He closed the gap, Natalia's suppressor-fitted Walther PPK/S .380 in his right fist. In Russian, then quickly in English, Rourke hissed, "Move and you are dead!"

  The man-shape froze.

  "Herr Doctor?"

  Hammerschmidt. "Otto? Otto!" Rourke moved quickly toward him, dropping down to cover, thou-

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  sands of people gathered before the gates of the Second City in front of a large platform. "Where's Michael?"

  Hammerschmidt gave him the glasses in his hands. Rourke brought them to his eyes as Ham­merschmidt simply said, "There, Herr Doctor."

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  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The woman with the dead eyes and the fancy robes looked into his face, her curious English again as she spoke. "It is a pity the execution needed to be public, because the pit would have been a good challenge for someone like you. Perhaps the best fight we have seen"

  "The pit?"

  "Hungry dogs. You can fight them before they kill you."

  "Gee —well, maybe next time," Michael told her, forcing a smile he didn't feel.

  "You are first. I will lead you there. But, if you touch me, the eyes of your friend will be gouged from his face before he is killed."

  "I wouldn't touch you. I might not be able to wash my hands," Michael responded.

  She slapped his face. He stood there, saying nothing, his hands bound behind him.

  She started ahead and he fell in behind her, across the platform, down the steps, Mongols on all sides of him except ahead, two Mongols flanking the woman. Her hair swayed over her back as she walked.

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  He looked ahead, Han already mounted on a strapping gray mare, one of the white robed girls with the clouded eyes holding the reins of his horse. He wondered what Han had in mind. It was just as fatal to be ripped apart three ways as four, he thought soberly.

  Michael Rourke kept walking.

  They stopped between the four horses.

  She turned to him. "You might choose to struggle against the ropes. It will please those who are watching."

  "You bet."

  His hands were unbound, but his wrists weren't released, simply rebound, one to one rope, one to another, each of the ropes leading to one of the mounted horses, the one from his right arm leading to Han's. He was forced down to his knees, then flat to the ground, a saber at his throat. But his arms could still move. His ankles were tethered now too, one rope leading to each of the other two horsemen and their animals.

  Flat on his back, he looked up into the sky for a moment. "Are you sure the sun's really up? Doesn't look like it to me," he said to her, his mind racing. He could attempt to drag off the second rider with the rope leading from his wrist, but the ropes on his ankles? What could Han do?

  "The sun is up. Good-bye, American." The woman smiled, her eyes a window to incarnate evil, he thought.

  He looked at Han Lu Chen. Then white robed girls stepped away from the horsemen . . .

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  Maria Leuden had given up her motorcycle to Otto Hammerschmidt, not even time to adjust the helmet to fit him. Paul had dismounted the field radio from the back of his machine, instructing Maria how to call for the helicopter gunships he had requested be in waiting and to tell them to hurry.

  Natalia had already moved up, beside John Rourke. She could not see his face with the helmet that he wore. His parka was off, left with Maria Leuden, his double shoulder holsters exposed over the heavy sweater, the sweater bunched up in front and the Detonics Scoremasters in the waistband of his trousers.

  "Time is up —we move out," John Rourke an­nounced, Natalia hearing his voice through the headset. Her heart was beating rapidly and she felt a lightheadedness. She supposed it was action after all— "Let's go!" And John Rourke's jet black Special rocketed ahead, Natalia throttling out, just slightly behind him, Paul and Annie on the left flank, Otto Hammerschmidt on her right.

  It was a hastily conceived plan. As they entered the valley, coming down out of the rocks, they began to execute it, Paul and Annie breaking off toward the platform, Otto, Natalia falling in beside him, toward the far side of the open expanse, John Rourke going right up the middle, as he always did .

  Michael Rourke's head screamed at him with pain. He didn't know what the signal would be, for

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  the execution to begin. Michael did nothing—he didn't want to ruin Han's plan, if there was one. He could wait no longer, the ropes tensioning slowly outward,

  He tugged at the rope that led from his right wrist, the rope Han had, the rope sliding free, Michael shouting, "Han —a knife!"

  Han Lu Chen's animal wheeled, Han riding down on him, Michael reaching for the rope from his left wrist, grabbing at it as the other three horses started to run.

  The hammering of hooves, Han's saber flashing, a rope cut, Michael's left hand free now, but al-" ready he was being dragged, the rope on his right leg nearly taut as was die one from his left. He heard gunfire, automatic weapons, to his right a jet black motorcycle, coming right toward him.

  Han's saber slashed again, the rope from Mi­chael's left ankle cut, but now Michael was being dragged, hands and elbows locking around his head and face to protect it, his shirt ripping away from his body, rocks gouging at him. He could see Han, riding in the dust of the one remaining executioner, Han's pistol firing, the reins to his mount held in his teeth, the rider falling, the horse stumbling. Michael threw himself forward, grabbing at the rope with both hands, heaving it, the animal up, vaulting ahead now, Michael's arms nearly ripped from the sockets, the rope tensioned between his ankle and his hands, his body torn across the ground.

  He saw Han, trying to gain on the animal, saw the jet black motorcycle, one of the Specials, the

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  one his father rode, closing, cutting through mount­ing Mongol horsemen, Maoist soldiers kneeling to fire their rifles.

  The horse dragging Michael Rourke ran wildly onward toward the rocks, the hum of the Special louder now, nearly alongside him as Michael strug­gled to raise his head, his grip going, his hands bleeding where the rope abraded them.

  He thought he heard his father's voice, telling him, "I'm coming, son."

  The jet black Special passed him, dust flying into his face, rock chips spitting up toward him, his father's left gloved hand moving, a flash of gleaming metal, a handgun, the handgun discharging, then again and again and again, the horse slowing, the handgun still firing, the horse spilling, head first, almost cartwheeling, Michael whipped right into the path of his father's motorcycle, die Special veering just past him, skidding, his father jumping from the saddle as it spun out. Michael rolled over onto his back, his head . . .

  Natalia Tiemerovna wheeled her machine toward John Rourke, the Mongol riding up on him throw­ing away his astrakhan hat. It was Han. But from behind him, a dozen riders were bearing down toward John and Michael. Natalia worked the firing mechanism on both machineguns, their roar barely audible because of the protection afforded by the helmet, men and horses tumbling to the ground.

  To her left, Otto Hammerschmidt was driving into a knot of foot soldiers, his machineguns blazing. To her right, what seemed like an endless stream of

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  soldiers were pouring from the gates of the Second City.

  She turned the motorcycle in an almost too fast arc, activating the high explosive grenades in the rear weapons pods, launching, explosions rippling over the ground before the entrance. She arced the machine again, activating the second pod, firing the mixed smoke and gas, holding her breath as she drove through the flames where bodies burned from the high explosives, her machineguns blazing toward more riders coming down on John and Michael.

  She could see Annie and Paul, Paul's machine rocking across the steps leading onto the platform, guns blazing, white robed women there fleeing, Mongols dying. Annie was right behind him. They were going after the Russian officer, she realized.

  She thought she caught sight of Paul getting the man onto Annie's machine, then remounting. But she had to turn her machine, cutting a wedge now between a platoon strength-sized group of uni­formed soldiers and where John and Han helped Michael onto the back of John's Special.

  She read the digital counter for rounds remain­ing, both machineguns nearly emptied now. She fired a second volley from the gas and smoke pack­age, cutting a narrow arc, balancing out her ma­chine with her feet as she turned it quickly, accelerating past them again, activating the second package in the high explosives pod, the mini-gre­nades plowing across the ground as they exploded in series on impact, making the dirt and rocks between her and the soldiers rise momentarily like a wave.

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  She turned her bike, her heart beating so rapidly in her chest that she could feel it pounding against her left breast, her mouth so dry she could not swallow, pain behind her eyes.

  "I love you John" she said into her helmet radio. "I always will, love you, John. John! John!"

  Her mind, she knew, was working on two levels, on one she was rationally aware of turning her Special right and firing into a pack of Mongols on foot, but on the other level —"John . . . I'm so lonely without you, John . . . John —hold me . . . Please hold me again. Ohh please."

  "Natalia —what's the matter," his voice came back to her. His machine was moving again.

  She could hear Maria Leuden's voice. "The chief of the helicopter pilots has radioed back, Doctor Rourke. He and the other two pilots encountered a massive Soviet force closing on the Second City. Two helicopters already shot down, his on fire and out of control. We have no help coming."

  "Stay concealed in those rocks."

  "Daddy—we've got the Russian officer. He's more dead than alive, I think."

  "Head out of here."

  "John —please love me." More of the Maoist foot soldiers, firing at her, bullets bouncing off her fair­ing. Natalia fired out her machineguns and the counters readout empty.

  She stopped her machine, slinging her M-16 for­ward. "I don't — ohh, John, I hurt — Her chest was tightening and her head ached beyond any pain she had ever known as she opened fire, the M-16 to her shoulder.

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  "Natalia— get outta there —we're clear. Get outta there!"

  'John — " she kept firing, one of the M-16s empty. She let it drop on the sling to her side taking up the one on her left side, firing it from the hip.

  Terror seized her and she was crying and the rifle fell from her hands and she fell from the saddle. "John!"

  She was two people, the one who watched and the one who cried . . .

  John Rourke was listening to Natalia losing her mind. "Natalia!" But she no longer answered him.

  He slowed his Special, Otto Hammerschmidt · to his far left, but no helmet radio through which Hammerschmidt could be contacted.

  Rourke veered toward the German commando captain, pushing up the visors on his helmet, shout­ing now into the wind, "Hammerschmidt! Take Mi­chael! Hammerschmidt! I'm going back for Natalia! Hammerschmidt! Hammerschmidt!" And Ham­merschmidt's borrowed Special started to turn, Rourke's machine intersecting with it, Hammer­schmidt stopping, Rourke's machine stopping. "Take Michael!"

  "I can get her, Herr Doctor!"

  "No —only me!" Rourke was out of the saddle, shifting Michael's unconscious form onto the back of Hammerschmidt's bike, giving Hammerschmidt half the length of rope by which he had tied Michael in place. "Get up into the rocks, start marshalling people together. Get Maria on a bike. Start heading

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  out. Cut a tangent to the east and you should avoid Soviet gunships. I'll catch up to you. Be on the lookout for Han. Hurry. Paul's in charge." Rourke didn't wait for a reply, jumping back aboard his machine, pulling down the visors. He sheathed his Grain knife and stuffed the rope down inside his sweater.

  As he gunned the machine into a tight turn, Rourke rasped into his headset, "Take off out of here on a tangent from here in the direction of me First City but eastward. I'll catch up with you. Don't wait. I'm bringing Natalia."

  "Daddy — what's wrong with her — "

  "Never mind — Paul? Can you hear me?"

  "Gotchya."

  "You're running things until I catch up. Get everybody outta there quick and don't use the radio you left with Maria. They could triangulate in on us"

  "Let me-"

  "I'm doing this alone. Take care of Annie." Al­ready, Rourke's machine was bearing down on Na­talia's position, his guns still carrying over a half load.

  Behind him, troops were pouring from inside the Second City. He decided to fix that, activated the high explosive weapons pod, blowing out the first package, the ground vibrating around him and, as he glanced back, smoke and flames belching sky­ward.

  "John - I'm -John -John -John - "

  Natalia's voice.

  Rourke cut a swath between her position and the

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  advancing Maoist regulars, firing off the second high explosive package, driving them back. Han was riding toward her on horseback.

  Rourke arced back right, throwing up his visors. "Han! Take Natalia's machine! Han!"

  The Chinese Intelligence agent waved back at him, his mount drawing up short as he dropped from the saddle, falling prone beside Natalia, grab­bing up one of her M-16s and firing, drawing her back behind her machine, firing again, the M-16 empty now, Rourke looking back, the Maoist regu­lars advancing once more. Rourke fired one of the gas/smoke mixes, to hold them off.

  And, with his visors raised, he could hear some­thing in the sky above. As he looked up, the sky seemed black with the insect-like shapes of Soviet gunships, strafing runs starting across the ground, Rourke accelerating, cutting a wide arc around Na­talia and Han, decelerating, braking, skidding the machine to a halt, jumping from it as he put out the stand.

  Rourke skidded to his knees beside Natalia and Han Lu Chen, a Scoremaster in each fist. He fired them out through the smoke and clouds of gas toward the advancing Maoist foot soldiers.

  "You take Natalia's bike. Get out of here. Head away from here on a tangent to the east. Catch up with the others. I'll be right behind you. I think her weapons systems are exhausted, so just drive like hell."

  "I have never — "

  "Twist the right hand grip and it's the throttle, work the left side and it's the brakes. Once you

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  catch up, let Maria Leuden drive, you ride behind. Don't let the speedometer get up over sixty and don't try to do anything abruptly. Otherwise, just like riding a horse. Help me with Natalia. Hurry."

  Her voice droned on and on in his head, 'John — John-"

  He was into the saddle, Han balancing Natalia behind him. "Now —Natalia —" He pushed up her visor. "Can you hear me."

  Tears streamed from her eyes, the eyes widely dilated, her neck vibrating with her pulse. If she heard him, she didn't know it.

  John Rourke had planned ahead, using only half the rope. "Tie her to my shoulders. Hurry!"

  Rourke took the rope ends, tied them himself, Han running for Natalia's machine. Rourke pulled down the visor, pushed down hers, strafing runs from above, gunfire from the Chinese troops on the ground. They thought that his attack had been part of the Soviet attack, he realized, gunning the Spe­cial.

  Han was into the saddle, the Special almost lurching out from beneath him. But Han held on, low over the handlebars, the machine zigzagging maddeningly.

  John Rourke spoke into his headset. "Natalia — hold on, darling," and he let the Special out, cutting in behind Han Lu Chen, Han's machine evening out, speeding away, Rourke holding back.

  Han was nearly to the edge of the valley, Soviet gunships hovering there, ropes dropping from them, black clad Elite Corps airborne elements rappelling fluidly to the ground.

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  Han was clear.

  Rourke looked back. The only way out lay through the Maoists and Mongols, the way he'd come in.

  Rourke checked his fairing mounted guns. Maybe enough ammo. One more package of smoke and gas. The 629, his M-16, the two Detonics Mini-guns still loaded.

  He whispered to Natalia, so that only she would hear. "And I've always loved you."

  She kept crying, moaning his name.

  Rourke began to accelerate, working the machine­guns in short bursts, the ground around him fur­rowing under strafing runs from the Soviet gunships above, Maoists and Mongols in front of him and on either side firing handguns and rifles, bullets whin­ing off the fairing, his head reeling, his ears ring­ing—he realized a bullet had glanced off his helmet. He kept the Special rolling, faster and faster, the digital speedometer at forty now,

  A concentration of Mongols closing in behind him on horseback, rifles firing after him. They could hit Natalia. Rourke activated his last smoke and gas package, accelerating now, to sixty, firing his machineguns, firing, firing, the dead falling in waves before him.

  A Soviet gunship was directly over him, he real­ized, machinegun fire on both sides of him, explo­sions rocking the ground on either side.

  He freed his right hand for an instant, drawing the 629, shifting it to his left. He throttled up, the helicopter matching his speed, Rourke rammed the revolver into his belt and braked, the helicopter

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  passing over him, the revolver back in his fist. He stabbed it toward the gunship's underbelly and fired, then again and again, aiming for the rotor now, firing it out, the helicopter veering suddenly to starboard, whether it was hit or not he didn't know.

  The revolver into his belt, He gunned the Special ahead, his left hand snatching at one of the mini-guns in the double Alessi rig. A Mongol hurtled himself down from the saddle, Rourke firing into the Mongol's face, the Special bumping up and over the body.

  A Maoist officer with an assault rifle, spraying toward them, Rourke's right arm stinging with a grazing hit, the Special wobbling under him. Rourke fired out the little Detonics Combat Master into the officer's chest, then dropped the little pistol into a stowage compartment in the fairing.

  The ground was beginning to rise, the rocks ahead. An explosion threw up a shower of dirt and gravel. Rourke accelerated. A Soviet gunship crossed nearly at eye level in front of him and he swerved the Special, accelerated out of the skid, up into the rocks,

 

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