precious little of any true identity; and, in her work for Soviet intelligence as a major in the KGB, so much of her day-to-day life had demanded subordinating real identity to the currently operational lie.
He stopped as he heard the bolt slamming back on Paul Rubenstein’s submachine gun.
“This way—into the trees.” Paul only nodded, his lips moving like Natalia’s, but relaying instructions to Otto Hammerschmidt, Rourke knew. Rourke’s own helmet and Natalia’s clanked against Paul’s side, strung together there, Rourke’s hands and arms filled. “Here!” And Rourke turned into the tree cover, finding the densest overhead he could, then flattening himself against one of the trunks, Paul doing the same just a few feet away. Rourke held Natalia’s head close against his chest.
The whirring of the rotor blades was louder now and the pattern of snowfall changed, driven straight downward, then twisting cyclonically. At least one of the machines was dead overhead.
Rourke clutched Natalia tightly to him, his right fist clenching on the butt of one of the Scoremasters, getting it awkwardly from his trouser band, the hammer down, his thumb poised over it.
He watched Paul Rubenstein’s face. The younger man nodded.
The storm of snow around them increased in violence. The helicopter was dropping to a lower altitude.
Paul raised the muzzle of the submachine gun and for a moment John Rourke thought he was going to open fire, but his faith in Paul’s competence and cool-headedness made him dismiss such thoughts.
Paul only waited.
John Rourke waited, Natalia murmuring agitatedly.
He forced his mind away from this. Once the choppers had gone, he and Paul and Natalia could continue on toward the gorge—himself, Paul, Natalia, just as it had been in the days between the Night of the War and the Great Conflagration, but now a grotesque parody.
Rourke’s eyes followed the rising and falling of her chest, the fluttering of her eyelids.
The helicopter still hovered low above them.
How many gunships?
He forced his mind away from them again. Once at the gorge, some way or another they would rope Natalia across, then cross the gorge themselves, then use the two Specials to reach the rendezvous site. Then risk the radio to signal for extraction. But what if—
The answer to his question came from above: less than a dozen yards from their position, first one, then a second, then a third and fourth rope tumbled from the sky. Down the first rope a man rappeled with marvelous fluidity, his clothes the black battle uniform of the KGB Elite Corps, a Soviet assault rifle in his right fist.
John Rourke dropped to his knees in the snow, putting Natalia down. There was no chance to run, only fight, and perhaps providence had a hand in that.
As Rourke looked up, a second man was dropping, Paul shouting, “Look out!” The submachine gun roared, the second Elite corpsman blown’ from his rope into the snow. John Rourke stabbed the Detonics pistol in his right hand toward the first man as the assault rifle the Russian held opened up, stitching across the tree trunks, snow falling in great globs as the trees were impacted, Rourke thumbing the hammer to full stand, his gloved right first finger touching the trigger, the gleaming full-sized .45 moving gently against his hand, the Elite corpsman’s chin suddenly crumbling, the body rocking back as the assault rifle kept firing, but firing skyward.
John Rourke ran now, Paul beside him. “Paul—stay near her!”
“I will—what—”
But John Rourke’s right hand was already safing the Scoremaster, ramming it into his trouser band, his left hand reaching out for the rappeling rope, the Elite corpsman crawling across the snow, a bloodtrail in his wake, a pistol in his hand. Rourke had the rope and swung up and outward, the toe of his right boot impacting the middle of the face. The Elite corpsman’s head snapped back.
Rourke’s right fist caught the rope, his legs around
He stopped as he heard the bolt slamming back on Paul Rubenstein’s submachine gun.
“This way—into the trees.” Paul only nodded, his lips moving like Natalia’s, but relaying instructions to Otto Hammerschmidt, Rourke knew. Rourke’s own helmet and Natalia’s clanked against Paul’s side, strung together there, Rourke’s hands and arms filled. “Here!” And Rourke turned into the tree cover, finding the densest overhead he could, then flattening himself against one of the trunks, Paul doing the same just a few feet away. Rourke held Natalia’s head close against his chest.
The whirring of the rotor blades was louder now and the pattern of snowfall changed, driven straight downward, then twisting cyclonically. At least one of the machines was dead overhead.
Rourke clutched Natalia tightly to him, his right fist clenching on the butt of one of the Scoremasters, getting it awkwardly from his trouser band, the hammer down, his thumb poised over it.
He watched Paul Rubenstein’s face. The younger man nodded.
The storm of snow around them increased in violence. The helicopter was dropping to a lower altitude.
Paul raised the muzzle of the submachine gun and for a moment John Rourke thought he was going to open fire, but his faith in Paul’s competence and cool-headedness made him dismiss such thoughts.
Paul only waited.
John Rourke waited, Natalia murmuring agitatedly.
He forced his mind away from this. Once the choppers had gone, he and Paul and Natalia could continue on toward the gorge—himself, Paul, Natalia, just as it had been in the days between the Night of the War and the Great Conflagration, but now a grotesque parody.
Rourke’s eyes followed the rising and falling of her chest, the fluttering of her eyelids.
The helicopter still hovered low above them.
How many gunships?
He forced his mind away from them again. Once at the gorge, some way or another they would rope Natalia across, then cross the gorge themselves, then use the two Specials to reach the rendezvous site. Then risk the radio to signal for extraction. But what if—
The answer to his question came from above: less than a dozen yards from their position, first one, then a second, then a third and fourth rope tumbled from the sky. Down the first rope a man rappeled with marvelous fluidity, his clothes the black battle uniform of the KGB Elite Corps, a Soviet assault rifle in his right fist.
John Rourke dropped to his knees in the snow, putting Natalia down. There was no chance to run, only fight, and perhaps providence had a hand in that.
As Rourke looked up, a second man was dropping, Paul shouting, “Look out!” The submachine gun roared, the second Elite corpsman blown’ from his rope into the snow. John Rourke stabbed the Detonics pistol in his right hand toward the first man as the assault rifle the Russian held opened up, stitching across the tree trunks, snow falling in great globs as the trees were impacted, Rourke thumbing the hammer to full stand, his gloved right first finger touching the trigger, the gleaming full-sized .45 moving gently against his hand, the Elite corpsman’s chin suddenly crumbling, the body rocking back as the assault rifle kept firing, but firing skyward.
John Rourke ran now, Paul beside him. “Paul—stay near her!”
“I will—what—”
But John Rourke’s right hand was already safing the Scoremaster, ramming it into his trouser band, his left hand reaching out for the rappeling rope, the Elite corpsman crawling across the snow, a bloodtrail in his wake, a pistol in his hand. Rourke had the rope and swung up and outward, the toe of his right boot impacting the middle of the face. The Elite corpsman’s head snapped back.
Rourke’s right fist caught the rope, his legs around
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