the
left fender of the other truck, then cutting back away, keeping the wheel in a sharp left, circling back over the ground they had just traversed, the Chevy still coming.
Gunfire—an assault rifle, the burst long, too long. The rear windshield of the truck Rourke drove shattered, the rear-view mirror was shot out, too, as bullets passed through the opening in the glass behind him and hammered against the front windshield from the inside.
Rourke ducked his head down. Under the impact of more slugs, the gas gauge shattered, the steering wheel chipped—too near his fingers.
'Hell,' he rasped, cutting the wheel into a hard left, then a hard right, then a hard left again, zigzagging as the Chevy kept coming and the assault-rifle fire as well. He cut the wheel sharp right and worked the emergency- brake, locking the rear wheels. The truck skidded into a flick turn, almost overending.
He was aimed the right way now, his left hand snatching for the second Detonics pistol as he released the emergency brake. He rammed the transmission into first, into second, then into third, his feet working as if they rode a balance beam, his right hand stirring the transmission.
The Chevy was coming at him—dead-on.
'Play chicken with me!' he snarled. Ramming the Detonics pistol out the driver's-side window, his thumb jerked the hammer back, his first finger started the squeeze.
One round, then a second—the enemy truck's windshield gone with two hits.
Two more shots—one headlight and maybe a puncture to the radiator. The truck was still coming.
One round—the driver's-side West Coast mirror. The truck wasn't swerving, coming at Rourke like a rival
knight in a tournament. The gap between them was less than twenty yards.
Rourke fired the last round from the pistol. The driver of the Chevy threw his hands up to his face; the pickup swerved left and right. Rourke stomped down on the Ford's clutch, wrenching the stick into second as he double-clutched, working the emergency brake again, cutting the wheel in a sharp left, then releasing the brake and stomping the gas. The Ford fishtailed under him, bounced up, and drove over a hummock of ground, airborne for a split second. He could feel the suspension of gravity in the instant that it happened, feel it in the pit of his stomach. The truck hit hard, Rourke fighting the wheel to control it. He stomped the clutch, wrenching the stick into third, revving his way out of the fishtail, accelerating, the engine moaning in front of him, the cab vibrating, shards of glass tinkling to the floor of the cab as the air of the truck's slipstream pressured his bullet-shattered windshield.
The twin-engine light cargo plane was just ahead of him again, this time barely a hundred yards away.
Rourke upshifted into fourth as he hit the runway tarmac. The truck skidded—the treads of the tires would be packed with clay and dirt, he knew. The Ford fishtailed again, then straightened out as Rourke started downshifting, braking at the same time. The toes of his right foot worked the gas pedal, his heel worked the brake, his ieft foot worked the clutch.
The truck was skidding, and Rourke cut the wheel hard right, riding into the skid as he braked. The truck lurched once, then stopped.
Rourke wrenched open the driver's-side door; shards of windshield glass showered down on him from the dashboard.
Natalia's face—her brilliantly blue eyes framed in the bell of her almost black, past-shoulder-length hair —was visible through the pilot's-side storm window. Rubenstein, framed in the open cargo bay, pushed his glasses back off the bridge of his nose as he shouted, 'John— what the hell—'
Rourke cut the younger man off 'Paul—get everything nailed down fast, if it isn'f already ' Without another word, Rourke ran toward the wing stem and jumped for it, the pilot's-side door opening under his right hand Natalia was seated behind the controls.
'Move over,' Rourke ordered her.
Her blue eyes were wide—not terror, but recognition, he thought; recognition, perhaps, of the insanity of what wab happening 'They want me—don't they, John? To kilt me '
'They'd try killing the Virgin Mother right now if she were a Russian.
Move over I said.' She slipped out of the pilot's seat as Rourke slid down behind the controls.
He checked the parking brake 'You through pre-fhghting'
'Yes,' she answered, sounding lifeless 'Everything's fine—ready '
He didn't say anything Through the pilot's-side storm window, he could see at least three dozen armed men running across the field; and one of the trucks—the Chevy—was rolling again 'Damn it,' he rasped to himself, then he shouted, 'Paul' Get that cargo hold buttoned up Then get up here with a gun!'
'You can't ask him to shoot those people—for me,' Natalia almost whispered Not looking at her as he spoke, Rourke ran a visual check of the avionics.
'You listen to me—and good Rus
sian or whatever—I don't even have the words for it. Maybe Paul would. But the three of us—we've come this far together. And that means something.'
Rourke checked the oxygen. The cowl flap switches were open. He set the fuel selector valves to 'main,' the induction air system to 'filtered.'
Visually, he surveyed the circuit breakers and switches; there wasn't time for a full check. He flipped the battery switch to 'on.'
Glancing at the main and auxiliary fuel indicators, he started throttling open, the prop controls at low pitch. He adjusted the mixture controls—full rich. He checked the auxiliary fuel pump; it was registering high. He
