—stepped back. 'You're not really going to do this—I mean you're good with guns and all, but this is like apples and oranges.'
'She's right, John,' Rubenstein commented, not looking at Rourke but watching the brigands. They had gone back to the trucks again, like natives in a death ritual, starting to drive them once more in a huge circle. But this time there was little dust; the rain was starting to fall more heavily now.
Rourke said, 'You mean can I outdraw Deke? I don't think so, but there's a difference between drawing down on a timer and drawing down on a man—we'll see what happens.'
'I've seen that kind of shooting before,' the girl said.
'So have I,' Rourke said softly, looking into her blue eyes. 'He holds his hand on the gun butt, his left hand edged in front of the holster, and on the signal he rocks the gun out of the leather, the hand with the glove slaps the hammer back, fans it and the gun goes off. I couldn't see whether he's got the trigger tied back or not so he doesn't even have to bother touching it.'
'He probably does,' the girl said. 'You want this?' she asked, gesturing toward the Python still slung diagonally across her body.
