Rourke shouldered the CAR-15, ripping away the scope covers— he was cold-blooded, too.
He flicked the safety, pumping a two-shot burst into the man who had just murdered. The body fell, Rourke shifting the scope, finding another target, killing.
There was gunfire from beside him— Natalia's M-16, Rubenstein's German MP-40— Paul had called it a Schmeisser so long Rourke thought of it that way too now.
The bodies fell.
All five were down. Rourke shifted his rifle— one shot to each man, to each head— five dead.
"John— the one at the base of the grade here— a boy with red hair— he's moving." Rourke handed her his rifle, "Take the bikes and start along the side here until you can climb down safely— watch your stitches and watch Paul's arm. I'll go this way."
"All right," she whispered.
Rourke— his rifle with Natalia— started to the edge, found a spot that looked the least steep, and started down, slipping onto his rear end, sliding, catching himself, skidding on the heels of his boots, getting to a standing position, running to keep up with his momentum, slipping, falling back, skidding, then getting his balance.
He half jumped, half fell, but was standing— in a crouch— as he hit the bottom of the gorge. He picked his way across the spray-licked, moss-greened rocks, toward the red-haired boy, the roar of the falls louder now.
No other body moved— but the boy moved. Rourke skidded across a low boulder— blood there— and dropped to his knees beside the boy. "Easy, son," Rourke said, raising the boy's head— the hand he held the head in was sticky and wet with blood.
"Ambushed us," the boy gasped.
"It's all right— we got 'em for you— Brigands—"
"Yeah— we— we call 'em that— that, too," the boy sighed.
"Don't try to talk— don't—"
"Gotta help— help the man— the man on the rocks—"
"He's dead," Rourke whispered. "One of the Brigands got him— I killed the guy who did it—
rest easy." He wondered if it would help the boy to say that he was a doctor— for his skills as a doctor would not— blood loss, a lung that seemed collapsed— there was a chest wound that did not suck— and obviously, from just a superficial examination, numerous bones broken. The boy was dying. He decided to say it anyway, to lie that the boy would live, or could. "I'm a doctor, son— I'll do what I can for you to make you comfortable." He couldn't lie.
"I'm dyin'-you're a doc— you know that," and the boy coughed up a slimy mixture of blood and spittle.
"I'm a doctor— and I know that," Rourke nodded, holding the boy closer. "You with the Resistance?"
"Yeah— you, too?"
"No— I'm with some friends— a man and a woman— they're coming," and Rourke heard footfalls on the rocks behind him. He glanced back— it was Natalia only.
"John— I left Paul— the climb was too steep with his arm."
"John?" The boy hissed the word.
"Yeah, son— my name's John—"
"A doctor?"
"Yeah—"
"John Rourke," the boy gasped.
"I don't know you," Rourke said, studying the boy's face more closely.
"Sarah," the boy gasped. "Boy Michael— a little girl— Annie—"
Rourke tightened his left hand's grip on the boy's shoulder—"My wife and children— you've—"
"Cunningham— Cunningham horse farm— near Mt. Eagle, Tennessee," the boy gasped.
"Mt. Eagle," Rourke whispered. "You're— you're— Mulliner— the red-haired boy with the gun that night at the door— the Mulliner farm."
"Bill Mulliner," the boy coughed. "Bill Mulliner— tell my mom— tell her I love her— tell her—
and— tell Mrs. Rourke— good— good..." The boy's eyes stayed open, blood drooled from the right corner of his mouth as his head sagged away.
"Good-bye," Rourke said for the dead boy, and he looked up into Natalia's blue eyes. She closed her eyes and said nothing.
"Sarah," Rourke whispered.
The End
Published by
peanutpress.com, Inc.
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ISBN: 0-7408-0510-X
First Peanut Press Edition
This edition published by
arrangement with
Boondock Books
www.boondockbooks.com