Despite all the flying lead, the glass front of the building's lobby was still intact. But not for long. Assuming a classic firing position, Hunter popped off six rounds from the powerful Magnum, each one taking out an enormous plate glass window. The resulting crash of broken glass — a sound he'd been hearing a lot lately — served to divert the storm troopers' attention. Hunter knew if the people hidden in the building had any smarts, they'd be leaving tout de suite right about now.
Sure enough, he saw one, then two figures emerge from the rear of the building across from the WTC. Two others quickly followed. Somewhat recovered, the Circle troops began firing at the building once again, not realizing that their quarry had escaped.
Hunter moved down the block toward the five running people. He felt more than compelled to link up with them — he was drawn to them. He just hoped they wouldn't shoot back.
There was a brief lull in the action as the Circle soldiers realized they weren't getting any return fire. Hunter saw his chance.
"USA!" he yelled into the night. "Hey, USA!"
The five figures stopped in their tracks then hit the pavement. They were only a block away from Hunter by this time. He tried again: "Hey, USA here!"
This time a reply came back: "Keeping talking, pilgrim!"
"Major Hunter, Pacific American Air Corps!" he called back.
"Hawk?" a familiar voice called out. "Is that you, buddy?"
Jesus Christ, Hunter thought, who the hell would know him out here?
"It's Zal!" the voice called again. "From the Aerodrome!"
One of Mike Fitzgerald's boys? Out here? Slowly Hunter moved toward the voice.
Finally a face appeared from out of the darkness and smoke. It was Zal. He was one of Fitzie's best fighter pilots. In fact, Hunter and Zal had been captured by a gang of air pirates name The Stukas a while back, only to escape via a hot air balloon.
They hugged each other like long lost brothers.
"What the hell are you doing here, Hawk?" Zal asked.
Hunter looked at Zal's commando clothing, up to his blackened face. "I have to ask you the same question," he said. "You're a long way from flying one of Fitzie's F-105s."
Just then Zal's attention was diverted over Hunter's shoulder. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Zal said in such a tone Hunter thought his friend was going to make the sign of the cross. Hunter turned around to see that Dominique had groggily moved into the faint light. "We're looking for her!"
Hunter put it all together in an instant. As a favor to him, Fitzie had had his intelligence people looking for Dominique since she had disappeared. Zal was one of those guys.
"We've been tracking her — and Viktor — for two weeks," Zal explained. "Ever since those strange pictures of her started showing up. We haven't been able to contact Fitzie since Syracuse was evacuated. But we went undercover and spotted her near Boston, traveling with the big creepo. We grabbed one of his guards, beat the shit out of him and found out he was due down here tonight.
That's when we called in some help from Montreal. The guys with me are Free Canadian Sea Commandos. The best in the business. We were going to rescue her, Hawk. Been looking forward to it, in fact."
"Well, thanks, Zal," Hunter said, shaking the man's hand. "But right now, I think we'd better figure out how to get the hell out of here."
As if to emphasize his point, a burst of gunfire coming from the WTC plaza ripped the concrete above their heads.
"We're with you, Hawk!" Zal said, waving his arm at the rest of the group. By this time, Hunter was already running down the street, supporting Dominique with one arm, and trying to reload the .357 with his free hand.
Chapter Twenty-six
The House of David gun wagon moved cautiously down Canal Street. Zack Wack was still at the wheel, his troopers, their guns at ready, checking every window, every doorway, for anyone hostile. They were way out of their territory — further out than Zack Wack could remember. But he was taking advantage of an unusual situation.
The House of David's southern border ended where Calpyso's empire began. An unwritten, uneasy truce of sorts was in force between the two groups, though firefights erupted occasionally. But now, tonight, there wasn't a Calypso soldier to be found. Wack knew that in the ever changing fortunes of living in New Order Manhattan, intelligence was the best weapon. He was a highly-trained Israeli soldier. Back in the Middle East, a smart soldier took advantage of everything. Wack knew something weird was happening on Calypso's turf. It was worth the risk to find out what was going on.
They had just entered what was left of the old Chinatown section of the city when he first spotted fire coming from one of the WTC buildings. His hunch was right; there was trouble in Calypso's paradise. He called back to his men to up their vigilance another notch, then turned onto Chambers Street. That's when he saw the group of seven individuals running toward them.
It was an odd collection. Five guys dressed in black, their faces blackened; one guy dressed like a pilot and a girl, the front of her dress in tatters.
"Now what the hell is this?" Wack asked.
He screeched on the car brakes and turned the wheel to the left. The resulting skid brought the car perpendicular to the street, allowing the rear gunner to swing his big .50 caliber around. Wack reached for his own M-16.
Suddenly, there were explosions right in back of the group running toward him.
Then he could see other individuals — soldiers — were chasing the first group.
Wack knew he had three choices. Do nothing. Take off. Or help the people being chased.
Screw it, he thought. He'd been saddled with compassion all his life. Also there was a woman with them. He stood up in the car and started yelling: "Come on! Come on!" By this time the group was nearly in front of them. Wack looked at the pilot — strange, he seemed familiar. But it was no time to exchange greetings. Urging them on with his arms, the seven people piled into the gun wagon and Wack floored the gas pedal. With a great amount of smoke and tire squealing the big Lincoln roared away into the night, leaving nothing for the pursuing Circle troops to shoot at.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The city block where the temple was located was surrounded by a variety of heavy machine guns, rocket launchers and other defensive weapons. Its perimeter was patrolled by heavily-armed soldiers, many of them wearing original pre-war uniforms of the Israeli Defense Forces. At strategic points, tall, recently-erected towers served as lookout stations and gun posts. The block — home of headquarters of the House of David and located right in the middle of their 14-block turf — was probably the best protected, best secured area in Manhattan.
The overcrowded gun wagon rode through a checkpoint, past the perfectly preserved temple and pulled into a warehouse-turned-barracks next door. The group piled out and followed the House of David men into the building. Inside was a table with a meal already cooked and waiting for the patrol. Several elderly women wearing homespun aprons and wide smiles greeted the House of David men like family. Word was passed that there would be seven more eating, and within a minute, seven more meals appeared.
As they all sat down to the late-night meal, there were grateful handshakes all around — both Hunter and the commando team members knew the House men had saved their asses from a very dangerous situation.
Hunter was especially grateful to Zack Wack, the patrol leader.
"I feel I know you from somewhere," Wack told the pilot as they sat and ate together.
Hunter looked at the man. He seemed familiar too. He was about 35, rugged, slightly balding, with a full black beard.