You are ordered to stop and lay down your arms. You will not be harmed.'
Rubenstein glanced skyward, at the helicopter almost directly over him.
He bounced the bright blue Harley up over a ridge of dirt and onto a board bridge. There was a second helicopter now, joining the pursuit.
The loudspeaker again. 'You will injure yourself if you pursue this course of action. We mean you no harm.' The voice was heavily accented. 'You are ordered to surrender!'
'Eat it!' Rubenstein shouted up to the helicopter, the downdraft of the rotor blades making his voice come back to him. Ahead of him he could see the second helicopter,
hovering low, too low over the road where it widened. He could see uniformed troopers in the massive open doors of the formerly U.S. machine.
He heard the Russian voice again on the loudspeaker. 'Paul Rubenstein.
This is by order of General Varakov; you are to stop immediately and lay down your arms.'
Rubenstein spotted what Rourke had told him once was a deer trail; it looked the same. He wrenched the bike into a hard left, onto the deer trail, the branches cracking against his face and body as he forced the machine through. The path was bumpier than the dirt road he had just left.
'Paul Rubenstein . . . you are ordered to—'
He looked up, cursing under his breath, then looked ahead of him. A deadfall tree lay across the path. He started to brake, and the Harley skidded from under him. Rubenstein threw himself clear, hitting the ground hard.
He pushed himself to his feet, the Harley lost somewhere in the trees. He started to run, snatching at the battered High Power under his jacket. He stopped at the tree line, snapping off two fast shots toward the nearest helicopter; the machine backed off. He had lost sight of the other one after heading onto the deer path.
Machine-gun fire was coming at him, hammering into the ground and the trees ten yards behind him as he ran, swatting away the tree branches that snapped at his face. Pine boughs still laden with snow pelted him, washing wet snow across his face. The machine-gun fire was edging closer and he dropped to his knees, wheeling, firing the High Power in rapid, two-shot semiautomatic bursts.
The helicopter backed off.
'Son of a gun.' He smiled, pushing himself to his feet,
turning to run again.
Three Russian soldiers blocked the path. The other helicopter, he realized, had landed its men.
Rubenstein started to bring the pistol on line to fire, but something hammered at the back of his neck and he fell forward, the gun dropping from his grip.
Hands reached down to him; voices spoke to him in Russian. Rubenstein rolled onto his back, his left foot snapping up and out, into the crotch of one of the Russians; the man doubled over.
Rubenstein reached up, snatching hold of a fistful of uniform, hauling himself up to his knees as he dragged the soldier down, his left fist smashing upward, into the face. Then he was on his feet, running. Someone tackled him; he went down, the ground slapping hard against him.
Another man was on top of him, holding him. Rubenstein snapped his left elbow back, found something hard against it, and heard a moan and what sounded like a curse despite the language barrier.
He pushed himself up, wheeling, his left swinging out, catching the tip of a chin. A man. fell back under his blow.
Rubenstein wheeled again. He saw the two bunched-together fists swinging toward him like a baseball bat, felt the pain against the side of his neck, then there was nothing but darkness and a warm feeling.
John Rourke squinted against the light, his belly aching, a sudden stabbing pain in his left upper arm. The pain was familiar—the arm aching like a bad tooth. He moved that arm, but it wouldn't move well. And when he opened his eyes, his vision was blurred. His other limbs didn't work when he told them to. He fell, feeling something tight around bis neck, choking him, feeling bands on his shoulders, moving him.
A voice. 'John . . . John. I told you the last time, don't try to stand up. You can't walk; don't you know that by now? Thanksgiving's almost past. I'm sorry I couldn't give you any turkey; you've been throwing up everything I give you. But tomorrow's Christmas and then it'll all be over.'
Rourke shook his head, murmuring, 'I like turkey— Thanksgi— Christmas?'
'I'll help you onto the cot.' Above him a woman's face smiled.
'Strong,' he muttered, feeling her hands under his armpits. He wanted to help her, very badly because the floor was cold under him. Naked? His hands—he squinted to look at them. Tied together. So were his
ankles. The thing around his neck choked him again.
'Vm sorry, John. That rope around your neck—it got caught on the edge of the cot. I'll fix it.' The pressure around his neck subsided.
'Thanks—Martha,' he murmured. Martha? Martha Bogen? 'Coffee,' he shouted, his own voice sounding odd to him, his tongue feeling dry and thick and hot.
'Yes. You asked the same question the last two times I gave you an injection. I drugged the coffee with chloral hydrates—I just had to give you so much of it it made you sick. And I gave myself an apomo.rphine shot after I drank the first cup. I just threw it up. So it didn't bother me. I just made myself throw up. You are very forgetful, John.' The voice cooed, good-naturedly.
'Sor—' Why was he sorry? he wondered. Because he was forgetful? He couldn't remember why he was sorry.
There was another needle plunged into his arm, and the pain was there again.
