recognition that he had even heard her. Shrugging her shoulders under the short
leather jacket she wore, she climbed into the passenger seat and checked her
pistol while she waited for Yuri. She had left the H-K assault rifle behind as
being out of character. Yuri was supposed to be her brother and he was supposed
to be a geologist. They had been out in the field—"What war?" she would say. "We
were in the desert. Our radio stopped working, but we thought it was just
sunspot activity or something." She looked at the gun in her hand. "Oh, this?"
she would say. "Just in case of snakes. My brother showed me how it works and
just insisted that I carry it but I really don't know anything about guns." She
turned the gun over in her hand. Like all the American- and Western
European-origin conventional guns she and the rest of Karamatsov's team used,
they had been acquired technically illegally according to American law. This was
a particularly nice one and she liked it, despite its limited capacity—a
four-barreled stainless steel .357 Magnum COP pistol, derringerlike with a
rotating firing pin and an overall size approximating a .380 automatic. It was
pattern loaded, the first round intended for snakes—a .38-.357 shot shell, the
last three chambers loaded with 125-grain jacketed hollow point .357s. With the
gun she had a set of .22 Long Rifle insert barrels, which even more greatly
expanded its versatility.
She put the gun back in the inside pocket of her leather jacket and leaned back
on the seat, pulling the hat lower over her eyes, the bandanna knotted around
her throat already wet with perspiration, her dark glasses doing little to
reduce the harsh glare of the sun.
She turned her head, closing her eyes, when Yuri said, "Well, little lady—ya'll
ready to get on with this here safari?"
She opened her eyes. "Yuri—you are a fine agent. But if you do not stop talking
like that tome, you will find cyanide in your tea, or a curare-tipped straight
pin inside your trouser leg. I don't like being called 'little lady.' You are
not to call me Captain Tiemerovna in the field. You are to call me Natalie, the
American way of saying my first name. I should not call you Yuri—why are you not
correcting me? Your name for this operation is Grady Burns. I will call you
that."
Yuri looked at her, running his fingers through his hair, pulling his hat down
low over his nearly squinted-shut eyes. "Yes ma'am," he said, choking a laugh,
then cranking the key and throwing the jeep into gear.
She turned toward him, started to say something, then eased back into her seat,
laughing out loud in spite of herself. "Yuri—my God."
"Now that's American—little lady!" he said, laughing, his right hand moving from
the gear shift and slapping her left knee. She sat bolt upright, looked at him a
moment and started laughing again. They drove, talking, joking, through the sand
dunes and in the general direction of Van Horn, where they hoped to find some
information regarding Chambers. At one o'clock she called a halt, telling Yuri,
"I've got to stretch my legs."
He pulled the jeep to a halt, shutting off the motor. "Do you want me to get it
out of the back of the jeep?"
She glared at him. "Whose idea was that chemical toilet?"
"Karamatsov's idea—I think he was looking out for your comfort."
"He needn't have bothered," she stated flatly, getting out of the jeep and
walking toward a low-rising dune fifteen yards to their right.
When she finished, she buried the tissue in the sand under her heel as she
zipped her fly. Automatically, she started to feel for her pistol as she
started back toward the jeep, remembering then that she had left it in the
pocket of her jacket still on the seat. As she turned back toward the jeep, she
screamed, in spite of herself. Almost instantly regaining her composure, she
shouted, "Who are you?" Two men, wearing T-shirts and faded jeans, were standing
on the top of the small dune, their faces leering. "I said, who are you?"
"I heard what ya' said, girl," the taller of the two men shouted back.
She started walking again, slowly. She stopped when she saw the jeep. Two men
dressed like the first two were standing beside it, and a short distance behind
them were four motorcycles. She couldn't see Yuri.
She turned to the two men on the top of the dune, one of whom was already
sliding down toward her. "Where is he—the man on the jeep, the man I was with?"
"Well, you don't have to worry yourself 'bout him no more—he's dead. Slit his
throat just as nice as you please, we did," the nearer man told her.
She found herself shaking her head. Yuri was too good to have let himself be
surprised like that. "I don't believe you," she said.
"See," the taller man began, sliding to the ground and getting to his feet less
than a yard from her. "He never noticed this," and he reached into his hip
pocket and flicked open a long-bladed switchblade, " 'cause he was too busy
lookin' at that," and the tall man gestured back toward the top of the dune. The
second man swung his right hand from behind him now, a shotgun in it, the
barrels impossibly short, she thought, the stock of the shotgun all but gone.
She noticed a leather strap from the butt of the shotgun stretched across the
man's body like a sling.
"While your boyfriend was a lookin', I was a cuttin'," the tall man said,
grinning.
Natalia stared at him, assessing his build, the way he stood, searching him with
her eyes for additional weapons. There was a pistol crammed between the wide
black belt he wore and the sagging beerpot under the sweat-stained T-shirt. As
near as she could make out, the gun was a German luger.
"What do you want?" she asked, lowering her voice.
"What do you think I want, girl?" the man laughed, starting to step toward her.
The knife was still in his right hand and as he took his second step, Natalia
moved, both hands going toward him, her right hand flashing upwards, the middle
knuckles locked outward, impacting under his nose and smashing the bone upward
into his brain. Her left hand had already found the nerve on the right side of
his neck and pinched it, momentarily numbing the right arm, causing the knife to
fall from his grasp. She knew he was dead and let him fall, dismissing the
inferior switchblade knife and snatching the Luger from his belt as he went
down. Her right thumb found the safety, her left hand slamming back the toggle
in case the gun had been carried chamber empty, the trigger finger on her right
hand poised for a fast squeeze as the toggle slammed forward, two rounds—9mms,
she thought—slamming up at a sharp angle into the man with the sawed-off shotgun
standing on top of the dune. She wheeled, a shot already echoing from behind
her, a second shot—the sound registering somewhere at the back of her mind,
creasing heavily into her left forearm, pitching her back into the sand on her
rear end, her first shot toward the two men standing near the jeep going wild.
She rolled across the sand, bullets kicking it up into her face. She fired, two
rounds in a fast burst at the nearest man—he had a pistol. The l
ast man was
working a bolt action rifle, swinging the muzzle toward her. She fired once,
shooting out the left eye. She automatically glanced down to the Luger's
sights—the rear sight looked banged up and she attributed the eyeball shot to
that. She had aimed between the eyes.
She started to her feet, took a step forward and fell into the sand. She rolled
onto her back, the sun, still almost directly overhead, momentarily blinding her
despite the sunglasses. But then she remembered she'd lost them rolling through
the sand. She tried standing, felt her head—it hurt badly. Forcing herself to
her feet, she staggered toward the jeep and fell against it, burning her fingers
on the hot metal, the Luger slipping from her right hand. Pulling herself into
the jeep and across the passenger seat, her blue eyes glanced downward—Yuri, his
throat slit ear-to-ear—in a clumsy fashion, she thought—lay in the sand, his
eyes wide open and staring into the sun. She started the jeep, heard a
high-pitched whistle and saw steam rising from in front of the hood.
"Shot the radiator—stupid," she murmured to herself, then fumbled off the
emergency brake and threw the car into gear. The thought that drove her was that
the four men were probably not alone. The sketchy intelligence from the area
indicated a large and heavily armed gang of looters and killers moving across
the state, "Outriders," she said dully as she started the jeep up a low dune.
"Got to hurry…"
Chapter Eighteen
"Wait here in case it's a trap of some kind," Rourke said.
"What do you mean—a trap?" Rubenstein asked.
Rourke looked at him a moment. "Could be those paramilitary guys, could be
anyone—put a woman's body down beside the road, most people are going to stop,
right? Plenty of cover back by those dunes, right?"
"Yeah, but—she's awful still. Hasn't moved since we spotted her."
"Could be dead already, maybe just a bag of rags stuffed into some old clothes.
Keep me covered," Rourke almost whispered. He swung the CAR-15 across the front
of the Harley and started the bike slowly across the road, throwing a glance
back over his shoulder, seeing Rubenstein readying the German MP-40 subgun to
back him up. Rourke cut a wide arc across the opposite shoulder, going off onto
the sand and running a circle around the body—it was a woman, dark hair covering
half her face, her right hand clutched to her left arm, dark bloodstains seeping
through her fingers. Rourke stopped the bike a few yards from her, dismounted
and kept the CAR-15 pointed in her general direction, his right fist bunched
around the pistol grip, his first finger just outside the trigger guard.
He walked slowly across the sand, the sun to his left now starting to sink
rapidly, because, technically—despite the heat—it wasn't quite spring. Darkness
would come soon, and Van Horn was still miles away. Water and food were
virtually gone— and, of more immediate concern, so was the gasoline. His bike
was nearly empty and he doubted Rubenstein's bike would make even another twenty
or thirty miles.
He stopped, staring at the woman's body inches from the dusty toes of his black
combat boots. Rourke pushed the sunglasses back from his head and up into his
hair, staring at her more closely. She was incredibly beautiful, even dirty and
disheveled as she was now, and somewhere at the back of his mind Rourke knew
he'd seen the face before. "I wouldn't forget you," he murmured, then pushed the
toe of his left boot toward her, moving her body a little and finally rolling
her over. The limpness of her body spelled recent death or a deep state of
unconsciousness. He dropped to one knee beside her, swinging the scoped CAR-15
behind his back, bending down to her then and taking her head gently into his
left hand, his right thumb slowly opening her left eyelid. She was alive. He
felt her pulse, weak but steady. Her skin was waxy-appearing and cold to the
touch. "Shock," he murmured to himself. "Heat prostration." Rourke looked up
and called across the road.
"Paul—do a wide circle to make sure she doesn't have any friends, then come
over—we've got to get her out of the sun."
Rourke scanned the horizon to see if there were any natural shade, fearing she
might not survive until darkness. About a hundred yards off to the opposite side
of the road, he spotted an overhanging outcropping of bare rock. Quickly
feeling the woman's arms and legs and along the rib case to ascertain that there
were no readily apparent broken bones, he stood up, bringing the unconscious
girl to her feet, then sweeping her up into his arms. As Rubenstein completed
his circuit and drove up alongside, Rourke, the girl cradled in his arms like a
child, said, "I'm heading over toward those rocks on the other side of the road.
Bring your bike over there, then come back for mine." Rourke didn't wait for an
answer, but started across the concrete, his knees slightly flexed under the
added weight of the girl in his arms. As he reached the opposite shoulder he
looked down, felt her stirring there. She was moving her lips. "… find Sam
Chambers… get to jeep," and she repeated herself, over and over again as Rourke
reached the shelter of the rocks with her. The sun low, there was ample shade.
Rourke set her down in the sand as gently as he could. Rubenstein was already
dusty halt. "We've got to normalize her body temperature. Get me the water—she
needs it more than we do."
Rourke looked down at the girl's face. He nodded to himself. It was a face he
wouldn't forget and he remembered it now but couldn't yet make the connection.
Chapter Nineteen
The moon was bright but there was a haze around it—Sarah Rourke recalled her
husband using the phrase "blood on the moon." There was enough blood on the
earth, she thought. All through the day she had followed along the path of the
brigands who had tortured Ron Jenkins and everywhere they had gone—small farms,
two more towns—the scene had been the same. Wanton destruction and dead people
and animals everywhere. But their trail had taken a sharp turn back into the
northeastern portion of the state and now, as she guessed she was crossing the
border into Tennessee, as best as she could judge they were behind her and going
in an entirely different direction, each mile taking them farther apart.
She pulled up on the reins. Tildie slowed and stopped, bending her head down low
and browsing the ground. Sarah Rourke looked behind her. Michael was riding her
husband's horse Sam by himself now, and Millie and her own daughter Annie were
riding Carla Jenkins' mount and Ron Jenkins' appaloosa was carrying most of the
cargo. It was a better arrangement for the animals, and every few hours she
swapped horses with Michael to rest Tildie from her weight. It would be several
more days before they reached Mt. Eagle, Tennessee and tried searching for
Millie's aunt who had a small farm there. Earlier in the day, Sarah had tried
questioning Millie about where the farm was, but the girl had remained silent,
just as she had be
en since the death of her parents the previous night. At the
back of her mind, Sarah Rourke realized that if the girl did not respond, trying
to find her surviving family would be hopeless. And by leaving Georgia, Sarah
thought bitterly, she was cutting down on her own chances of reuniting with her
husband. She had concretized the idea in her mind that John Thomas Rourke was
still alive, out there somewhere and looking for her even now. She realized that
if she once abandoned that idea she would be without hope.
She could not see any value in a life of constantly running from outlaws or
brigands, living in the wild like hunted animals. She bent low over the saddle
horn. The pains in her stomach were increasing in frequency and severity. It
wasn't the time of the month for her period, though she supposed it possible she
was having it early. But the cramps were somehow different anyway. She had tried
the water near the one town they had passed, she recalled. Something had been
odd-tasting and she had kept the children and the horses from it and gone on.
Hours later, she had found bottled water in an abandoned convenience store and
stocked up.
She turned quickly when she heard a noise from one of the horses behind her. It
was Sam—her husband's horse. As she started to turn her head back, she doubled
over the saddle, gagging, her head suddenly light and hurting badly. She started
to dismount but couldn't straighten up, tumbling from the saddle onto her knees
on the ground.
"Momma!"
"Mommie!" The last voice was Annie's. Sarah started to push herself to her feet,
wanting to say something to Michael. She pulled on the base of the left stirrup
near her hand, but as she stood she slumped against the saddle, colored lights
in her eyes. She could feel the blood rushing to her head. Her hands slipped
from the saddle horn and she tried grabbing at the stirrup but couldn't…
Chapter Twenty
Rubenstein sat in the darkness, watching the rising and falling of the strange
girl's chest in the moonlight, listening to her heavy breathing, the Schmeisser
cradled in his lap. His mouth was dry. He'd given up cigarette smoking two years
earlier, but now having a cigarette was all he could think about. He looked at