'I'll go along with that, Soames— but you two shut up,' Rourke whispered, the safety catches down on both pistols as he aimed one at Soames and one at Veskovitch.
'Who—'
'Move and I kill you,' Rourke interrupted.
Soames started for the radio, a move Rourke hadn't anticipated from the paramilitary commander. Rourke fired the Detonics in his right hand, the slug tearing into Soames's left side, kicking the man back against the far wall.
But Veskovitch was coming toward him, a pistol in his right hand, the gun firing.
Rourke fired the Detonics in his left hand, but Veskovitch was already on him, the 185-grain .45 ACP
slug tearing into Veskovitch's left leg. There was a loud cry of pain and anguish. The pistol in Veskovitch's right hand discharged and Rourke could feel heat against his own left hand, glancing down to it, as he smacked the .45 in his right down across the KGB man's neck. There was no wound in the hand, but the bullet had passed close, Rourke realized, perhaps just barely grazing his skin.
The Russian's left fist was circling upward and Rourke's right forearm blocked it. The Russian was screaming, 'The radio, Soames— smash it!'
His left knee smashing up into the Russian's gunhand, Rourke looked over the KGB
man's back. He could see Soames staggering away from the far wall, a pistol in his right hand aimed at the radio.
Rourke tried bringing his right hand into position to shoot, but the Russian grappling with him shoved against him and the .45 discharged into the concrete over their heads, the slug ricocheting maddeningly off the concrete walls. Rourke backhanded the Detonics in his left hand across the KGB man's face, knocking him away.
Then Rourke brought down the Detonics pistol in his right hand, raising the left one into position as well, both pistols discharging simultaneously, both slugs driving into Soames's center of mass. The Texas commander fell back, the Detective Special .38 in his right hand discharging into the floor at his feet.
The echo of the gunshots still reverberating in the tiny room, almost deafeningly, Rourke wheeled right. The KGB man was raising his pistol to fire.
No time to swing his guns on line, Rourke hurtled himself sideways toward the Russian. Both Rourke's pistols clattered to the floor as his left hand reached for the KGB man's gunhand, his right hand going for the throat.
The agent's pistol discharged and for the first time, his ears ringing with the sound, Rourke noticed it— a Detonics .45, like his own, but blued. Rourke's left hand on the KGB man's wrist, he slammed the gunhand down, the pistol firing again.
Rourke moved his hand from the Russian's throat and smashed his right fist across the man's jaw.
The Russian's head snapped back and Rourke moved up on his haunches, straddling the KGB man's body. He studied the eyes— the lids were closed, not fluttering. Rourke, prying the man's fingers from the blue Detonics .45 then, bent low, trying to feel for breath. Rourke touched his fingers to the Russian's neck, then to the man's wrist. He raised the head slightly. However he'd hit the man, the neck had snapped and the Russian was dead. He hadn't wanted that.
Rourke thumbed up the safety on the blue Detonics and rammed the pistol into his belt, intending to keep it. He found his own pistols, then walked the few steps to Soames. Despite three hits from Rourke's
.45s, the paramilitary leader was still breathing.
Gently, Rourke rolled Soames over. The wounds would make him die, but not for several minutes if his constitution were strong, Rourke determined. 'Soames, how do you make your contacts?'
'Go to hell...
Rourke thumbed down the safety on the Detonics in his right hand, touching the muzzle to the traitor's left cheekbone. Almost softly, Rourke told him, 'I can either let you die comfortably or painfully, Soames. You know I'm a doctor. I've got a small emergency kit under my coat,' Rourke lied. 'I can give you a shot.' There was an emergency kit with syringes, but back on his bicycle. 'Morphine? Sound good? You could linger for hours,' Rourke lied again. He thumbed up the safety on the Detonics and shoved it in the holster under his left armpit, then did the same on the second pistol, placing it in the holster under his right arm.
As if he were uncaring, Rourke took the blue Detonics that had belonged to the KGB
man and studied it, dumping the half-spent magazine, clearing the chamber. The pistol was in pristine condition, still wearing the original checkered walnut grips. He made a mental note to check the body and the room for spare magazines which were interchangeable with his own guns.
'Well?' Rourke studied Soames's face— it was white, drained. Soames had a few minutes at most to live and Rourke hoped Soames didn't know it. 'Die in pain or get the morphine shot?'
'Gimme the shot,' Soames grunted.
'The radio first. Tell me how to make the contact. I try it, it works, then the shot.'
'All right, all right,' Soames said through gritted teeth. 'Songbird to Condor One, request— request relay.' Soames coughed.
'What relay?' Rourke asked, trying to keep his voice calm. Blood spurted from Soames's mouth when he coughed.
'Request— relay— nineteen. Gets you—'
'Through,' Rourke finished, then bent over Randall Soames, thumbing the lids on the dead eyes closed.
Rourke stood up. He walked over to the radio and flicked it on. He assumed they were using English on the radio— that way, if the signal were intercepted it would attract less attention. Rourke picked up the microphone, staring at it a moment, then at the men to whom the radio had been so important. 'Songbird to Condor One,' he called. 'Requesting relay nineteen, over.'
In a moment the radio crackled and there was a voice. 'Relay nineteen through to Condor One— stand by.'
