Ahern, Jerry - The Web

She reached into the pack, pulling out her skirt.

She put it around her waist, buttoning it once, then again at the waistline in the front. From the pack, she extracted a pair of black high heels, stepped into them, and stuffed everything into the pack, closing it. She released the straps on the pack, hooking them together to form a single strap. She ran her left hand through her hair, then listened at the door—no sound. She opened it a crack, saw no one in the hali and stepped out of the closet. She realized she had forgotten the gloves, then quickly pulled them off, stuffing them into the backpack converted now into a large black shoulder bag.

She could hear running feet in the hall as she looked down at herself, smoothing the skirt, then reaching up to retie the bow on the collar of the white blouse she'd worn under the jump suit.

She turned, she hoped at the dramatically correct moment, and confronted the guard before he could confront her.

"What is going on, Corporal?"

"Comrade Major Tiemerovna, a man—someone from ihe Resistance apparently.

There was an attempt to break into Comrade Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy's office."

"An attempt?"

"Yes, Comrade Major. The alarm system sounded

before anything could be disturbed—Comrade Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy has himself said this. He was just returning when the intruder was discovered."

"Thank goodness." She smiled. Then she let her smile fade, saying to the guard corporal, "You have your rifle but I am unarmed. Give me your pistol and I will search with you, Comrade."

"Thank you, Comrade Major!" The young man's face beamed.

"Sleeping," Rourke murmured. That he could think, that he had awakened told him it was nearly time for another dose. He knew now just what that was—a muscle relaxant to keep him immobile and morphine to keep him high, drunk. The combination could kill him. If he could convince her of that .

. . His mind worked again, but he felt himself moving like a drunkard as he tried to edge over on the cot. If she stopped administering one or the other, he would have a chance to fight the freshly administered drug and the drugs in his system. She would have an antidote, a muscle-relaxer block of some kind, and probably Narcan or something like it to counteract the morphine build-up.

"Respiratory distress,' he murmured.

He felt a smile cross his lips, laughed with it. Alcohol had never made him feel so drunk. Rubenstein hadn't been this drunk that time . . . Where was it? he asked himself mentally.

Natalia had been pretty drunk ... or had she been? Sarah had never drunk to excess in her life; when she drank even a little, it simply made her sleepy.

'Sarah." He smiled, then remembered. They had

gone—and here." He watched as she raised a hypodermic and squirted out a good third of the contents. "A milder dose this time and you'll just rest."

Rourke closed his eyes—not able to help it. He knew he was drunk. He felt like singing because he was so happy she had bought his act. He twitched once in his sleep, feeling the needle go into his arm again. . . .

Lamazed for both children, Sarah having used the natural childbirth technique, which was really only erroneously called that. It was controlled childbirth— you controlled it with breathing. But you had to learn the breathing techniques well. His mind was wandering and he couldn't organize his thoughts. "Breathing," he murmured, squinting against the overhead basement light. He could make himself appear to be in respiratory distress by hyperventilating.

He started breathing, panting, blowing, panting— building up the oxygen level in his bloodstream. The oxygen would also serve to fight off the drugs by burning them off, out of his system as he respirated.

Floaters appeared in front of his eyes, a cold wash of nausea swept through him, and again he leaned over the side of the cot and vomited, his head barely able to move. "John! Are you ill?"

"Breathe," he gasped, panting now more than before despite the fact it was actually starting to make him hyperventilate.

"John—my God. I was afraid of this. You aren't supposed to— Here." She began massaging his chest, then started to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He felt her lips against his, felt the rush of air making him choke. He coughed and felt her rolling his head to the side. He vomited again, but nothing came out.

"I'm going to give you this." She reached into a small black leather case and extracted a hypodermic. "This will block the effect of the muscle relaxant I gave you. It'll take effect almost immediately."

He felt the needle, closing his eyes against it and the pain in his already sore arm. "I'll wait with you beforel give you more morphine—once the muscle relaxant is

Sarah Rourke shivered, despite the warmth from the truck's heater, despite the fact the children, wrapped in their blankets, were warm now.

She had found an M-under the seat; it said M-on the side. It looked identical to the rifle she had lost so she now adopted it as her own.

She shivered because of what she was doing. She drove the main roads, passing into Tennessee now, and the main roads could mean Soviet troops or Brigands. She knew.that Chattanooga had been neutron-bombed; by now it would be safe to drive near or through.

The ground dropped sharply as she saw Chattanooga for the first time—no smoke from its chimneys, no cars. The road angled sharply left and she cut her speed slightly as she made the curve; the pickup's steering was not the world's best, she had decided.

As she started out of the curve, she glanced across at Michael and Annie.

They slept in each other's arms.

She looked back at the road. She sucked in her breaib, almost screaming.

A hundred yards ahead, perhaps—judging distance accurately had never been her strong point, she knew—

and the road was flanked on the right by the end of a long-reaching column of trucks and other vehicles, motorcycles parked near them. The men standing near the trucks and motorcycles were Soviet troops.

She glanced at the children. They were asleep and she'd let them stay that way.

She slipped the M-under the seat, then pulled her . and cocked the hammer, locking up the thumb safety catch, then sliding it under her right thigh. She kept driving, not speeding her pace, not slowing. She noticed the quizzical expressions on the faces of some of the Soviet soldiers who turned toward her as she passed.

One young man waved and she waved back, suddenly glancing in the mirror at her hair. It was greasy-looking from being wet so long. She ran her right hand through it. She kept driving.

She made a mental count of the vehicles—in case she reached the Mulliner farm. She could tell Mary's son and he could pass the information Jo U.S.

Intelligence through the Resistance group he worked with.

"Eighty-one, eight-two, eight-three—" She stomped on the brake pedal, almost forgetting the clutch, not knowing what else to do when six soldiers with rifles stepped in front of her truck. The one who seemed the oldest raised his right hand in a gesture for her to stop.

Her blood froze.

Glancing into the rear-view, she saw, through the bullet-holed window, men closing ranks behind her.

The older man approached her truck on the driver's side.

She rolled down the window.

His English was heavily accented but perfectly understandable to her.

Your papers—travel permits."

"They are lovely children there. I must see your papers, madam."

She glanced at Michael and Annie, still sleeping. "Thank you—rny son and daughter."

"Your papers, madam." He smiled, his right hand outstretched.

She could shoot him, she thought—but then, Michael and Annie would be killed when all the others with their rifles and handguns would shoot back.