The Quest

Chapter 22

Rourke had hidden the Harley and his weapons in the railroad yard by the end of town. With the explosions still ringing in the distance, he edged toward the area cautiously through the tall grass and weeds, the reddish clay under his feet giving because of the dampness of the ground. He could see two of Reed’s men left behind with the equipment. He edged closer to them and, in a low voice, called out. The men turned, guns ready, but the muzzles already lowering as Rourke rose from his crouch and ran across the few yards separating them.

“What the hell is goin’ on in that town—Fourth of July or a war?”

“A little of both, I guess,” Rourke answered, sitting in the grass despite the dampness, shucking off the cowboy boots and exchanging them for his black combat boots. “Bradley’s dead—shot by some Soviet trooper—but I got the guy. Reed and the others are okay. He made contact with the Resistance, I’m almost certain.” Rourke scraped most of the mud off the cowboy boots, slipped them into a plastic bag, and secured them inside the Lowe pack on the back of the Harley, then scrounged out his weapons, checking the twin Detonics pistols, the Government .45, and the CAR-15. “We can wait a little while, but not too long—I don’t want the Russians slamming up roadblocks and putting out more patrols and us getting boxed in.” Rourke slipped on the brown leather jacket over his double Alessi holster, then left the bike, starting toward one of the crumbling concrete pylons supporting the railroad trestle. He noticed Reed’s two men behind him.

“You,” Rourke said to the nearest man, not remembering his name and not bothering to read the cloth tag sewn onto his cammie fatigues. “Go over there to my left, on the far side in the weeds and wait. Keep that intersection as your field of fire.” He turned to the other man, pointed along the railroad tracks, and rasped, “You take up a position about fifty yards down there and spot the road. I’ll keep an eye out here. And don’t get overeager and shoot anything that moves; there’re a lot of civilians out there, hmm?” As both men left, Rourke crouched in the grass, the CAR-15 across his lap, the scope covers off and the stock extended. He could hear the wind despite the distant rumblings from the city, and as he watched beyond the tracks for some sign of Reed or the others, or for some sign of Russian troops, he reviewed what had happened. Once the young Russian officer had come up to him, it meant an arrest—and if nothing else a short period of detention.

But, more likely, Rourke thought, it meant his identification. He was certain that after he’d helped President Chambers break out from the KGB Texas stronghold, all KGB units had the Soviet equivalent of a rap sheet on him—a physical description at the least and, likely, a photo of him fished from old KGB files when he’d been on the CIA active list years before. And that young girl, Rourke thought, the one with the pansy eyes—there’d been a look of fear in her eyes, the same look he’d seen in the eyes of the people he and Bradley had run past when the Soviet troops had been pursuing them. The people in Athens, Rourke thought bitterly, probably the people in any occupied American city needed something to show them the Soviets weren’t invincible. Rourke smiled. He knew they weren’t.

Rourke dropped on the ground, the butt of the CAR-15 swinging up to his shoulder, the crosshairs of the three power scope settling on something moving on the far side of the triple crossroads beyond the tracks. It was hard to see clearly because the road curved deeply and was partially out of view.

He saw the movement again, wishing the Steyr-Mannlicher SSG were with him rather than at the retreat because of the doubleset triggers, the tolerances in the barrel and the action. You could make reliable hits with the SSG out to a thousand yards and sometimes beyond. A smile crossed his lips. The semi-automatic version of Colonel Colt’s little assault rifle would have to do. As he watched across the eye relief into and through the scope, he thought about the gun for a moment—there were more expensive assault type sporters than the CAR-15, but for his use, none he truly liked better—spare parts, spare magazines, ammunition, all were out there to be found, scrounged from a military rifle, whatever. And, despite his comparatively vast experience with weapons, Rourke abhorred guns that were complicated to clean or maintain.

He saw the movement again, this time clearly through the scope tube, then relaxed. It was Reed, and not far behind him—Rourke swept the scope along—were the two other men who had been with him. And behind them—Rourke settled the crosshairs on the awkwardly moving man—was a fourth figure. The figure turned; Rourke caught the face under the objective lens—Darren Ball, prosthetic leg and all.

Rourke leaned back in the tall grass and stared skyward. He wondered without verbalizing it if Darren Ball and men like himself as well had been more a cause for the problems that had brought the war—more a cause than a solution. Then he thought back to the girl with the pansy-colored eyes: there was no reason for fear, no reason why it should be endured or allowed to grow. Ball, in his own way as an anti-Communist mercenary, had fought that fear. Rourke had fought it in the CIA, since by working against the ignorance that helped fear that made men in situations where their lives and other lives were at stake do the wrong thing, or fear to do anything because it could be wrong.

Rourke shook his head, got back into a crouch, a smile crossing his lips, his hands almost without conscious will collapsing the stock on the CAR-15, replacing the elastic connected scope covers, flicking the CAR-15’s safety to the on position. He edged along the grass toward the nearest of the concrete pylons and stood up to his full height, waiting.

It took a full three minutes by the face of the Rolex Submariner for Ball, Reed, and the others to reach the railroad trestle. Already Rourke was getting edgey over the protracted time. Rourke signaled the men as they approached, waving them over by the crumpling pylon, Ball’s face creasing into a smile as he saw Rourke. The man limped forward, short of breath. “John! Hell man, I thought they’d gotten you!” The two men shook hands, then Rourke said, “Darren, have you heard anything?”

“Reed already asked me,” Ball said.

Rourke looked at Reed and nodded. Rourke added, “Well—have you?”

“All I know is somebody told me as they passed by your place the end of the first day after the war—saw a bunch of tire tracks and some hoof prints from maybe four or five horses—fella wasn’t sure on that. The house was burned down, but it was still hot. Coupl’a bodies too, some burned up, some not—three, maybe four, people, one of them a woman. Found a couple of guns burned up in the house—they yours?” “No. All I had at the house was a shotgun and a .45. Sarah probably took those—least I hope she did,” Rourke added.

“She doesn’t know where that fancy-dan retreat of yours is, huh?”

Rourke looked at Ball, saying, “She could have, but we never got around to it. I’m the only one who knows,” he said, intentionally neglecting to mention Paul Rubenstein. He didn’t know how far he wanted to trust Ball, despite their long-standing semi-friendship.

“Well, I’ll put the word out to look for her—and the kids. Now what do you want in Athens besides causing trouble?” Rourke smiled, then his voice low, said, “Ask these guys—they’ve got the big ideas. I’m just the native guide.” Ball laughed, then turned to Reed. “You want that Jim Colfax—tonight’s the best time to do your askin’—and you guys can give us a hand.” He looked at Rourke.

Rourke looked up from his watch. “Let’s cut the small talk—time’s wasting.”

“I’ll make it short then,” Ball said, his whiskey voice almost hiding a laugh. “We got a raid planned tonight—a biggee. I can’t go, but Rourke—if you go and bring some of these fellas along, well—I’ll make certain the whole Resistance network has the poop on Sarah and the kids—and on Colfax.” Ball, edging painfully it appeared on his false leg, glanced at Reed.

“Where?” Rourke said, cutting off Reed before the Army Intelligence man could speak.

“Nine o’clock or so at the old drive-in down the highway. You know the place?”

“Yeah,” Rourke sighed. “.Check your watch against mine.”

Ball pulled from his jeans pocket a wristwatch with a broken band. Comparing their times, Rourke was about ten minutes fast.

“I’ll go by your time,” Rourke rasped.

“Hey, John?” Ball said as Rourke turned to move back toward the Harley.

Rourke looked at him, saying, “I forgot to say thanks for the fireworks—bailed me out, Darren.”

“You cost us, John. Full dress tonight. There’s gonna be a lot of killin’.”

Rourke looked at Ball, watched the gray eyes, smiled, and just shook his head and started for the Harley. “A lot of killing,” he muttered under his breath. He would have thought there’d been enough of that despite the fact that it was a likely consequence it would have at least ceased to be a preoccupation.

Killing. Some people never changed, Rourke thought.