of incalcula-ble hardship would have wrought was something incompre-hensible to him. There would only, perhaps, be six. Michael, Annie, Paul, Sarah, Natalia and himself.
He very much wanted to awaken her with a kiss, but want-ing something didn’t always make it so. But he kissed her now, harder than he had ever kissed her.
Chapter Fifty-six
Rourke sat astride the Ninja, the gas tank nearly full, the motor throbbing beneath him, the bike almost as if it pos-sessed a will of its own and wanted to move ahead and be done with the waiting.
He looked at Natalia in the cab of the olive drab Ford pickup truck.
She nodded.
Rourke had taken a second M-16, one suspended now from each side of his body. All of his guns were checked, speedloaders loaded, magazines full, knives in position on his body and sharp.
“Ready,” he called to Natalia. Vladov’s men were in posi-tion. The shooting would start in an instant and he had no intention of letting them give their lives just to get him and Natalia past. He would kill as many of the KGB Elite Corps as he could along the way.
“I love you, John Thomas Rourke.”
“I love you. Let’s go,” and Rourke saw her blue eyes one more time, then gunned the fire engine red Kawasaki Ninja ahead, the pickup moving to his left, the tunnel-like corri-dor walls speeding past him, the lights overhead a blur of green light.
Both of the M-16s were charged, the safeties set, and Rourke, as the Ninja sped under him, shifted one of them slightly forward, the butt hitting against the seat. He moved the selector to auto—ready. His pack was in the truck cab beside Natalia. So was the CAR-15.
He wore his sunglasses—they cut the glare of the over-head lighting and protected his eyes from the slipstream over the low faring.
Under his breath, he gave a near silent challenge. “You try, Rozhdestvenskiy, you try real hard to stop me, asshole.”
The shooting had begun near the end of the corridor.
John Rourke rode the machine straight toward it.
Chapter Fifty-seven
Vladov’s men were pinned at the corridor and, brilliantly bright light beyond and the KGB Elite Corps there. Rourke knew Rozhdestvenskiy would be there, too.
He gunned the Ninja, shifting the M-16 forward, clutch-ing it at the pistol grip, his right index finger along the side of the guard, ready to move against the trigger. Natalia was perhaps twenty yards behind him, Rourke holding the Ninja back, Natalia giving the truck all the gas she could, he knew.
He moved his right index finger into the trigger guard, barely touching at the Colt assault rifle’s trigger.
Natalia had said that aboard the bike he would be like horsemounted cavalry—hit hard and run through, he thought.
The enemy was ahead. Vladov’s men cheered as he passed, leaving their positions, running, their AKS-74 as-sault rifles blazing, their full dress uniforms resplendent with their medals, pride etched across their faces as they ran to the attack.
Rourke opened fire, the corridor gone now, a wide, high, long and vaulted chamber surrounding him, KGB Elite Corps forces behind packing crates, overturned golf carts, atop metal ribbed construction towers to each die. Rourke worked the M-16’s trigger in even three round bursts, aim-ing the Ninja toward the greatest concentration of the KGB, and the cryogenics laboratory beyond.
The M-16 was empty, bodies falling to it as he let it fall to his right side, his right hand snatching the Python from the leather at his hip, the big Colt thrusting forward, his right index finger double actioning it—the face of one of the KGB men to his right exploded. Rourke fired again — one of the KGB Elite Corps guards in one of the metal ribbed con-struction towers, his body tumbling downward, the M-16 in his hands spraying death into his own comrades. Rourke fired again, an Elite Corpsman hurtling his body at the bike—the man’s neck seemed to dissolve into red at the adam’s apple.
Rourke fired again, among them now, gutshooting one of them. He fired again, an Elite Corpsman lunging toward him with a bayonet—the man’s face exploded under the im-pact. He fired again — an Elite Corpsman spraying an M-16 toward him—the body sprawled back against a half dozen of his comrades.
The Python was empty. Rourke shoved it into the leather, snatching the Colt Government Model from his waistband, his right thumb wiping down the safety, his right index fin-ger already inside the trigger guard—he fired, a 185-grain Jacketed Hollow Point impacting the forehead of one of the Elite Corpsmen—an officer—aiming a pistol toward Rourke’s face.
Rourke swerved the Ninja, plowing toward the main KGB position again, heading straight for the center of them, emptying the .45 ahead of him into targets of oppor-tunity, ramming the pistol—the action still open, into his waistband.
His right hand found the little Detonics under his right armpit, jerking it free awkwardly, his right thumb jacking back the hammer, his index finger working the trigger, an-other Elite Corpsman down.
Vladov’s men were closing on the position, shouts com-ing from them, Natalia ramming the nose of the pickup truck into a knot of the Elite Corpsmen—screams of the dying drowning the rattle of gunfire.
Rourke fired out the little Detonics .45, the lives he claimed lost to him. He stuffed the pistol into his right hip pocket, drawing the identical gun from the holster under his left armpit, cocking the hammer, firing, killing, firing, kill-ing, firing, killing. He swerved the bike—almost losing it from under him—and aimed the bike toward them again. Natalia’s truck was reversing at high speed, men running from it.
Beside him nearly, one of Vladov’s men rammed a bayo-net into the throat of one of the Elite Corpsmen.
Rourke fired out the little Detonics, killing more of them.
He stuffed the pistol into his belt, reaching behind him— the Metalifed two-inch Colt Lawman. He doubled actioned the .357, the flash brilliant, the target a face inches from him, his wrist feeling the recoil hard, the skin of the face catching fire for an instant as the Elite Corpsman fell back dead.
More of the Elite Corps coming from the corridor.
Vladov shouted, “Get out of here, Doctor. You and the major must be about your business.”
Rourke slowed the bike, making an arc with it, thrusting the little Lawman ahead of him, emptying the cylinder into the bodies of KGB Elite Corpsmen around him.
Natalia had the truck moving forward again, KGB cling-ing to it.
Rourke stuffed the little Lawman into its holster at the small of his back, dumping the spent magazine in the M-16 at his right side, replacing it, swinging both Colt assault rifles forward, firing them simultaneously, cutting the KGB bodies from the sides of her vehicle, cutting them away, ex-cising them like he would cut away a tumor with a scalpel. He let both rifles fall to his sides, both magazines half spent, the safeties on.
“Vladov, God bless you!”
“And you!” Rourke gunned the Ninja, making a wide arc with it, Natalia already driving the pickup past the KGB po-sition, toward the far end of the chamber. The cryogenics lab was there, Rourke knew.
A KGB Elite Corpsman jumped for the bike—Rourke drew the big Gerber from its sheath and hacked him down, riding on.
Chapter Fifty-eight
The fighting for the moment was all behind them. At the far end of the vaulted room was another corridor, short by comparison to the ones through which they had passed.
Rourke shouted to Natalia, “Stop for a minute.”
The truck began to slow, Rourke arcing the bike under him, bringing it to a halt, balancing it under him as quickly, he began reloading his weapons, introducing fresh fully loaded magazines to the assault rifles as well.
“Vladov’s men are the best in the Soviet Union,” Natalia called. “But he will be outnumbered at least ten to
