props still not whirring. Rourke hammered his left fist down hard on the vintage truck's horn button, again and again.
He could see a figure—Rubenstein?—running from the starboard wing around the nose of the aircraft. Natalia would be at the controls. 'Shit!'
Rourke stomped the clutch down hard, working the gas pedal as well, double-clutching as he upshifted, the truck's gears grinding. The vehicle bumped, then lurched ahead.
He glanced to his left—something, a sixth sense, making him do it. Hearing anything aver the roar of his truck's engine, the gunfire, and the shouts of the mob from behind was impossible. From his left were coming two pickup trucks, armed men in the hacks of each vehicle—rifles, shotguns, handguns, axes—and blood in their collective eye.
He shook his head, almost in disbelief. Three days earlier, Natalia had been rescuing their wives and babies, putting them aboard the planes of the evacuation fleet in Florida. But now—none of that mattered. She was Russian, and the Russians had started World War III, destroyed much of the United States, invaded American shores. Natalia was Russian. It didn't matter who she was, just what. Rourke felt the corners of his mouth downturning. 'Ignorant bastards!' Rourke snarled as he glanced again at the two pickup trucks. They were closing fast, gunfire now being leveled at him from the beds of the trucks. The West Coast mirror on the right-hand side of the vintage Ford pickup he drove shattered under the impact of a slug.
Rourke reached under his left armpit, snatching at one of the twin Detonics stainless .s he carried in the
double Alessi shoulder rig. He aimed the pistol as his thumb cocked the hammer, then turned his face away from the passenger-side window, firing, as the shattering outward of the passenger-side glass and the roar of the -grain JHP in the confined space all came together to make his ears ring. He looked toward the passenger side; the nearest of the two trucks swung away. He fired the Detonics again; this time, the glass of his borrowed truck not partially deflecting the bullet, his bullet hammered into the front windshield of the nearest of the pursuers.
Rourke glanced to his left, seeing behind him through the driverVside window the pursuing mob. The mob split, a wing of it running diagonally from the access road toward the field, to cut him off or to reach the airplane ahead of him—he couldn't be sure which.
Rourke glanced to his right. A wooden fence was all that separated him from the grassy area leading toward the field. He cut the wheel hard right, the cocked and locked Detonics secured under his right thigh as he aimed the pickup truck toward the fence. One of the pursuing trucks, the one with the shot-out windshield, was coming for him broadside. Rourke grabbed up the Detonics again, firing. The pursuing truck swerved hard right through the wooden fence, almost in perfect simultaneity with the truck Rourke drove.
Behind him now, Rourke could see the second truck, coming up fast as it punched through the fence. Some of the fence slats, caught up in its front bumper, broke away as the truck, a Chevy, bounced and jarred across the uneven ground. Rourke upped the safety on his Detonics again, hammering down the gas pedal and shifting down into third, releasing the pedal and stomping the accelerator as he made the change. The Ford slowed, but took the
bumps better. There were perhaps a thousand yards to go toward the airfield tarmac itself.
The pickup with the shot-out windshield was coming—fast, too fast for control. The riflemen and shot- gunners, bouncing visibly in the bed as the truck slowed, fired. Rifle bullets and shotgun slugs pinged uselessly off the body of Rourke's truck.
Rourke fired the Detonics . again, really at nothing, since aimed fire was useless with the truck he drove bouncing and jarring as it did. But this time the pickup truck, a Dodge, didn't fall back.
'Hell,' Rourke rasped, stomping the clutch, running the gas pedal hard down as he upshifted, easing the gas pressure, then increasing it again.
The Ford lurched ahead.
In the rear-view mirror, Rourke could see the Chevy— almost even with the rear end of his truck now, a man leaning out of its passenger-side door, jumping. Rourke tried swerving away in time, but was boxed in.
The man, a pistol in his right hand now, was unsteadily standing in the bed of Rourke's pickup. Rourke tried cutting the wheel hard right, to throw the man off, but the Dodge with the shattered windshield was flanking him, fenders touching, boxing him in again. Rourke cut the wheel hard left, but the second pickup, the Chevy, had blocked him there as welL
The man standing shakily behind him was raising his pistol, to fire through the rear window. 'Try this,' Rourke snapped, stomping hard on the brakes. The pickup truck lurched to a ragged halt; the man's pistol discharged, the man himself sailing forward, disappearing from Rourke's view over the cab of the pickup and reappearing crashing onto the hood.
Rourke threw the stick into reverse, the truck's gearbox
grinding. Rourke's right foot hammered down on the gas pedal. The Chevy was already twenty yards ahead of him; the Dodge, customized and massive, locked beside him. There was a tearing sound, metal against metal. The right side of Rourke's truck locked into the left rear wheel well of the Dodge with the shot-out windshield. Rourke stomped the clutch again, throwing into first, then hammering down the gas pedal. There were more tearing sounds; then his truck lurched ahead. The Ford's bumper twisted upward suddenly, protruding aver the hood as Rourke stomped the clutch again, into second with the gearbox, his foot barely leaving the gas pedal.
The Chevy was wheeling a sharp right, trying to cut Rourke off. The man from the bed of Rourke's pickup, who had been thrown to the ground an instant earlier, got unsteadily to his feet. Rourke cut his wheel sharp to the left, barely missing him, then hard to the right. The Chevy still trying to cut him off.
The first truck, its windshield all but gone now, was right behind him.
Rourke stomped his brake pedal, wrenching the stick back into reverse.
There was a massive hitchbali on the rear end of the Ford and Rourke aimed it blindly now toward the grillwork of the Dodge behind him. There was a crashing, crunching sound, and Rourke braced himself against the wheel as the Ford impacted. Rourke stomped the clutch, then worked the stick into first and gave the Ford the gas. There was a groaning sound. His truck stalled a little, then ripped free. Behind him, in the rear-view, as he upshifted to second, he could see the front bumper and part of the Dodge's grill—twisted and wrecked.
The Chevy was alongside him again. Rourke cut his wheel sharp right, impacting the right fender against
