starting the engine. Still in reverse, the emergency brake off, the truck lurched backward into the loading dock and the men starting to lift the tarp, Rourke’s right hand finding the butt of the Metalifed and Mag-Na-Ported Py-thon under his tunic, ripping the six-inch Colt .357 clear, his right index finger double actioning the revolver into the face of the traffic director who was already pulling his .45. Rourke fired again, killing a KGB guard as he raised his M-16, men pouring from the backs of the three trucks now, assault rifles— M-16s and AKS-74s—blazing into the dockworkers and the guards. Rourke pumped the Python’s trigger once more, gun-ning down another of the military traffic cops, snatching up the M-16 from the guard he’d shot an instant earlier. The selector moved under his right thumb as he switched the Python into his left hand, opening up with the M-16 on full auto, three round bursts punching into targets of opportunity as he ran for the loading dock, jumped, rolled, on the dock now, the Python fir- ing once, then once again, shearing the nose and left ear from the face of another of the guards.
Rourke was on his feet, emptying the last round from the Python into another of the military police, the man’s body jack-knifing, his .45 discharging into the loading dock surface near Rourke’s feet.
The tunic open fully now, Rourke rammed the fired out Colt into his trouser band, snatching up a second M- 16, forwarding the selector, opening fire—he had gambled twice the chambers would be loaded and they were.
An M-16 in each hand, he started to run, for the vault door, claxons sounding in the air around him, shouted commands, curses, the M-72 combination Vladov piloted through the vault door now, each side of the door littered with bodies cut down by the RPK light machinegun. The second M-72 was moving along the horseshoe, the RPK in the sidecar firing at anything that moved beyond the loading dock.
Rourke saw Natalia, an AKM in her tiny fists, the muzzle spitting bursts of fire, KGB guards falling before her as she raced along the ramp, up toward the vault door.
Daszrozinski held an M-16, firing it out in neat bursts, cutting down guards on both sides as he covered the dock area.
Reed, along with a half dozen Americans, was holding the center of the loading dock—they looked like a picture of Ous-ter’s last stand, Reed at their center, wingshooting a .45 from each hand, the men kneeling around him, firing their rifles. Where Reed had gotten the second .45, Rourke didn’t know.
“Come on!” Rourke screamed the words. The vault door! Hurry!”
And as Rourke turned, the vault door was beginning to close.
A jeep in the horseshoe—KGB guards firing from behind it, Rourke turned both M-16s toward them firing as he ran the width of the loading dock, jumping, both guns going dead in mid-air, throwing the guns away from his sides. He hit the road surface, going into a tuck roll, coming up on his knees, in both fists one of the twin Detonics stainless pistols, his thumbs jack-ing back the hammers, both .45s belching fire as he climbed to his feet, storming the Jeep.
One KGB guard dropped, beside the two Rourke had already killed with the M-16s, a second man down, his head exploding with a double impact of 185-grain JHPs, a third one—his M-16
was firing, Rourke hitting the road surface, rolling up, firing out both pistols, fists at maximum extension, emptying the twin .45s into the assault rifle firer’s chest.
The body rocked back, then slumped against the Jeep.
Rourke was up, stabbing both pistols, slides still locked back, into the side pockets of his uniform, jumping into the Jeep.
He found the key, pushing a dead man from the seat, snatch-ing away the man’s M-16—how many rounds the thirty round magazine still contained he had no way of telling exactly, but from the weight as he slipped the Jeep’s clutch, it felt like it was about half full.
He let the clutch all the way out, stomping the gas, stomping down the clutch again, upshifting, taking the ramp as he let out the clutch and floored the accelerator—the vault door was nearly closed now—Rourke wrenched the transmission into third, stomping the gas, bracing the pedal down with the butt of the M-16—it was half empty anyway—jumping clear as the Jeep hit the vault doorway, Rourke rolling to the loading dock surface, the screech of rubber, the sound of metal tearing, rip-ping—but as he looked up, the vault door had bitten into the Jeep, the Jeep partially crushed, but the vault door open three feet wide at least.
Rourke started to his feet. One of the KGB guards was lung-ing for him, Rourke’s left foot snapping up and out, against the muzzle of the M-16, kicking it to Rourke’s left, Rourke’s right hand hammering forward, the middle knuckles finding the ad-am’s apple, crushing the windpipe, blood gushing from the man’s mouth through his clenched teeth, Rourke’s fist snapping back, then forward, the middle knuckles impacting the base of the nose, driving the bone up and through the ethmoid bone and into the brain.
Rourke’s left hand snatched the M-16, Rourke’s right hand finding the little AG Russell Sting IA black chrome, Rourke hacking the sling free of the dead man’s body with it as the body fell.
Rourke wheeled, the M-16 still not in a firing position, an-other KGB guard lunging toward him. Rourke underhanded the knife the six feet separating them into the center of the guard’s chest.
The M-16 in his right fist now at the pistol grip, he eared back the bolt—this one hadn’t been chamber loaded. He’d bet on that and won—and he fired, spraying out half the magazine into the KGB defenders on the loading dock.
Two of Reed’s men were down, one dead and one wounded.
Rourke fired toward the KGB force assaulting their position, emptying the rest of the magazine, killing three more of the KGB guards.
He leaned down, retrieving his knife from the dead man, shouting to Reed as he wiped the blade clear of blood, “Get your men through the doorway—hurry!”
As he rammed fresh magazines into the Detonics pistols—all he had on him were two spares and he was using them now—he searched for Daszrozonski. “Lieutenant,” Rourke shouted, see-ing him leading a small force of the Soviet Special Forces troops— “The vault door—hurry!”
Rourke started to run, firing the Detonics pistols at targets of opportunity, seeing Natalia reach the vault door, watching as she clambered up and over the half crushed Jeep. He shouted to her over the rattle of assault rifle and pistol fire, “Natalia—blow the Jeep so the door will close—get ready—” Like himself, she carried on her five pounds of the C-4—it would be more than enough to vaporize the Jeep—she was good at blowing things up.
Rourke glanced at his watch, then he looked to the center of the three trucks. Corporal Ravitski was running from the back of it, shouting, “It is set—the charge is set!”
As Ravitski swung his AKS-74 toward the KGB, three of the guards opened up on him, Rourke seeing it as if in slow motion, Ravitski’s body seemingly cut in half by the assault rifle fire, his left arm severed from his body, his face shot away.
Rourke’s pistols were up—he fired both simultaneously—the left ear of one of the three guards, the back of the neck of an-other.
He swung both pistols as the last of the three KGB men wheeled toward him, the M-16 already starting to make fire. Rourke fired both pistols at once—both eyeballs in the KGB man’s head seeming to explode, and then the whole head ex-ploding.
Rourke wheeled toward the vault door—a half dozen of the KGB guards were charging Natalia behind the Jeep—Rourke emptied the one round left in each pistol, taking out two of the guards, the slides locked open.
He jammed the pistols into his uniform pockets, not bothering to close the slides, running, diving to the loading dock sur-face as gunfire rained toward him. He rolled—a dead KGB guard, an M-16 in his right hand—Rourke wrenched it free, wheeling on his knees, firing out the M-16
toward the remaining guards assaulting Natalia’s position. He threw the rifle— empty—into the face of another man rushing him, took three steps and jumped to the Jeep, rolling across the deformed hood, falling to the floor beside Natalia. “Take my rifle—I’ve got to finish this,” and Rourke snatched her M-16, Natalia sliding under the front of the jeep, murmuring, “I’m wiring the explo-sives into the engine—it should create a shrapnel wave effect outward—get as many of them as we can.”
“Right,” and Rourke shouldered her assault rifle, firing as an-other group of the KGB guards charged their position. He had to clear it for Reed, Daszrozinski and the others. Rourke glanced at his watch—less than a minute until the trucks blew.
Rourke fired out the magazine. “Gimme a spare—”
