“Who were these people?” Natalia whispered.
Rourke didn’t answer her.
“Arsenal—you can say that again,” Paul Ru-benstein whispered.
Rourke looked at him for an instant, then to the
Astroturf before the Night of The War. “I have never seen this place,” Madison murmured, between Rourke and his son.
Rourke looked at her. “This place—the Place— it’s hermetically sealed at most times—at all times really because of the air lock. No dust, no dirt. No reason for maintenance. The pool is bone dry— likely hasn’t been filled for centuries. I bounced one of those racquetballs—the core is dead. It hasn’t been used for a long time.”
“A playground,” Michael murmured.
‘ ‘The rich capitalist playground.” Natalia smiled. Rourke looked at her. “Yes—isn’t it,” and he reached up to the Alessi shoulder rig, returning the one Detonics pistol he still held, with his left hand closing the trigger guard snap that formed the speed break. “Let’s find that arsenal—then we’ll find their book. If they can’t use what they have, maybe we can. With that door having to be forced open, the hermetic seal is broken. If those cannibals have an ounce of brains among them they’ 11 feel the air circulating between the crack the door left and the wall—and they’ll pry it open and attack. What Michael told us about that one cannibal following him and Madison on a blood hunt—that may be typical behavior. And we killed a lot of them. Now be on the lookout for those guys in the business suits with the cattle prods. Madison—show us the way to the arsenal.” “Yes—where the guns are kept.”
“Yes—where the guns are kept.” She started ahead, walking beside and slightly ahead of Michael, her right hand locked inside his left, Michael’s right fist balled around the CAR-15’s pistol grip, the Colt assault rifle’s stock collapsed, the scope covers removed.
Rourke felt a hand touch gently at his—he looked into Natalia’s eyes, his left hand closing over her right hand. “He looks so much like you— but he isn’t you,” and she leaned up quickly as she walked beside him, kissing him on the cheek. “I love you,” John Rourke told her, still holding her hand, walking on.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Natalia had opened the doors to the arsenal— not bothering to pick the lock, instead half wheeling right, a double kick to where the two doors joined, the doors splitting inward.
Paul had rushed in, the subgun ready in case the Families had decided the arsenal should be their redoubt.
But the arsenal was empty of people.
“Who were these people?” Natalia whispered.
Rourke didn’t answer her.
“Arsenal—you can say that again,” Paul Ru-bens tein whispered. Rourke looked at him for an instant, then to the walls. What he estimated as a hundred M-16s were in racks locked to the wall with retention bars, the bars padlocked. Beyond these, smaller racks, three tiers high, at least fifty Government Model .45s in each of the racks, perhaps a hundred and fifty in all. Beyond these, a solitary glass-fronted rack— Rourke walked toward this and examined what lay beyond the glass. Six Steyr-Mannlicher SSGs, identical to his own rifle which was back at the Retreat.
“My guns!”
Rourke turned around, his son examining the long glass case on the opposite wall. Rourke looked back to the rifle case, his right hand feeling behind it where the case mated to the wall—there was a gap, uneven. “Hrara,” he murmured under his breath.
Then he started across the room. The center of the room—carpeted, which he considered curious—was piled high with wooden and card-board crates and metal military carry boxes. Ammunition—5.56mm for the M-16s, .45 ACP for the pistols and 7.62mm NATO for the sniper rifles. But there were other boxes as well— commercial ammunition in 9mm Parabellum, .44
Magnum and .357 Magnum, as well as boxes of shotshells, all seemingly twelve gauge, the major-ity 00 Buck, some rifled slugs as well he noted.
He continued across the room. Natalia stood beside Michael—her attention seeming to shift nervously from the long gun cabinet to the double doors leading back into the corridor.
Rourke looked at the gun cabinet—handguns, an expensive collection, some neatly arranged on fa brie- covered pegs, some just lying in the bottom of the cabinet. “Our friends had interesting tastes,” Rourke remarked to no one in particular. Smith & Wesson and Colt revolvers, Walther and Browning semi-automatics. Along the bottom of the case mixed in with the handguns, several shotguns—Remington 870s and 1100s, Mossberg 500s of various configurations, Browning Auto Fives. There was a closed leather case which Rourke assumed contained a Browning Super-posed and extra barrels.
“This room would have been worth a fortune,” Paul Rubenstein said suddenly. “No,” Rourke corrected. “Not this room—at least not originally. This room wasn’t the arsenal to begin with—it was some other room. That case holding the sniper rifles—it was removed from its original mountings. And this one,” and Rourke bent to the side, feelingalong the wall. “This is the same. With the air locks and all, they were security-conscious—you don’t leave an arsenal like this in a room a woman can kick her way into without half trying.” “Thank you, not at all.” Natalia smiled.
“Even a very special woman. No—there’s a vault around here, and if it were important enough to remove this stuff from the vault, then whatever they put in the vault must have been even more important. Stand back,” and Rourke waited as Natalia, Michael, Madison and Paul Ruben-stein stepped away from the glass. Rourke stepped back, sidestepped, selecting the spot, then wheeled half right, bending into a double Tae Kwon Do kick into the glass, snapping his foot away, wheeling as the glass shattered, shards of it falling, collapsing. “What do you do?”
Madison asked, her voice alarmed-sounding. “With those guys outside—we’ll need more equipment than we have. This js called liberat-ing.”
“John explained it to me once—a long time ago,” Paul Rubenstein told her. “Before the Night of The War, taking something just because you needed it was stealing. But since then, taking something you need to stay alive is survival. Soil’s liberating.”
“It’s still stealing,” Rourke interrupted, “but in a good cause.” Michael already was reaching through the opening broken into the glass—his Stalker, his Predator. Michael checked both guns.
“Empty.” “At least they know how to do that.” Rourke nodded. Michael slipped the Predator into the trouser band of his Levi’s.
“I wonder where the hell they put the rest of my stuff?”
“We’ll find it—liberate some ammo for your-self.” Michael reached into the case again, having handed off the Predator to Madison who seemed somehow frightened of holding a gun. Rourke already knew his son well enough —she would get over this fear quickly enough. Guns of themselves were nothing to fear—only some of the people who use them; guns could just as easily be an instrument to eradicate fear.
He watched his son—three Smith & Wesson Model 629s, eight and three-eigths, a six, and a four.
“Don’t you think you’re overdoing it a little?” “I like .44s—but you were right, I needed to add something that loads a little faster. These’ll do for now.”
Rourke only shook his head. “Look in that bin at the far end of the room. See what they have—
maybe holsters or whatever.” All three of the stainless Smiths were wearing the factory walnut and they wouldn’t reload that much faster without speedloaders. He shrugged.
Natalia was taking a Walther P-38 from the cabinet. “One extra pistol will do me nicely. I’ve used these before. But I’m going to pick the locks on those chains and get us some extra M-16s,”
and she turned to Madison. “Would you like to help me, darling?”
“All right.” Madison followed after her, Mi-chael already by the bins at the far end of the room.
“Pachmayr grips, Safariland speedloaders, boxes of spare magazines for all the mazagine-fed weapons.”
“Good—take what you think we’ll need and get Pachmayrs onto those Smith revolvers. Natalia’s got a screwdriver. And take plenty of speed-loaders.” Paul, standing beside Rourke, remarked, “These people had good taste.” “Take a couple of extra pistols for yourself, Paul—and a couple of M-16s. If we can avoid getting down to stone axes again, I’d just as soon.” “You’d just as soon,” Rubenstein laughed.
Rourke watched as the younger man took two blued commercial Browning High Powers, these like the
