one arm. Rourke fired again. Through the scope he was able to see the bright red flower of blood on the side of the neck, matching the one already on the driver's right arm. The driver's head snapped back, and the truck cut left, slamming into the river bank, then bouncing toward the water. Already, the Brigand men and women in the truck bed were jumping clear. 'No,' Rourke rasped under his breath, swinging the scope onto the escaping Brigands. He fired once, twice, three times, then a two-round burst, catching some of them in mid-air as they flipped from the back of the truck. He hit some of them as they ran off after jumping to the ground.
Rourke raised the muzzle of the rifle, the rest of the surviving Brigands fleeing from the river bank. The rifle had done for Rourke what he'd wanted it to do— he had no desire for a running gun battle between the ferry and the river bank.
He turned and stared at the girl with the reddish-brown hair. She was pale, he thought. Then he started toward her in long, loping strides, breaking into a run, the CAR-15 swinging to his side as he tried to catch her before she collapsed over the side of the ferry and into the current. Rourke got both hands under her armpits and pulled her against him. But she was already unconscious and— he confirmed it now— the left arm was still streaming blood. He moved his right hand across her back, finding a bullet wound there as well. The sticky feeling of blood was something he couldn't mistake.
Chapter 3
'I was the only one who knew how to ride a motorcycle, so I guess I was elected. I'd always talked about equality of the sexes— so here was my big chance. When your parents give you a first name like
'Sissy' you can't just sit around and be one.'
Rourke looked at the girl, his eyes smiling. 'So 'Sissy' had to prove she wasn't a sissy. And you could've gotten yourself killed. Or worse— and I mean that literally.'
The girl winced a little as Rourke checked the security of the bandage on her left shoulder where a bullet had grazed her. 'Lucky for me,' she began, sucking in her breath hard as Rourke took the blanket back from her and probed at the wound along the left side of her rib cage.
'Lucky you're a doctor.'
'Lucky that bullet didn't break a couple of your ribs. It hit you at just the right angle and skated along between the second and third rib and lodged there. In a few days you'll feel fine. Time for that old joke about the guy who's injured, both hands damaged. Says to the doctor, 'You mean after the bandages come off, I'll be able to play the violin?' The doctor nods and the guy says, 'Wow— I could never play the violin before!' But you'll be fine— whatever you do,' Rourke added.
'After I passed out, did I— ahh—' the girl stammered.
'What? That ahh of yours covers a wide range of possibilities. But no— all you did was stay passed out. I took the auto ferry downstream— I make it about twenty-five miles or so—
and that's where I removed the bullet along your ribs. Then I decided it was safe to stop awhile. So here we are.' Rourke gestured with his hands to the riverside clearing, a semicircle of bright green pines and a few naturally growing cedars at the far side. Beyond the trees were foothills.
'I didn't say anything then?' the girl asked again.
Rourke dropped to one knee beside her, studying her face. There was relief there, and pain too— but something else, uncertainty and fear.
'What shouldn't you have said?' Rourke asked, his voice low, the words slow.
'No— it's just—'
'I'm not going to suppose those Brigands were chasing you for any other reason besides the fact that you were alone and unarmed— and they like women that way especially. But why were you the only one who could ride a bike— what did you get elected to do?' Rourke asked.
'Just— some friends of mine. We were— up in the mountains ever since the War and we had to get—
ahh—' and the girl stopped.
'Next time you say ahh, let me know in advance and I can get a tongue depressor out of the first-aid kit and check your tonsils,' Rourke told her.
'I'm sorry,' she smiled. 'It's just that— ahh—' And she laughed, tears coming into the corners of her eyes a second later as she reached for her left rib cage.
'I forgot to mention you shouldn't laugh,' Rourke said slowly.
'I just promised—'
'Here.' Rourke fished into his hip pocket and took out his wallet, opened the plastic bag sealing it, and searched inside. In a moment he passed her a plastic coated identity card with his photo on it.
'C.I.A.?'
'Retired. I don't even think there is a C.I.A. any more. I guess what I'm trying to get across is you can trust me— if you need to.'
Rourke took one of his small, dark tobacco cigars and lit it in the blue-yellow flame of his Zippo. 'Well?' he asked her.
'I'm Sissy Wiznewski— Doctor Wiznewski, really. I'm a kind of geologist,' she began.
'What kind of geologist?'
'Seismology. We— Dr. Jarvis, Dr. Tanagura, Peter Krebbs, and I— we were manning a survey station up in the mountains.'
'I don't follow you,' Rourke said matter-of-factly.
'Well, I don't know if you know it,' she began again, 'but there are—'
'Fault lines around here,' Rourke interrupted. 'But the strength of any shocks in the area has been minor so far.'
'Right— that's true. That's why we were here. We were recording plate tectonics to compare with plate
