'But also one of the largest ammunition manufacturers in the world—the cases could have been from a thousand other people—ten thousand. But I found this,'
and she gestured toward the motorcycle tracks. 'And signs of
someone urinating here about the time we heard the shots. That dead man's flesh is still warm. I think it was John—stopped to—to—'
'To piss,' Paul nodded, smiling embarrassedly.
Natalia felt herself smile, 'Yes,' she nodded. 'And somebody came up on him—that man over there. John shot him, then disassembled the shotgun so no one could use it afterward. Then he finished—pissing. Then he drove off.'
'But when there's one brigand, there's usually a bunch of 'em—'
'There aren't any signs of them—did you find any?'
'Nothing—no,' and Rubenstein shook his head, his left hand pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up off the bridge of his nose, then sweeping across his high forehead through his thinning dark hair.
''And neither did I—if you were John—'
Rubenstein laughed. 'Ha—if I were John—if anybody is closer to John in the way they think—you are. What would you do—kill one brigand and figure there are more around?'
'John urinated twice—as if he'd been doing it when he heard the man, then there was the gunfight, then John checked the man's pockets—I noticed that when I checked the body. Then John finished what he'd been doing.'
'That's John for you,' Rubenstein smiled.
' 'He would have been here long enough to tell if others were coming—and none did. Which would mean this dead man could have been a straggler—'
'There wasn't any bike—no signs of a truck or anything—'
'Or he could have been alone and on foot.'
Paul shook his head. 'I don't think so.'
'Neither do I—his boots were marked from riding a bike, and the soles were polished almost smooth—but they weren't worn down as if he'd walked a great deal.'
'John would have figured there were brigands in the' area and whatever they were doing, hearing what maybe would have been gunshots wasn't important enough to pull them away—'
Natalia nodded. 'Laying a trap—ambuscade—'
'What?' Rubenstein asked, his face quizzical looking to her.
. She felt herself laugh—'That's only English, Paul—ambuscade—it means ambush.'
'Ohh,' and he nodded. 'Yeah—I knew that,' and Rubenstein laughed.
She touched her left hand gently to his right forearm. 'John is probably looking for the other brigands— the rest of the dead man's gang.'
'Can't be more than a couple miles—guy wouldn't have left his wheels—'
'He could have been a scout—maybe from a base camp. But you're right, Paul—not more than a few miles.'
'If we can backtrack him through the woods—'
'We'll know soon enough if John did the same thing,' she interrupted. 'And we can find him—'
'Before he runs into a dozen or two brigands I hope,' Rubenstein added soberly.
'Before—yes—come on,' and she started running back toward her bike, glancing over her shoulder as Rubenstein threw the useless shotgun into the trees, then started running in the opposite direction—for his bike, she knew.
She reached her own machine, the Harley-Davidson Low Rider Rourke had used in the trek across the West Texas desert, the machine he'd taken from the brigands after they had murdered the survivors of the airliner crash. Paul had told her about it.
'How long ago?' she murmured, thinking of the times they had spent—times of danger, death—but in a strange way, happier times than she had ever known.
She snapped closed the flaps of the Safariland Holsters for the stainless Smith & Wessons on her hips, then straddled the machine.
She brought the engine to life . . .
John Thomas Rourke studied the panorama before him, focusing the armored Bushnell xs on the group of six men moving through the field which covered the valley floor. Camouflage fatigues, crusher hats, M-s—either Marines or Army—but forces of U.S. II. Likely an intelligence patrol, he surmised.
He swept the binoculars back, along the defile—poorly concealed men and a few women perhaps—though the long hair and distance made it difficult for him to tell. He counted twenty-five brigands at least, and two more further up by the tree line.
Evading a medium-sized brigand band working the territory would be time consuming, time he could utilize in making headway to the Retreat to resupply and link with Paul, time he could use searching for his wife and son and daughter.
He glanced back through the tubes at the six military personnel. They moved too openly, as if inviting attack. That thought had crossed Rourke's mind when first spotting them, but there were no indications there was
