So he could flee to Canada and be comfortable, even wealthy. But he wouldn't be free. And neither would his country. And that made all the difference Dominique turned to him, her eyes open only wide enough to let her tears flow out. She knew what he was thinking. They were psychically linked — probably she more to him than the reverse. He felt the pain well up inside his heart and catch him in the throat. Here she was, in his arms, after all that time.
And yet he knew, that all too soon, he would have to let her go again.
They made love again, then they fell into a tightly locked embrace and finally went to sleep.
One hour after the sun set, two House of David Cadillac gunwagons passed through the last friendly checkpoint and started north. The first car — a converted hearse — featured an oddly-sized .35 mm cannon mounted on its hood and twin .50 caliber machineguns hanging off its sides. A small but powerful rocket launcher was installed in a home-made turret drilled into the center of the car roof. This car was filled with House of David night fighters, the best the group had to offer. Car Number Two, a converted limousine with Wack behind the wheel, carried Hunter and Dominique in the front seat with Zal, and the rest of the commandos riding in back. This vehicle was a land version of a recon aircraft. Its only "weapon" was a large camera mounted on the dashboard.
Both cars were heavily armored on the sides and the roof, wore metal skirts to protect the tires and, featured cloudy, but secure-looking bullet-proof glass.
Each was equipped with a CB radio, and as soon as the nine-mile journey to Yankee Stadium began, a non-stop racket of radio chatter commenced between the cars.
The route to the stadium that Wack had selected was the least treacherous of several. The two cars would move up Sixth Avenue, cut through Central Park, emerge at about 110th Street then cut over to what remained of the Henry Hudson Parkway. From there it was a straight line — more or less — to Yankee Stadium.
Wack and his crew were old hands at what they called "turf-busting." That was, driving as fast as possible through another groups' territory, zig-zagging so no one could get a clear shot at you. It was an acceptable practice in New York City these days, to a point approaching sport. But only the fastest survived. Helmets were required, as were elaborate seat harnesses. And, of course, no headlights could be used.
The two cars took off and soon enough, they were skirting the edge of CorpCat country at close to 60 MPH. Only a few shots were fired at them, and to no effect. Wack yelled over to Hunter that the Cats were too blown out from their
'scraper battle with Max-Army the night before to worry about the two House gunwagons.
Once off Sixth Avenue, the cars roared through Central Park, which to Hunter resembled nothing less than photographs he'd seen of the Ardenne Forest during World War I. In the intense moonlight, he could see the ground was churned up like a massive plow had worked it. Acres lay bare of trees or any vegetation.
The various ponds and lakes were bone dry. Destroyed military equipment — tanks, personnel carriers, even a few downed helicopters — lay rusting; relics from the war between the New York and New Jersey National Guards. Beside many of the wrecks lay skeletons and parts of skeletons, their bones long ago licked clean by dogs, rats and other vermin.
After passing through the nightmare landscape of the park, the cars began picking up sporadic fire courtesy of soldiers of the Gwanda Nation. Their turf covered the area from West 110th Street to the George Washington Bridge, a critical long stretch of the journey. Wack expertly wheeled the big car back and forth, as Hunter shielded Dominique. The two gun wagon cars were moving at 70 mph, and all the weaving was causing a racket of squealing tires and burning rubber. With little damage done, Wack followed the lead car onto the Cathedral Parkway.
That's when they saw the roadblock…
It was straight ahead of them, right at the entrance to the Hudson Parkway.
There were four vehicles — two cars on the outside and two jeeps on the inside — parked in such a way as to block off the entire roadway. The roadblock looked to be manned by at least 20 Gwanda Nation warriors, fierce-looking men in jungle fatigues. Hunter pushed Dominique all the way down to the floor, then checked his .357 Magnum.
"Don't worry, guys," Wack said confidently. "We've been here before."
Hunter saw the gunner in the car in front of them slip into position behind the turret-mounted rocket launcher. The driver of the first car called back to Wack: "Stay on my tail, Number Two. This is a Red Sea. Repeat, Red Sea. Sam's aiming for the middle."
"Roger," Wack yelled into the radio, then back to his passengers. "Okay, guys>,hang on!"
About 50 feet out the first car stopped swerving. The rocket gunner lined up a shot and hit his launch button. A wire-guided missile leaped from the turret and instantly hit square in the middle of the two center vehicles. The powerful rocket exploded in a ball of orange flame, lifting the first jeep up and off the ground, and knocking the second one back a good 10 feet.
Before Hunter knew it, the two House of David cars were speeding through the burning hole created by the missile. He could hear a few thuds against the cars as the Gwanda Nation soldiers fired at them. But the armor on the doors prevented any of the bullets from getting through.
Wack laughed as they burst onto the relatively safe Hudson Parkway. "Just like Moses, it works every time!"
The two car caravan reached Yankee Stadium without further incident. Outside, the huge bat that marked the stadium entrance for years now lay broken in several large chunks, as if a giant had smashed it. Slowly, the gun wagons circled the stadium, looking for a means of entry.
There was a garage door to the rear of the place which was both locked and rusted in place. A shot from the rocket car's cannon took care of it, snapping its springs and causing the door to rise high enough for the two cars to sneak through.
They drove out onto the field, the high stadium walls giving them the feeling that they were in a dark valley. The place had fallen into disrepair, yet oddly, the bases were still in place, as was the pitcher's mound. Hunter had been to the stadium as a boy, on all occasions watching the Yanks beat his hometown Boston Red Sox. Now it was as dreary as a place could be, another rusting symbol of a faded American dream.
They drove right out to the left field wall where they found another garage door, an entrance way that maintenance vehicles used to access the field.
Another burst of cannon fire opened this door and soon the tiny band found themselves walking in a large, pitch black room.
Hunter was directing one of two high-powered flashlights Wack had supplied, Dominique glued to his side.
"What could be here, Hawk?" she asked. "Why would this place be so important to Viktor? He never mentioned it in all the time I was with him."
"Beats me," Hunter said, playing the flashlight beam over racks of old grass rakes and bags of baseline lime. "But he knew that Calypso had hidden something here, something he was willing to pay big numbers for. Something he must have thought would help him in winning the war in the 'Bads."