She pushed herself up, upping the safety on the Trapper ., running.
"Sarah—over here!" It was Mary Mulliner.
She saw Bill Mulliner now—Michael, Annie and Millie Jenkins with Mary.
"Halt!"
The accented English—hard to understand, but easy to understand as well.
She wheeled, depressing the thumb safety—two Soviet soldiers. She pumped the trigger of the Trapper . once, hearing a burst of gunfire from behind her, lighter sounding like an M-. She threw herself to the dirt, firing her pistol again and again, hearing more of the M-fire from behind her, the Russian nearest her firing his AK-wildly as he went down, falling, his head slapping against the dirt inches from hers. The second Russian fell—backward, the body bouncing once.
She pushed herself to her feet, turned—Michael and Annie stood beside Bill Mulliner. The red-haired boy knelt on the ground, his mother further back in the trees.
Sarah ran toward them.
"Bill—what—"
She looked over his shoulder. Millie Jenkins—the girl whose father was tortured to death by brigands, whose mother committed suicide after watching it. The girl Sarah had never liked—a quiet girl since the death of her parents. Her skull was split by a bullet, or perhaps more than one.
Bill Mulliner cradled her in his arms.
"Bill—Bill—Bill!"
He looked over his shoulder.
"Ma'am—"
"We've gotta get out of here," and she picked up his M-, giving hers to Michael. "Don't try, using this—something wrong—maybe the clip." Her husband had always told her to call them magazines, she suddenly remembered.
"Bill!"
"But ma'am—gotta bury—"
"Carry her—we'll bury her later—come on—come on— now!"
She pushed Michael and Annie ahead of her, toward the trees where Mary waited.
Bill Mulliner was walking—not fast—he held the girl in his arms, blood drenching the front of his clothes.
Sarah Rourke shifted the M-'s muzzle from side to side, running—her lungs ached, her shins ached. There were Russians everywhere—she would run for a long time still, she knew.
Chapter 59
Cole had remained quiet—stayed to himself. Rourke watched him as they walked, having taken the defile rather than the higher ground. He watched him because he distrusted him. But at least the fight had silenced him.
Natalia moved well, but without the usual spring to her step. Rubenstein still carried her pack, Rourke having taken her rifle. The woman now walked only with the double flap holsters containing the custom Smith L-Frames Sam Chambers had given her—these her only burden.
He watched her now—she seemed cold, the borrowed parka held close around her, the hood up, covering the dark, almost black hair which normally fell past her shoulders. He missed seeing it.
O'Neal walked beside him. "Doctor Rourke—how much longer?"
"We should be able to see Filmore once we get over the rise—then maybe a couple of hours more."
"I don't think the major is gonna make it that long."
Rourke nodded, then added, "Neither do I—once we get out of the defile, we can rest for a while—maybe take a few hours to sleep. She needs it—all of us do."
He glanced at his watch—it would be dark in less than an hour—a good time to rest. He judged them still having ten minutes more walking time in the defile—that would leave plenty of time to set up camp and post sentries.
But as yet, there had been no sign of the wildmen—only the sixth sense that they were out there. This had kept him driving them all throughout the day.
"Think those crazy people know we're here?"
"Yeah," Rourke said through his teeth.
"Think they're gonna attack?"
"Yeah—maybe not for a while yet—if they waited this long—" He stopped—in the fading reddish sun he caught the glint of steel in the rocks. He kept walking.
"O'Neal—without having your people change their pace—without anything—tell them to be ready for it—we've got company."
O'Neal started to look up. "Don't—up in those rocks to our left—gonna spring it on us when we reach the end of the defile—maybe just before."
Rourke quickened his pace, but only slightly, leaving O'Neal gradually more and more to his rear, catching up with Natalia and Rubenstein.
"Here," he rasped through his teeth, Natalia turning to look at him, her eyes wide, staring, "Carry your rifle—gonna need it."
Paul glanced toward him, never changing his pace. "Up in the rocks? I saw something catch the sun."
"Rifle maybe—I figure they're up there."
"Wonderful," Rubenstein groaned.
"John—if you have to—I'll slow you—"
"Shut up," he smiled, walking past her then as she took her M-.
Cole and one of his troopers led the ragged column. Rourke—slowly—caught up with him.
"Cole—up in the rocks—got company. Don't act differently—just keep walking."
"Aww, shit—if we hadn't brought the woman we woulda been outa here by now—"
"Shut up and listen. These guys weren't following us— probably got Filmore Air Force base ringed—that's a good sign—must mean somebody's alive in there. We just cut in on the wildmen—they weren't following us."
"I feel like I'm playin' cowboys and Indians—"
"Yeah, well—good similarity, I guess. When the shooting starts, you and your private there—take up positions on each side of the defile and start pumping up into the rocks—I'll take the others through, then Rubenstein and I will set up covering fire from the other side of the defile for you and your man to get through—then we try for Filmore as fast as we can."
"What're ya gonna do about the woman—"
"Carry her if I have to—she's my responsibility. You just do what you've gotta do and it'll work out."
Rourke slowed his pace, risking a glance up into the rocks—he saw movement, but indefinite movement—he wasn't certain.
The reflection could have been from a natural cause—a hiker could have left a bottle up in the rocks ten years earlier, rain washing it clean enough to catch the sun.
But he didn't think so—instinct again.
He looked ahead as he slowed enough for Natalia and Paul to catch up with him.
The defile narrowed into a wide "V" shape as they reached the height of the rise—if he were setting an ambush, it would be there. There was no way to get out of the defile except through the V-notch.
"John—"
He glanced to his left, Natalia beside him. "What is it?"
"I feel them—up there, waiting."
"Yeah—me, too," Rubenstein said, at his right.
"When it comes—Paul—you get Natalia through—"
"I can take care of myself—"
' 'Paul—you do what I say—then set up on the other side of the defile. As soon as I get through with O'Neal and his men. Natalia—you stick with O'Neal—Paul and I'll be covering—''
A gunshot, a heavy caliber—a hunting weapon rather than an assault rifle—echoed across the defile. A scream-O'Neal was shouting, "They got one of my men!"
Rourke flicked the safety off the CAR-, pulling out the buttstock, bringing the rifle to his shoulder, the scope
covers already gone. "Run for it," he shouted, firing up into the rocks.
"Come on, Natalia!" Rubenstein shouted. Rourke didn't look. He spotted something move in the rocks, laying the Colt three power scope on it, tripping the trigger.
A man's shape threw itself up beyond the scope's reticle, then flipped over the edge of the rocks. Rourke shifted the scope, searching for another target, gunfire from around him hammering up into the rocks, the powdering of granite evident everywhere as he searched for a target. He found one—a man with a scoped bolt action rifle—perhaps the sniper who'd killed one of O'Neal's men. Rourke opened fire, a two round semiautomatic burst, the body twitching once, then once again, the rifle falling into airspace, the body tumbling after it.