Ahern, Jerry - Survivalist 16 - The Arsenal

VIP免费

2024-12-08 0 0 1008.51KB 109 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

SURVIVALIST #16

THE ARSENAL

JERRY AHERN

ZEBRA BOOKS KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

ZEBRA BOOKS

Published by

Kensington Publishing Corp. 475 Park Avenue South New York, NY

10016

prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

First printing: May, 1988

Printed in the United States of America

For our old pal Neal James — best wishes for everything. . .

Any resemblence to a person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

John Rourke opened his eyes but remained perfectly still. The sound he had heard —a

footfall in the sitting room outside their bedroom? But more than that. As if something had

bumped against a wall or piece of furniture. Instantly, but so slowly that if he were being

watched it would be virtually imperceptible, his right hand started to drift from over his

abdomen where it had lain as he awakened. A smile crossed his lips —"things that go

bump in the night." Sometimes pleasant, sometimes deadly.

His relationship with Sarah had sometimes been very pleasant and was so again. In the

days before their marriage had started having the problems that had almost but not quite

split them apart forever, Sarah had joked with him often about how waking him up in the

morning could be so difficult; yet, if there were the slightest out-of-the-ordinary night

sound, he would come instantly awake, instantly alert.

John Rourke told his wife that he didn't know why his mind and body worked that way,

but was glad that they did; that perhaps it was some primordial response in the human

subconscious that was only triggered by potential danger. Predatory animals had it and

man was a predator. Like the big cats that had once prowled the earth, man found himself a

lair, a secure place to sleep, to nurture his young, to dial down but never turn off those

instincts which kept him alive in the world outside.

Sarah slept beside him now, on her back, her head turned to the side, facing toward

him, her eyelids moving once as he looked at her out of the far left edge of his peripheral

vision. The light sheet which covered their bodies outlined the still comparatively slight

engorgement of her breasts, the more noticeable enlargement of her abdomen. She was

nearly through the first trimester of her pregnancy.

He had never slept with a gun under his pillow with any degree of regularity for the

simple fact that guns, no matter how small or how flat, were hard and contributed to a

restless sleep. But he had developed the habit years ago of sleeping with a gun in instant

reach of his hand, whether on a nightstand beside his bed, inside his sleeping bag or tucked

into a shoe or boot beside him. His hand was still drifting. Slowly now, John Rourke

moved his right hand and arm over the edge of the bed toward the leather sandals he had

worn earlier in the evening after removing his combat boots. One of the twin stainless

Detonics .45s was resting just inside the right one and the distended fingers of his right

hand touched at the worn surface of the black checkered rubber Pach-mayr grips.

Even though the Chinese were exceedingly friendly, were in fact allies against the

Soviet forces, this suite of rooms in the Chairman's formal residence was not The Retreat

and so he had kept the little Detonics Combat Master chamber loaded as was its twin on the

seat of the high fan-backed "Sidney Greenstreet" chair a few paces across the room. His

right fist closed over the pistol and he kept his arm motionless for an instant longer.

Another sound —this a footfall certainly.

His right arm flexed and he drew the pistol up beside him, his right thumb over the

short spur of the hammer, his fist closed tight around the butt. He coughed and rolled over

slightly, manufacturing sound to mask the

telltale clicking as he drew the little .45's hammer from rest to full cock. He moved his

legs quickly now —out of the bed, onto his bare feet, the pistol in his right fist shifting into

his left so he could keep the muzzle toward the open doorway connecting the bedroom to

the sitting room just beyond.

In two strides he was to the chair, his right fist closing over the butt of the second

Detonics, his thumb drawing the hammer to full stand as he brought the muzzle up. He

glanced at Sarah on the bed. If he awakened her, she might be in greater danger. And if his

ears were playing tricks on his survival instincts, all the better reason not to arouse her

—yet.

He moved toward the door, naked still, no time to skin into his pants.

Logic in such a situation as this dictated letting the intruder come to you. But if there

were indeed an intruder or intruders, he could not let them come so close that Sarah and the

baby in her womb would be in jeopardy.

John Rourke stood at the doorway. He held his breath. He listened.

He heard nothing. But he felt something without physically feeling it, the sixth sense

so often spoken of almost fearfully, as if it were a touch of the unknown.

He backed toward the bed in long, quick strides, realizing he must make logic fit the

situation. Cocked and locked, he set the Detonics from his right fist beside his right knee as

he slipped onto the bed, his right hand closing over Sarah's mouth, her eyes opening

instantly as she inhaled. He touched the trigger finger of his left hand to his lips and she

blinked her eyes wide to indicate that she understood. Slowly, he moved his hand away

from her mouth. She started to sit up, looking at him quizzically in the semi-darkness. He

nodded and leaned back, both pistols in his fists again as Sarah rose slowly

and eased out from beneath the sheet. She moved normally, not yet restricted by the

baby. Her right hand moved to the bedside table and he could make out the Detonics-like

shape of her Trapper Scorpion .45.

Rourke eyed the doorway, then gestured toward the bathroom. His wife shook her

head vigorously. He gestured toward the bathroom again and after an instant's hesitation,

she nodded and, barefoot, her ankle-length nightgown gathered up in her left hand, her

pistol in her right, started for the bathroom.

John Rourke moved across the bedroom toward the chest of drawers. It was made of a

type of metal that seemed reasonably heavy and cosmetically resembled wood. He

crouched behind it, waiting. Before The Night of The War, when he had traveled

considerably teaching survivalism and weapons training, he had spent many nights in hotel

rooms across the world and continued the practice he had begun when he had gone on his

first overseas assignment as what was euphemistically called a "case officer" for the

United States Central Intelligence Agency. Immediately upon entering a room, if for some

reason he was forced to travel unarmed, find suitable objects within the room that could be

utilized as impromptu weapons —a lamp cord gar-rote, a complimentary magazine or

newspaper that could be rolled tightly and used as a thrusting implement, an easily

removed flush tank lid that could be. used as an effective bludgeon, however unwieldy. It

would only need to be used once. But when he was armed, which had been most of the time,

the first order of business, after the usual thing of checking locks, fire and emergency

escape routes and the like, was to select the best defensive position the room afforded. And

it would usually devolve to a dresser or chest of drawers. Hotel dressers were most often

long and low, giving considerable material through which an enemy bullet would have

to travel before reaching him, slowing it down or deflecting it or, in the older hotels

with the more solidly built furniture, perhaps stopping it entirely; and low enough to shoot

over in order to return fire. There had been no such dresser in this bedroom, but the chest of

drawers had seemed at least marginally adequate.

His eyes were wide open in the gray light and he realized a possible tactical flaw,

setting one of the pistols on the floor tiles beside him and reaching up slowly to the top of

the dresser. He found his dark-lensed aviator style sunglasses and put them on, then took

up the second pistol again.

The luminosity of his black-faced Rolex Submariner glowed dully green.

John Rourke waited.

There was a loud thudding sound and in the same instant three men burst through the

open doorway and into the room, dark clad, each of them armed with what looked like

submachineguns or bullpup assault rifles, spotlights locked beneath them, flicking on,

bathing the room in white light that would have momentarily blinded him if he hadn't

thought of the sunglasses. They fired, the bullets from the automatic weapons in their

hands ripping through the bed where only seconds before Sarah had lain. The furthest away

of the three men in the room—John Rourke stabbed both twin Detonics pistols toward the

man and fired, one round from each, slapping the man against the doorframe beside which

he had been firing a split second earlier, his assault rifle still on full auto, spraying into the

ceiling, the light secured beneath the gun dancing wildly. The second and third men started

to turn toward Rourke now, but Rourke was already firing again, both pistols

simultaneously, chunks of the ceiling raining down around them, the center man

staggering back, the third man's body twisting right. Rourke had fired for the right side of

the third

nan's body so the impact of the 185-grain jacketed hollow point would push man and

muzzle in the opposite direction from him. The light from the third man's weapon

illuminated the first man's face for an instant. Rourke fired each pistol again as the first

man slumped on the floor, his weapon silent, the other two men still firing. Rourke's shots

impacted the second man in the upper portion of the chest or in the thorax. And the rolling

beams from the flashes mounted beneath the weapons and the clouds of dust from the

plaster-like substance which had made up the ceiling surface made visibility even worse,

all movement as if in slow motion, jerky, like something out of an old silent film. Rourke's

hit hammered the third man through the doorway and into the room beyond.

John Rourke was up, moving, three shots left in each pistol as he kicked the weapon

away from the second man, sidestepped and impacted the heel of his left foot against the

base of the man's nose. The first man was clearly dead, eyes wide as Rourke caught a

glimpse of the face in the light from the second rifle as it skidded across the floor.

Rourke stood beside the doorframe, listening. The third man had only one slug in him

and might still be able to fire. Rourke thrust the pistol in his left fist through the doorway,

not firing, but counting on attracting fire if the man were still capable of shooting.

There was no response.

Rourke dropped to his knees, a sticky wetness of Blood against his bare skin. He

caught up the man whose nose he had broken, then driven up into the brain, beneath the

armpits, hauling him near, then pushing him erect along the doorframe as Rourke himself

stood.

It was too dark to see faces clearly, even guess at the uniforms beyond the fact that

they were dark-colored.

Maybe too dark to tell a naked man from one who was clothed. Rourke threw the body

through the doorway and there was gunfire, Rourke throwing himself through the doorway

after the already dead man, his eyes finding the muzzle flashes and as he came out of the

roll, both pistols firing. There was a scream, a blast of automatic weapons fire into the floor

and the sound of a body falling.

Two rounds remained in each of John Rourke's pistols.

He moved across the floor on knees and elbows, the tiles cold against his skin, his

right elbow finding the wall beside the doorway.

Slowly, he raised to full height.

"John?" It was Sarah calling but he didn't answer her.

His right elbow flicked against the light switch and he threw himself toward where he

remembered the couch to be, his left shoulder impacting it, his eyes tight shut for the

instant the light came on, then opening as he rolled, squinted despite the dark lensed

glasses.

There was no gunfire.

Both pistols preceded him from behind the couch.

The third man lay dead on the floor, the second man dead a few feet away. Rourke

looked toward the doorway, seeing the booted foot of the first man.

It was a Russian boot, the kind issued to the KGB Elite Corps.

"John!"

"Stay where you are for a second —do it!" He walked toward the door between the

suite and corridor, kicking away the third man's weapon. The door was part way open and

he hit it with his right foot and it swung inward as he stepped back.

No enemy in the hallway.

A suicide assassination team. He could hear and as he removed his glasses now see

Chinese guards running

from beyond the bend of the corridor toward the suite. Han, the Chinese Secret

Service agent who had proven so valuable a man to his son and to himself, ran half-dressed

at their lead. Rourke sagged back against the doorframe. The Russians had sent a suicide

team into the First Chinese City —he and Sarah had been the targets.

"It's all right, Sarah!" Rourke shouted. But it wasn't all right at all.

And in the next instant she was beside him and taking his pistols from him so he could

slip into a robe. Michael. Annie. Paul. Natalia. "Here —stay with Han," Rourke rasped, his

left fist closing over Sarah's pistol, almost ripping it from her hand, the web of his own

hand interposed between the hammer and the frame in case the trigger should trip.

His robe as yet untied, flying open, Rourke dodged into the corridor and sprinted

down its length, Sarah screaming after him. "John!"

"Michael and Annie!" And as he glanced back, Rourke saw her, barefoot, her

nightgown bunched up to her knees. Sarah was running after him. But in his mind he saw

the surreal blueness of another woman's eyes . . .

The man was very tall and strongly built, the blond hair on his arms thick but little hair

yet over his kidneys; but he was very young. Despite the fact of his youth, he might still

prove an interesting match for the dogs.

The torches flickered. The Mongols fell silent. Mao's face was impassive but the

bright blackness in his deep-set eyes betrayed the mixture of emotions which flowed surely

through him now: pain and pleasure intermingled with pleasure from pain.

The man had been found wandering, wounded, and his wounds had been dressed and

he had been given over

to Xaan-Chu. The man had revealed that he was a Russian ordinary soldier and that he

had escaped following a terrible battle and wandered until the warriors had come upon him.

The Russian had recounted his fright at the first sight of the martial Oriental visages and

when Xaan-Chu had relayed that portion of the Russian soldier's account it had

precipitated much laughter, however subdued. The mercenary class were indeed, at times,

appalling in their appearance, ferocity of look and demeanor, something they cultivated as

assiduously as the Maidens of The Sun cultivated quietness and civility and obedience; and,

of course, their reflected radiance.

The man had recounted many strange tales, wondrous if they were to be believed and

amusing at the least. And the motivation for his garrulousness seemed transparently

obvious: he had deemed it impossible to resist the will of Xaan-Chu, perhaps too desiring

to make himself important and therefore of sufficient value to ensure that his miserable life

would be prolonged.

He could never have made himself that important.

Among the soldier's stories had been one which had sounded most intriguing, however,

and at once the least likely to contain even a grain of truth.

It was the tale of two men who had been enemies for five centuries- Their battle, of

heroic proportions as the Russian soldier had told it, had begun in the short era which

spanned the period between the Great War of Nuclear Annihilation and The Firestorm. The

two men had both survived. One had been Russian and the other, also a mongrel, had been

American. They had fought many battles, these two, and finally they fought their last

battle.

That someone could have survived from the earlier period was hardly to be believed,

but it made for a strange story. And the two characters in it —there were

other characters to be sure woven into the soldier's tale, but of lesser importance

—were interesting in the extreme. One had been named Vladmir Karamatsov and the

Russian soldier had referred to him as "The Hero Marshal." The name of the other one,

who survived the final battle between them, had been John Rourke, called "Doctor"

The self-proclaimed Russian soldier stood now beside the pit, his muscles rippling

above and below the covering he had been given for his genital's. Mao's eyes seemed

unable to shift their gaze. The bandages were in place, still protecting the Russian's wounds.

Yet, despite his imposing physique and the fact that he was a soldier and presumably had

the benefit of some training in proper conduct in the face of death and, added to that, recent

battle experience, when Xaan-Chu approached him and invited him to jump into the pit, he

puddled the ground between his legs and attempted to cling to Xaan-Chu, crying like a

woman.

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

SURVIVALIST#16THEARSENALJERRYAHERNZEBRABOOKSKENSINGTONPUBLISHINGCORP.ZEBRABOOKSPublishedbyKensingtonPublishingCorp.475ParkAvenueSouthNewYork,NY10016Copyright©1988byJerryAHERMAllrightsreserved.NopartofthisbookmaybereproducedinanyformorbyanymeanswithoutthepriorwrittenconsentofthePublisher,exceptingbri...

展开>> 收起<<

Ahern, Jerry - Survivalist 16 - The Arsenal.pdf

共109页,预览6页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Ahern, Jerry - Survivalist 16 - The Arsenal

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: