"That's a good boy," the trooper said, smiling. The trooper took his left hand from the front stock of his rifle and reached forward for the gun in Rourke's right hand.
The corners of Rourke's mouth raised in a smile. Rourke's hands dropped to waist level, the twin stainless .45s spinning on his index fingers in the trigger guards, the pistol butts arcing into his fists, his thumbs snapping back the hammers and both pistols firing simultaneously, one slug pumping into the trooper's throat, the second grazing his shoulder as it hammered past and into the chest of the soldier closest to Paul Rubenstein. Rourke pumped two shots into the men on the far side of the road and dove toward the trailer, rolling under it, firing both pistols into the men flanking Captain Pincham. Out of the corner of his eye, Rourke could see Rubenstein—almost as if in slow motion. The smaller man had done just what Rourke had hoped—he'd grabbed up an assault rifle from the man nearest him whom Rourke had shot down and now had the muzzle of the weapon flush against Pincham's right cheekbone. Rourke stopped firing as he heard Rubenstein shouting, "Hold your fire or Pincham gets his!"
Rourke crawled the rest of the way along under the truck and got his feet on the other side, two rounds each still in the twin .45s. He leveled them both across the road, ignoring the men near him. "Your show, Paul," Rourke almost whispered, catching Rubenstein's eye.
He watched the younger man nod, then heard him shout, "Now everybody get out from cover and throw your rifles to the ground—move it or Pincham gets this.
Move it!"
Rourke watched as Rubenstein shoved the muzzle of the assault rifle against Pincham's cheek, heard Pincham shout, "Do as they say—hurry!"
Slowly, the men on the far side of the road climbed out of the ditch they'd dropped into as Rourke had opened up on them. Rourke watched as, one by one, they dropped their rifles, hearing the rifles from the man near Rubenstein and Pincham clattering to the ground beside him. "Gunbelts too," Rubenstein shouted.
Rourke watched as the men started dropping their pistol belts to the ground. His eyes scanned the ground and he saw his own gunbelt there, then he stepped toward it and bent down, breaking the thumb snap on the flap over the Python. He shook the holster free and let it fall to the ground, the Detonics from his right hand already in his trouser belt, the long-tubed, vent-ribbed Python now in his right. Thumbing the hammer back, he walked slowly across the road, his long strides putting him beside the man in the center of the ten men still standing there. Glancing down to the ground, he spotted the two he'd killed. Sticking the muzzle of the Python against the temple of the closest man, Rourke almost whispered, "All right—you guys want to be military—get into the front leaning rest position. That's like a pushup, but you don't go down. Now!"
Rourke stepped back, guiding the man closest to him down to the ground. The ten got to their knees, arms outstretched, then balanced on their toes as they stretched their legs, supporting themselves on their hands. "First man moves dies," Rourke said quietly, starting back across the road.
He could hear Rubenstein shouting similar commands to the men with Pincham on the trailer side of the road. Rourke looked at Rubenstein, hearing the younger man say, "What do we do now?"
"You want to kill them?"
"What?"
"Neither do I, especially. Why don't you get the bikes straight in a minute here and we can take these fellas for a walk a few miles down the road, then let 'em go. Let me reload first—keep them covered." Rourke jammed the Python in his belt, changed magazines on both of the .45s and reholstered them. He caught up his pistol belt from the dirt and slung it over his shoulder, the Python back in his right fist. Already, Rubenstein had begun dividing the loads for the bikes.
"You guys got any vehicles around here?" Rourke asked Pincham. The captain said nothing. Rourke put the muzzle of the Python under his nose.
"Yes—on both sides of the road."
"Any gas cans?"
"Yes—yes," Pincham snapped.
"Much obliged," Rourke said, then, shouting, "Paul—go over there and get some gas for the bikes. Take that thing you call a Schmeisser in case they left someone on guard. Did you leave anyone on guard?" Rourke asked, lowering his voice and eyeing Pincham.
"No—no-nobody on guard!"
"Good—if anything happens to my friend, you get an extra nostril."
"Nobody on guard!" Pincham said again, his voice sounding higher each time he spoke.
After a few moments, Rubenstein returned with the gas cans, filled the bikes and mounted up. Rourke walked Pincham toward his own bike. Already, some of the troopers were starting to fall, unable to support themselves on their hands.
"Barbarian," Pincham growled.
"No," Rourke said quietly. "I just want them good and tired so they can't get back here fast enough to follow us. It's either that or we disable your vehicles. And I don't think you'd like being stranded out here in the desert on foot. Right?"
Pincham, biting his lower lip, only nodded.
"All right—captain," Rourke said. "Order your men onto their feet and get 'em walking ahead of us—you bring up the rear. Anyone tries anything, it's your problem." Rourke started his bike as Pincham got his men up, formed them in a ragged column of twos and started them down the road toward El Paso.
As Rourke and Rubenstein followed along behind them, Rourke glancing at the Harley's odometer coming up on the second mile, Pincham—walking laboriously, close in front of him—said, "Mister— you killed three of my men."
"Four," Rourke corrected.
"If I ever catch sight of you, you're a dead man."
"There's some great baby food back there in the truck in case you fellas get hungry," Rourke responded, then to Rubenstein, "Let's go Paul!" Rourke gunned the Harley between his legs and shot past Pincham and his column, Rubenstein on the other side close behind him. Past the paramilitary troops now, Rourke glanced over his shoulder—some of Pincham's men were already sitting along the side of the road. Pincham was standing there, shaking his fist down the road after Rourke.
Rubenstein, beside Rourke, was shouting over the rush of air. "I saw that trick in a western movie once—with the pistols, I mean."
Rourke just nodded.
"What do they call it, John, where you roll the guns like that when someone tries taking them?"
Rourke glanced across at Rubenstein, then bent over his bike a little to get a more comfortable position. "The road-agent spin," Rourke said.
"Road-agent spin," Rubenstein echoed. "Wow!"
Chapter Four
Varakov was pleased that he had ordered the intelligence briefing to be in his office at the side of the long central hall. The desk was closed in the front, and with the chairs arranged in a semicircle no one could see his feet. He wiggled his toes in his white boot socks and leaned back in his chair. "There are several other priorities aside from the elimination of political undesirables," he said flatly.
"Moscow wants—" the KGB man, Major Vladmir Karamatsov, began.
"Moscow wants me to run this country, keep armed rebellion from getting out of hand—some resistance cannot be avoided in a nation where everyone owns a gun—and try to get the heavy industry restarted. That is what Moscow wants. How I choose to accomplish that is my concern. If Moscow eventually decides I am not doing my job properly, then I will be replaced. This will not," and Varakov crashed his hamlike fist down on the desk—"be a fiefdom of the KGB. Intelligence is to serve the interests of the Soviet people and the government— the government and the people are not holding their breath to serve the interest of intelligence. The Soviet is facing famine, a shortage of raw materials and most of our heavy industry has been destroyed by American missiles. If we cannot get this new land we have acquired to be productive, we shall all starve, have no more ammunition for our guns, have no spare parts. Most of American heavy industry is intact. Most of ours is gone. Our primary responsibility is to man the factories with work battalions and develop productivity. Otherwise, all is lost."