"My missile!" Otis screamed, his voice like a high-pitched feminine shriek, a broad-bladed knife flashing into his right hand from a sheath at his belt. Rourke shifted the muzzle of the CAR-15
left, firing, but Otis was diving toward him, the slug impacting against Otis' right shoulder, hammering the man back and down, but not killing him, Rourke realized.
As Otis fell back, his body rolled against a mounded tarp behind him, part of the tarp whisking back— Teal's burned and mutilated body, the eyes still open in death— was on the ground, insects crawling across the face.
The wildmen were closing in, knives, spears, assault rifles in every hand. There was gunfire—
from the edge of the rise near the crosses.
Rourke pumped the CAR-15's trigger, unable to miss, firing into a solid wall of humanity, Rubenstein lurching away from him, Rourke feeling the rip and hearing the snap as the younger man grabbed the Detonics .45 from under Rourke's left armpit, the heavy bark of the .45
rumbling too now, the gunfire from their rear unmistakably that of an AK-47—"O'Neal!" Rourke shouted.
Rourke fired out the CAR-15, ramming the muzzle of the empty gun into a face near him, with his left hand snatching at the Detonics .45 under his right armpit, thumbing back the hammer, firing point blank into the face of the nearest wildman, the body sprawling back, others falling from its weight.
Rourke's right hand flashed to the flap holster on his hip, getting the Python, the six-inch barrel snaking forward, the pistol bucking slightly in his clenched right fist as the muzzle flashed fire, the nearest wildman clasping his neck.
"John— here!"
It was Rubenstein's voice, Rourke edging back, firing both handguns now, the Detonics in his left— loaded with seven rounds this time— and the Colt in his right— loaded with six.
Both guns were half-spent as he edged back from the knot of screaming, howling wildmen. He looked skyward for an instance, the heavy, hollow chopping sound of helicopter rotor blades suddenly loud over the shouts of the men trying to kill him.
"Natalia!" he shouted.
The green 0H58C helicopter was coming in low, and now fire was spitting from the side gun, the 7.62mm slugs hammering into the knot of wildmen, their shrieks louder now as they ran for cover.
"Over here, John!"
Rourke looked behind him, Rubenstein beside a massive pickup truck. Rourke started to run toward him, the Python bucking in Rourke's right fist as he snapped the last three shots over his left shoulder, then threw himself into a run, automatic weapons fire already starting around him, then dove for the shelter of the vehicle.
Rubenstein— on his knees, pale as death beside the right front wheel-well, fired the Detonics.
"Empty."
Rourke slammed closed the cylinder of the Python, the Safariland speedloader, empty now, crammed back into his musette bag. He handed the pistol to Rubenstein. "Here— use this."
Rourke took the Detonics, emptying his own pistol, then reloading both with fresh magazines from the Sparks six pack on his belt.
He reached into the musette bag, finding a spare magazine for the CAR-15, dumping the empty, ramming the fresh one home, working the bolt, then passing the rifle to Rubenstein, the Python out of ammo. Rourke took another of the Safariland speedloaders, reloaded the big Colt and holstered the gun.
He reached into the musette bag, getting the remaining loaded magazines for the CAR-15, putting them on the ground beside Paul. "You recovered fast—"
"Bullshit— I'm dying— just too stupid to fall down."
"Lemme look at that," and Rourke slipped behind the younger man, probing gently at the wound. Rourke reached behind him, snatching the AG Russell Sting IA from the sheath at his belt, using the blade to cut away the sleeve.
"Aww— that was my good coat, John."
"Shut up," Rourke snapped— the wound was dirty, clotted— he would have to open it to clean it. "You think it hurts now— wait'll I get around to fixin' it!"
Rubenstein glanced at him, then pushed his wire-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
"Coulda been worse, John— coulda lost my glasses."
"Yeah— could've at that," Rourke told him, leaning against the pickup truck. "Remember how to hotwire a car?"
"Yeah— I remember," Rubenstein nodded.
"Gimme that rifle and climb up there— once you've got it going, I'll pass up the CAR and the spare mags— we take off for the bunker— make a stand there— run over as many people as we can on the way, huh?"
Rubenstein smiled, handed Rourke the rifle and reached up for the door handle.
"Shit— it's locked!"
"I'll fix that," Rourke told him. "Look away." Rourke reached for the Python at his hip, aimed at the lock and turned his face away, firing upward, the thudding sound loud of lead against sheet metal. "Now try it."
Rubenstein pulled at the door handle—"Hot" and the handle broke away, the door swinging out.
The younger man grinned, then started up into the pickup cab, gunfire coming from the sky again as Natalia's helicopter made another pass, gunfire from the ground as well as the shore party advanced from both sides. Rourke looked under the truck now, finding targets of opportunity with the CAR-15, firing single shots into backs and chests and legs, bringing down as many of the wildmen as he could.
The truck vibrated, coughed, rumbled— the engine made sputtering sounds as it came to life.
"John!"
"Right," and Rourke edged up, grabbing the spare magazines, then throwing himself up beside Rubenstein. "Can you drive this thing one-handed?"
"You just shift when I tell ya to," Rubenstein shouted.
"Right," and Rourke, the Python back in his right fist, tugged at the door, closing it partially.
Wildmen running for the truck, Rourke's right hand swinging the Python on line— one round, a head shot. A man down. Another round, then another, two in the chest and a man down. He fired out the last two, a double shot at a wildman with an M-16, the rifle discharging a long, ragged burst, a spiderwebbing in the glass at the top of the windshield.
"Shit," Rubenstein shouted, the truck starting to move.
Rourke holstered the empty Python, giving Rubenstein the CAR-15. "Just aim the truck forward and hold the wheel with your left knee—"
"Gotchya, John," Rubenstein called back, taking the CAR-15 in his right fist and pointing it out the window, firing as wildmen stormed toward them.
Rourke took one of the Detonics pistols, firing point blank as a wildman jumped for the hood of the truck, the face exploding, blood caught on the truck's slipstream spattering the windshield.
The truck lumbered ahead. "Have to shift," Rubenstein shouted.
Rourke's left hand reached to the stick, his concentration focused on hearing, feeling the clutch pedal activate. He upshifted into second, the vehicle starting to weave, then back under control, no firing from Rubenstein with the CAR.
Rourke— through the partially shattered windshield— could see the bunker now— and there was a man near to it, near the doors, the doors opening— "Cole!"
Chapter Thirty-Three
Natalia glanced at her altimeter and banked the helicopter to port, checking her degrees against the level horizon, correcting slightly and banking again, homing the machine toward the greatest concentration of wildmen, around the massive, oversize-wheeled pickup truck that she could see Rubenstein driving, Rourke beside him. At the far end of the flat expanse along the ridge she could see Lieutenant O'Neal as well— the rifle in his hands a familiar shape— an AK-47.
"Gunner— start firing when you're ready— leveling off," she shouted back.
"Yes, ma'am," the blond seaman shouted.
And she could hear it— the rattling of the M-60 machine gun mounted in the door— for his sake she wished there had been flak gear to protect his legs. There was heavy fire coming again from the ground as he strafed the wildmen attacking the truck.