Rourke stumbled back. Someone behind him threw him forward.
The big Russian was up, his mouth bleeding heavily, his fists raised almost like a nineteenth-century pugilist. Rourke started for him, but the Russian’s left fist smashed forward, catching Rourke on the right side of the head, the blow stunning him. The Russian dropped his guard and moved in. Rourke thought the Russian shouldn’t have done that.
Rourke’s left foot smashed upward, the upper part of his foot connecting square into the Russian’s groin. The big man’s black eyes bulged, his body stumbling forward as he doubled over. Both Rourke’s fists doubled together and swung down across the man’s exposed neck. The Russian fell. The soldiers ringed around Rourke, closing in, then suddenly parting in a wave to his right.
Fulsom’s face, his shoulder a mass of blood, but he was alive. Beside him was the man Rourke had seen with the binoculars, the officer holding a pistol in his gloved right hand, the binoculars swinging almost lazily from his neck like a tourist. The muzzle of the pistol was flush against Fulsom’s right temple.
“Rourke, stop or I fire. You understand?”
Rourke glared at the man, then saw the hammer drawn back under the officer’s thumb.
“Your round,” Rourke almost whispered, shaking his aching head to clear it.
Chapter 35
“You didn’t have to do that, Rourke. Maybe you could have—”
“Would it do any good,” Rourke said, “if I told you a hardware store owner once saved my life?”
Fulsom forced a smile, and Rourke clapped the man on the back, then tried looking through the crack in the canvas covering the back of the truck. They were heading into the woods on the far side of the city. Rourke anticipated the reason, but failed to see the logic. If they were planning a mass execution, why the harmless gas that had merely knocked out the men in the storm drain, why the kid-glove treatment of the men guarding the boats at the entrance to the storm drain, why the careful bandaging of Fulsom’s shoulder and the antiseptic swabbing of the skinned left side of Rourke’s face?
Why?
The truck stopped and, after a second Korcinski’s face appeared at the rear of the truck, a smile on his lips. He had even introduced himself to Rourke.
“Mr. Rourke, you only please, the others will be unharmed. And please, no more messy fist fights, hmm?” Rourke shrugged, climbed past Fulsom, then over the tailgate at the rear of the truck and dropped down to the ground. Reed had been silent during the long ride, like Rourke, he assumed, mystified.
It was raining more heavily now.
Rourke, walking beside Korcinski, said, “Your English is good for a military man.”
Korcinski doffed a salute, saying, “Thank you. I understand you have been a writer. I appreciate such a compliment. You are a trained physician too, are you not?” “Yeah—although lately I’ve been doing less healing and more wounding.”
Korcinski laughed, then outstretched his gloved right hand to Rourke’s left forearm.
“Ivon,” Korcinski snapped and a young soldier came forward, his arms laden with Rourke’s guns.
“What the hell is—”
“Please, Mr. Rourke—please,” Korcinski said. “Your weapons have been reloaded for you, checked for their functional reliability. I understand you may need them.” “You setting me up?” Rourke whispered.
“Hardly, just watching for your interests. The assault rifle was uninjured when it dropped. American guns I have always found to be sturdily built. Take them please.” Rourke took the twin Detonics pistols, shoving them into his belt, then taking the Colt Government .45. The finish was unscratched despite the drop. He checked the Metalifed pistol: it was loaded, the chamber empty. He looked at Korcinski then at the gun. The man nodded and Rourke worked the slide, chambering a round, then lowering the hammer and holstering it. He’d looked by the glare of the headlights and the firing pin seemed in place as he held the gun awkwardly low while working the slide.
He did the same with each of the Detonics pistols and reinserted them in the shoulder holsters under his arms. The bayonet and the A.G. Russell knife were cleaned and oiled. He holstered them. “We took the liberty of reloading your spent magazine for the rifle. I’m afraid we had no American pistol ammunition available for your handgun.” “I’ll let it slide,” Rourke whispered.
He took the CAR-15. It was unscratched, the scope intact. He watched two guards standing off at a distance twitch as he telescoped the stock and shouldered the rife to check the scope, then replaced the scope covers, recollapsing the stock.
“We found your motorcycle not far from the drive-in theater, Mr. Rourke. We assumed at least it was yours. It is waiting here for you.” “How did you know about the drive-in?” Rourke asked.
“Very simple, really, we threatened Fulsom with killing you. He obliged by telling us. He felt obligated. We now have all of your men.” “Hell,” Rourke said, his voice low, “they aren’t my men.”
“Whoever they are, if you cooperate, they will go free. If you don’t, they will be executed. And if they are freed, of course, their weapons will not be returned as yours have been. Come, I have a woman you might like to meet. Don’t worry.” “I won’t,” Rourke said, slinging the CAR-15 from his right shoulder, hooking his right thumb in the carry handle.
“Good,” Korcinski said and smiled.
Rourke followed the Soviet colonel out of the clearing and down a rough dirt path into the deeper part of the woods. He resettled the binoculars and the musette bag on his left shoulder as he walked, uncertain what Korcinski planned.
In another, smaller clearing, a staff car waited, its headlights burning and drawing swarms of night flies and moths. In the edge of the light beams stood a woman, slender, wearing a Soviet uniform, the skirt seemingly too long, Rourke observed.
