Ahern, Jerry - The Quest

Rourke gestured to Rubenstein, then pointed out into the clearing toward where the firing squad was formed. The Resistance people were already straggling toward it. He pointed toward his own mouth and opened it wide as though shouting, pointed to the AK-47 in Rubenstein’s hands, then held his own hands, as if holding some kind of invisible submachine gun, then swept the imaginary weapon from side to side, then pointed back at the ranked firing squad. Rubenstein nodded grimly.

Rourke signaled with his fingers, a walking motion to Rubenstein and then pointed along the tree line. Again, the younger man nodded. Rourke snatched up the CAR-15 and removed the scope covers, then pushed himself up into a crouch and started off to the right, toward the stand of pines serving as the backstop for the firing squad’s bullets.

Rourke reached the trees, flattening himself behind one as best he could, glancing down to his weapon, slowly, as noislessly as possible, telescoping the collapsible stock, entwining his left arm in the sling—a hasty sling—looking right and left, then edging forward.

The Resistance fighters and Reed and his men partially shielded Rourke, he realized, from the view of the firing squad as he raced in a low crouch toward the center of the stand.

Rourke could hear the commands to the firing squad: “Ready!”

Rourke heard the actions of the strange assortment of weapons being worked, through the trees in the clearing beyond he could see the Russian guards who had escorted the hostages drawing back. He could see Korcinski, the greatcoat open, the swagger stick braced in his gloved hands, then slowly raising in his right hand.

“Aim!” another officer’s voice shouted.

Rourke could see the swagger stick at full elevation, watched the muscles on Korcinski’s face tense as Rourke settled the crosshairs beyond the face at the hand holding the swagger stick.

Rourke, on one knee in the densest portion of the stand of pines, shouted, “Reed, Fulsom, Ball—hit the dirt!” He fired, his first slug kicking at the swagger stick in Korcinski’s gloved right hand, Korcinski falling back. Rourke swept the scope to Korcinski’s head, Rubenstein’s gunfire with the AK-47 already mowing into the line of executioners, some of the men running and throwing down the unfamiliar weapons they held, some starting to shoot back.

Rourke fired the CAR-15 again, this time the 5.56mm solid punching in at the peak of Korcinski’s hat, the hat blowing off Korcinski’s head. Rourke shouted, “Next one kills you—call a ceasefire!” He watched Korcinski’s head through the glass of the scope, bullets whizzing into trees around him, then above the clatter of gunfire Rourke heard Korcinski shout, watching the lips move through the scope; “Cease fire! Immediately! Cease fire!” The gunfire slowly waned, Rourke, the rifle shouldered, rising to his feet, Korcinski’s head still under his crosshairs.

Rourke shouted, “Reed, you and the rest of the men get your weapons and gear. Disarm the Russians—move it!” At the back of his mind Rourke realized the gunfire might bring more of the Soviet troops down on him, or perhaps one of the Russians out there would take it into his head to become a hero and snatch up a gun and start shooting. “Hurry!” Rourke shouted hoarsely, moving slowly through the trees toward Korcinski, the scope never leaving Korcinski’s head. “Korcinski,” Rourke rasped, then in Russian said, “Tell your men that if there are any thoughts of heroics to forget them—you will be the first to die—I promise. A bullet right in the head.” Korcinski, his jaw dropping, shouted to his men, “Do as he says!”

Rourke stopped walking, ten feet from the Russian, slowly lowering the rifle, collapsing the stock, holding it dead level on Korcinski.

He heard Reed’s voice, “All right—line ‘em all up so we can get out of here.”

“Kill ‘em,” Darren Ball shouted.

Rourke glanced to his left briefly, saw Ball raising an AR-15 toward the face of a Soviet lieutenant.

“Move and you’re dead,” Rourke snapped to Korcinski, then wheeled to his left, snapping off two quick shots with the CAR-15 splintering the black synthetic buttstock of the rifle, Ball spinning toward him.

Rourke shifted the CAR-15 to his left hand, snatching the Metalifed Government Model Colt from the hip holster and jerking back the hammer, the gun aimed at Korcinski’s midsection. Rourke’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men.

“What the hell you do that for?” Ball snapped.

“You were going to execute that man,” Rourke said, his voice low.

“So, what the hell?”

“So,” Rourke answered slowly, “murder isn’t any better if you’re doing it, or they’re doing it. Touch a gun to anyone and I’ll drop you—I swear it.” “Mr. Good Guy, huh? Bullshit!”

Rourke stared at Ball’s eyes. “You’ve got a pistol in your belt; try using it.”

Ball’s right hand edged half way to his belt line, the shattered buttstock of the rifle in pieces at his feet. “Try using it,” Rourke repeated. If he and Ball were to have it out, Rourke wanted it now.

“No,” Ball rasped. “No, I heard why they let you go, what you did to Karamatsov—no, not now, not ever.” Rourke turned his attention back toward Korcinski, the Russian, in English, saying, “Strange behavior for Varakov’s private assassin. Karamatsov was—what is the word?—a bastard, I think.” “More or less,” Rourke commented, his voice low. “You’re no prince yourself, though.”

Then, turning and shouting over his shoulder, Rourke said, “All of you—split up in small groups, take off through the woods. Reed, you and your men stick with me. Fulsom too.” Then turning to Ball, Rourke told the one-legged man, “Darren, steal a vehicle, take about five or six men with you. Torch it under some bridge when you’re ready to get rid of it.” “’Til we meet again,” the ex-mercenary smiled.

“’Til we meet again,” Rourke echoed, Ball already starting to limp away.

As the Resistance fighters began to disperse, Rourke had Rubenstein take over watching Korcinski, then helped Reed and his men and Fulsom load every Soviet weapon they could find aboard a truck. As they loaded the last machine gun aboard the truck, Rourke turned to Fulsom, “At least you’ve got some of the weapons you needed.” “Was there a traitor with us?”

“No, higher up I think.” Looking at Reed, Rourke continued, “Captain Reed’s men kept radioing what we were doing—I think it’s somebody back in Texas.” “No way, Rourke, that’s out of line—I call in directly to command headquarters. Only the top people know—” “Then it must be one of the top people,” Rourke said matter-of-factly. “There was evidence of that when they so neatly snatched Chambers at the airfield, where he’d landed in Texas.” “You mean Karamatsov had somebody when he gunned down that pilot?”

“Yeah,” Rourke rasped, “and to nail us last night, Varakov must have him now. There’s one sure way to know—only one.” Rourke turned to Fulsom. “Where’s Jim Colfax supposed to be?” “Up in the mountains near Helen, Georgia—got a Swiss chalet-like house up there he inherited when his brother died. One of my guys spotted him still at the house two days ago. My man had seen him on TV.” “Where exactly,” Rourke said.

“I’ll draw you out a map, and thanks, Rourke. We’ll look for your family. How do we contact you?” “You contact Army Intelligence, I’ll contact them,” Rourke told Fulsom.

“What about the traitor?” Reed asked.

“We’ll know for sure there is one at your headquarters after today. Helen’s about two hours from here. I used to take Sarah and the kids there. Beautiful place. You have your man radio in just like he normally would. Tell them you expect to be up there in three hours. The Russians won’t pass up a chance to get Colfax and us all at the same time so they’ll wait, but we’ll be there an hour earlier.” “Is that enough time?” Reed asked.