Both pistols in front of him, elbows tucked close at his sides— he thought if he could see himself he'd be reminiscent of a cowboy in a silent picture— he started down the steps, into the darkness of the shadow there.
Rourke stopped halfway down the steps. With the back of his right hand he pushed the sunglasses up off the bridge of his nose and into his hair. He started walking again.
Rourke stopped, his left foot on the last step, his right foot on the concrete walkway of the tunnel. He held his breath, listening. Voices. He heard two voices, the words unintelligible but distinct enough that Rourke could tell they were in English. They were coming from the farthest end of the tunnel.
Rourke began walking, hugging his body against the rough concrete wall, the pistol in his right hand held high, the one in his left held flat along his left thigh.
He could hear the voices more clearly. He stopped, seeing the darker blackness of the new coax cable leading down from above, then snaking ahead into the shadow along the tunnel and toward its end. Rourke shifted the Detonics in his right hand into his belt, taking the sunglasses off his head, putting them in their case under his coat. His right fist clenched around the pistol again and he moved slowly, cautiously ahead.
The voices were clear enough now to be understood, at least in part. One of them belonged to Soames:
"I don't care, Veskovitch. Why worry? All that damned earthquake is going to do is kill more Americans and kill a bunch of them danged Cubans. I don't think your folks give a shit about them anyway."
"You were wise to come," the other voice— Veskovitch, Rourke assumed— began. "But you are wrong. We must contact headquarters. This is an important development. There may be valued Soviet personnel working in Florida at this very moment. They at least must be gotten out. It is not your responsibility, nor is it mine, to determine who should live and die. You speak of a disaster which could take millions of lives. Do you wish this on your conscience?"
Rourke, standing in the darkness along the wall, smiled. The Soviet agent, probably KGB, was sounding almost humanitarian. Soames sounded like a bloodthirsty animal. Rourke moved ahead, more slowly now, cautiously, not being able to see more than six feet ahead into the shadows.
He stopped, holding his breath, cursing mentally, then reached down and rubbed his right shin. There had to be a ramp down into the tunnel. He had just bumped his shin against Soames's motorcycle. Rourke shoved the Detonics from his right hand into his trouser band, then using the Safariland stainless handcuff key from his key ring, he found the valve stem on the rear tire and deflated it. He didn't want Soames using the bike for a getaway.
Pocketing the key ring, Rourke snatched the Detonics from his belt again. A pistol in each hand once more, he sidestepped the bike, then pressed against the concrete tunnel wall and moved ahead again.
The voices were louder now. "Well, go on then and call Varakov or whoever gets it— but let 'em know I brought it to you."
"You are still worried General Varakov will come for you, perhaps sometime in the middle of the night, and kill you for molesting a child. He did not like you. You were afraid of him and he knew that."
"Shut up," Soames snapped.
Rourke took two steps ahead, into the small cone of yellow light from the niche in the tunnel wall just ahead, then turned, both guns leveled, looking into the tiny room.
"I'll go along with that, Soames— but you two shut up," Rourke whispered, the safety catches down on both pistols as he aimed one at Soames and one at Veskovitch.
"Who—"
"Move and I kill you," Rourke interrupted.
Soames started for the radio, a move Rourke hadn't anticipated from the paramilitary commander. Rourke fired the Detonics in his right hand, the slug tearing into Soames's left side, kicking the man back against the far wall.
But Veskovitch was coming toward him, a pistol in his right hand, the gun firing.
Rourke fired the Detonics in his left hand, but Veskovitch was already on him, the 185-grain .45 ACP
slug tearing into Veskovitch's left leg. There was a loud cry of pain and anguish. The pistol in Veskovitch's right hand discharged and Rourke could feel heat against his own left hand, glancing down to it, as he smacked the .45 in his right down across the KGB man's neck. There was no wound in the hand, but the bullet had passed close, Rourke realized, perhaps just barely grazing his skin.
The Russian's left fist was circling upward and Rourke's right forearm blocked it. The Russian was screaming, "The radio, Soames— smash it!"
His left knee smashing up into the Russian's gunhand, Rourke looked over the KGB
man's back. He could see Soames staggering away from the far wall, a pistol in his right hand aimed at the radio.
Rourke tried bringing his right hand into position to shoot, but the Russian grappling with him shoved against him and the .45 discharged into the concrete over their heads, the slug ricocheting maddeningly off the concrete walls. Rourke backhanded the Detonics in his left hand across the KGB man's face, knocking him away.
Then Rourke brought down the Detonics pistol in his right hand, raising the left one into position as well, both pistols discharging simultaneously, both slugs driving into Soames's center of mass. The Texas commander fell back, the Detective Special .38 in his right hand discharging into the floor at his feet.
The echo of the gunshots still reverberating in the tiny room, almost deafeningly, Rourke wheeled right. The KGB man was raising his pistol to fire.
No time to swing his guns on line, Rourke hurtled himself sideways toward the Russian. Both Rourke's pistols clattered to the floor as his left hand reached for the KGB man's gunhand, his right hand going for the throat.
The agent's pistol discharged and for the first time, his ears ringing with the sound, Rourke noticed it— a Detonics .45, like his own, but blued. Rourke's left hand on the KGB man's wrist, he slammed the gunhand down, the pistol firing again.
Rourke moved his hand from the Russian's throat and smashed his right fist across the man's jaw.
The Russian's head snapped back and Rourke moved up on his haunches, straddling the KGB man's body. He studied the eyes— the lids were closed, not fluttering. Rourke, prying the man's fingers from the blue Detonics .45 then, bent low, trying to feel for breath. Rourke touched his fingers to the Russian's neck, then to the man's wrist. He raised the head slightly. However he'd hit the man, the neck had snapped and the Russian was dead. He hadn't wanted that.
Rourke thumbed up the safety on the blue Detonics and rammed the pistol into his belt, intending to keep it. He found his own pistols, then walked the few steps to Soames. Despite three hits from Rourke's
.45s, the paramilitary leader was still breathing.
Gently, Rourke rolled Soames over. The wounds would make him die, but not for several minutes if his constitution were strong, Rourke determined. "Soames, how do you make your contacts?"
"Go to hell...
Rourke thumbed down the safety on the Detonics in his right hand, touching the muzzle to the traitor's left cheekbone. Almost softly, Rourke told him, "I can either let you die comfortably or painfully, Soames. You know I'm a doctor. I've got a small emergency kit under my coat," Rourke lied. "I can give you a shot." There was an emergency kit with syringes, but back on his bicycle. "Morphine? Sound good? You could linger for hours," Rourke lied again. He thumbed up the safety on the Detonics and shoved it in the holster under his left armpit, then did the same on the second pistol, placing it in the holster under his right arm.