Men—if men they still were—were beside the burning cars, hurtling rocks and bottles. Rourke killed as many as he could until the pis-tols came up empty. Actions still open, he rammed both pistols into his belt, taking the Colt Government model, working the slide, jacking a round into the cham-ber, firing as he ran.
Natalia’s purse was back at her side—her re-volvers in her hands, belching fire, thundering as she ran toward the burning automobiles.
The .45 was empty, Rourke rammed it into his belt—crowded with the twin Detonics pistols al-ready there. The Python. He drew with his right hand, shifting to his left. He found the two-inch Lawman in the Thad Rybka holster in the small of his back, the Lawman in his right fist—both re-volvers firing. Natalia’s revolvers were empty, he realized—the revolvers gone, the second M-16 in her hands, spitting fire.
Rourke’s revolvers emptied as they reached the burning cars, few of the men there now, some run-ning, most dead.
Rourke holstered his revolvers, his hands going out to Natalia—there was a section of the barrier already burned out— “Don’t touch the metal—jump when I get you up there—hurry!”
Rourke had her up in his arms, her feet on the blackened hood of a wrecked Cadillac, and she ran one step, jumped—he heard her scream.
“Shit!” Rourke snarled—he ran back from be-side the cars, the CAR-15 his only loaded gun now as he threw himself into a dead run for the Cadil-lac’s hood—he jumped, nearly slipping, the metal hot through the soles of his combat boots as he jumped clear, Natalia on the other side of the bar-ricade, the silenced Walther in her right fist, the slide back—the gun was empty. She crashed it down across the face of a rag-clad man grabbing for her—the man fell in a heap at her feet.
More men coming for her—the chanting loud now from both sides of the burning barrier, Rourke’s CAR-15 firing from his right hand—the trigger pumping, bodies falling as he closed to-ward her, killing his way to her.
The Bali-Song knife was in her right hand, the fancy Gerber-Mk II in her left, men lunging for her—not attacking, but wanting to grab her, he re-alized—to touch her.
The knives flashed, like a well-practiced martial arts Cata, ears, hands, noses, and fingers falling to the sidewalk as she fought.
Rourke’s CAR-15 empty, he worked the tele-scoped stock like a club, a horizontal butt stroke to the face of one of the men, a forward butt stroke to another, using the flash deflector like a bayonet now, knifing down, slashing across the neck and face of another.
The big Gerber from his belt—it was in his right hand now as he let the rifle fall on its sling—he hacked with it, like a short sword, slicing across faces and necks, stabbing out with it—the attack-ers were endless.
Natalia screamed to him— “John!” She had fallen—at least six men lunging for her.
Chapter Forty-seven
Rourke threw himself toward the men, his left foot snaking out as he half wheeled right, the sole of his combat boot impacting a jaw in a double Tae-Kwon-Do kick, his right hand still holding the knife stabbing into a second man.
He finished the turn, his right foot in a short, jabbing kick to the groin of a third man, Rourke’s knife blade hacking upward, catching the nose and cheek—ripping flesh as blood sprayed. He wheeled again, his right elbow hammering back as a man came from his right flank, the point of his elbow contacting bone—Rourke hissing with the pain—but feeling bone crunch, not his own. He sidestepped, knifing another man in the throat, as a swordsman would make his lunge, Rourke’s left hand stabbing outward, the middle knuckle impacting beneath the nose of another man, breaking it, bringing the bone up and punc-turing the ethmoid bone—the nose driven up into the brain, the man’s eyes rolled as he fell back dead.
The knife in his right hand flashed again—slick and red and wet with blood now—chopping through the neck of another man.
And Rourke was beside Natalia, Natalia up, her knives working, cutting and stabbing. Rourke stabbed a man with a club—in the cen-ter of the adam’s apple—he withdrew the knife, finding a spare magazine for one of the .45s—one of the eight-round extension magazines. He but-toned out the magazine in the big Colt, losing it on the sidewalk, ramming the fresh magazine home, working down the slide stop—he fired point blank, shooting away the face of one of the attack-ers, the Gerber in his left fist now slashing out-ward—another man down.
He fired the .45 a second time and a third, two men going down— “An opening, John!”
It was Natalia—he looked to his right, pumping the trigger of the Colt again—another man down—an opening in the wall of attackers, Nata-lia running for it, Rourke almost shoving her ahead. He fired the .45 into the gaping mouth of a man with a machete—
Natalia was through the opening, the opening closing, Rourke hacking it open again with the knife, blasting it open with the remaining rounds in the magazine of his one loaded pistol. He was through, Natalia looking behind her as she ran—she was loading an M-16, perhaps twenty yards ahead of him.
He ran for her—Natalia shouted, “John—flat on the ground!”
Rourke threw himself forward and down, roll-ing, gunfire over his head, Natalia’s M-16, firing into the wall of attackers as they pursued.
On his back, Rourke dropped his knife, rammed the Colt into his belt, found the M-16—he snatched two spare magazines, both from the musette bag at his left side, buttoning out the spent magazine, letting it be lost, ramming one of the two fresh sticks up the well of the assault rifle, working the bolt release—
He was rolling again, Natalia’s rifle empty—
The Gerber in his left fist along with the spare thirty-round stick for the M-16, Rourke was up, pumping the M-16’s trigger, cutting down men in waves as they ran from the still burning barricade. And then Rourke started to run, firing out the stick, dropping the empty to the pavement, ram-ming the fresh one home, hands reaching for him—he hacked out with the knife, hearing a shriek of pain. He wheeled, firing point blank into four men, cutting them down.
The nearest of the pursuers was ten yards back—but there were dozens behind this nearest man. Rourke ran, Natalia running just ahead of him, her M-16 spitting three-round bursts—bright tongues of yellow light in the night—
Rourke’s breath was coming in gasps—his M-16 firing behind him, he ran. Michigan Avenue—Natalia turned right—in-stinctively, he thought, heading for the lake, for her uncle, despite the KGB, despite the fact that she was wanted—dead. Rourke was after her, firing out the M-16, drop-ping out the empty to the sidewalk, Natalia run-ning diagonally across Michigan Avenue, toward the park between Michigan Avenue and the lake, Rourke after, a fresh magazine going up the well of the M-16.
Behind him as he reached the opposite curb—the pursuers had stopped.
“John!”
Natalia’s hoarse whisper from the darkness be-side a statue.
Rourke ran to her, his stomach aching with the exertion, his breath in short gasps—he coughed, fresh loading the CAR-15 - he had lost three M-16 magazines—but he had plenty more. He had lost one .45
ACP magazine, standard Colt—but it had been an ordinary magazine and was not irreplace-able. They had burned he didn’t know how many hundred rounds of ammo.
“Get that—that—that—the eight hundred-round box—bottom of my pack—strapped there—reload magazines.”
He heard Natalia— “Yes.” He felt her working at his back to remove the ammo box. He dropped to his knees beside the statue, both Detonics pistols reloaded, the Colts—all three re-loaded as Natalia loaded thirty-round magazines from the box.