brake—one swerved left—crashing into the bridge supports, the second rocketed past him, Rourke nearly crashing the LTD into it broadside, the headlights there one instant then gone the next. As he fought the wheel, a fountain of river water sprayed up, spraying the LTD for an instant, but then the wheel was all the way left, Rourke heading away from the hole in the bridge, the third squad car and the two motorcycle units coming dead on, the biker units flanking the police car, consuming the entire width of the bridge.
“Gimme a gun!”
He reached out his right hand, feeling the mem-ory-grooved smooth Goncalo Alves stocks of one of her matched L-Frames coming into his palm. He switched the revolver to his left hand, ramming the hand out the driver’s side window, his right fist locked at the top of the wheel. Natalia was rolling over into the back seat, an M- 16 in her hands as he glanced at her.
The LMG on the M-72 combination to Rourke’s left was firing, and then the LMG from the sidecar to his right—AKM fire streamed toward them from the passenger side of the solitary police car. Natalia’s assault rifle fire—it reverberated from the back seat, the sounds of empty brass pinging against the frame of the open window, Rourke’s left fist clenched tight on the L-Frame, his right rock-steady on the wheel to give as sure a firing platform as possible—he was aiming for the police car—aiming the LTD
straight at it.
The L-Frame in his left fist—he pumped the trigger, double-actioning two rounds toward the M-72
combination to his left. He fired twice more—the motorcyclist threw his hands out from his handlebars, slumping back, the machine gun-ner in the sidecar reaching for the bike’s controls suddenly, then jumping clear, Rourke shouting to Natalia, “Watch out!”
He cut the wheel hard left, evading the motorcy-cle, the combination crashing into one of the bridge supports to his left, Natalia’s M-16 still fir-ing as they passed the squad car, AKM fire ripping across the driver’s compartment, his windshield shooting out, the rearview mirror gone, the speed-ometer, the gas gauge—all of it shattered, a ribbon of bullet holes across the dashboard. Rourke accelerated—past the underground tun-nel running parallel to the river, into what looked like a box canyon of building walls ahead of him, shouting, “Natalia? You all right?”
“So far,” he heard her shout back to him.
“Hold on—flick turn,” and Rourke dropped the L-Frame to his lap, holding it between his legs, cutting the wheel sharply to the left as he stomped the emergency brake, locking the rear wheels, then popping the brake as the car rotated a full one hundred eighty degrees, accelerating as he fought the wheel, then flooring it as he aimed toward the last of the motorcycle combinations, the police car turning behind it. Rourke could see the face of the machine gun-ner in the sidecar—and then it was gone, Rourke rocking the wheel hard left, into the combination, then hard right and away, hearing a scream die on the slipstream, blood splattering the few shards of glass left in the windshield, Natalia’s M-16 firing again toward the oncoming police car, the AKM firing from the passenger window, Rourke’s left hand finding the L-Frame—two shots left.
He stabbed the revolver through the open wind-shield ahead of his face, his right fist white-knuck-led on the top of the Ford’s steering wheel.
He fired once, then once again, the windshield of the advancing police car shattering, Natalia’s M-16 fire increasing its rate—she had to have shot through a full magazine in seconds, he realized, but the gunfire continued, sparks coming from the police car’s hood, a stricken face suddenly visible behind the wheel as Rourke swerved the Ford to avoid a head-on collision, the LTD’s single head-light catching the face in freeze frame.
A bridge support—Rourke fought at the wheel—there was no response—he stomped the brakes, the rear end of the Ford fishtailing right, Rourke shouting to Natalia, “Hit the floor! Hit the floor!”
He held the wheel as long as he dared, then threw himself down to the floor over the hump, his body shuddering as he felt the impact, heard the twisting and tearing of steel. Smoke—he smelled gasoline fumes.
His back hurt a little—he pushed himself up.
Natalia was already up— “I’ve got the packs and everything—all the gear— “
“Out of the car and—”
“Run like hell,” she almost laughed, Rourke see-ing her streak through the rear driver’s side door and out, Rourke, the L-Frame in his belt now be-side the Detonics, half rolling, half falling from the driver’s side of the front seat.
On his feet, his hands grabbing at the lapels of the overcoat, ripping it free of his body as he ran—
He felt it—like a giant’s breath blowing at him, throwing himself to the road surface, shouting to Natalia,
“Down!”
He shielded his face and head, the roar of the explosion—the gas tank—deafening as it echoed from the steel of the bridge above him and below.
The bridge shook—Rourke’s mind raced—if it collapsed it collapsed—
The shaking stopped, and John Rourke looked up, the crackle of the fire from the LTD that had served them so well all that he could hear over the ringing in his ears. And Natalia was beside him—holding him.
Chapter Forty-six
The Low Alpine Systems Loco pack on his shoulders, his guns back where they belonged, Na-talia’s hands cleaned and clothing checked for fleas or ticks, they walked through the under-ground now—gray light in patches only through gratings leading up to the street. If he remembered his Chicago streets well enough, they had a short distance only to go until coming up on Lake Street between Michigan and Wabash.
But Rourke stopped—hearing sounds.
“Dogs?” Natalia whispered hoarsely.
The growling sounds increased.
“Not dogs—” and he looked back—shadowy figures moved in the edge of light from the still burning Ford—it looked like one of the figures carried a human limb. “Imagination,” he whis-pered, more to himself than Natalia.
He risked no flashlight, moving ahead.
The growling sounds again.
Natalia close beside him, Rourke hearing the telltale click of the selector on her M-16. Rourke spoke into the darkness. “If you’re hungry—there are dead men all over the bridge behind us. We’re heavily armed and in too much of a hurry to be gentle—let us pass and we’ll leave you unharmed.”
The growling sounds again.
“John!”
And then Rourke heard a voice, nearly human sounding, “A woman—”
Rourke turned toward the origin of the voice in the darkness. “Let it be—or you’re meat, too.”
“Woman!” It was another voice now. “Woman!” Still another. And then, like chanting,
“Woman—woman—woman—woman—wo-man—” and with each repetition, the chanting grew louder, voices adding to it.
“I guess they aren’t just hungry,” Rourke ob-served, Natalia close beside him—very close.
“Woman—woman—woman—woman—wo-man—woman—woman—”
Rourke raised the Kel-Lite in his left fist, high over his head, snapping the switch—eyes glowed in the beam of the flashlight, more eyes than he could count, human eyes, but strangely not hu-man. To Natalia, Rourke rasped, “Stay close to me—we’re backing out of here—I am—you walk forward—we stay back to back—shoot anything that moves—when we reach what looks like a ramp, take the left and start up it.”
“I’m afraid,” she whispered.
“Me too,” he told the darkness where she was.
He felt her move, felt her rear end pressing against him, as they stood back to back.
“Start walking,” Rourke almost whispered.
“Woman—woman—woman—woman—wo-man—woman—woman—”
Rourke pumped the M-16’s trigger once, a short, two-round burst— “Automatic weapons—you don’t stand a chance—”
There was a moan in the darkness.
