The Survivalist 02 - The Nightmare Begins Read Online Free
Author: Jerry Ahern
supporting themselves on their hands. "First man moves dies," Rourke said quietly, starting back across the road.
He could hear Rubenstein shouting similar commands to the men with Pincham on the trailer side of the road. Rourke looked at Rubenstein, hearing the younger man say, "What do we do now?"
"You want to kill them?"
"What?"
"Neither do I, especially. Why don't you get the bikes straight in a minute here and we can take these fellas for a walk a few miles down the road, then let 'em go. Let me reload first—keep them covered." Rourke jammed the Python in his belt, changed magazines on both of the .45s and reholstered them. He caught up his pistol belt from the dirt and slung it over his shoulder, the Python back in his right fist. Already, Rubenstein had begun dividing the loads for the bikes.
"You guys got any vehicles around here?" Rourke asked Pincham. The captain said nothing. Rourke put the muzzle of the Python under his nose.
"Yes—on both sides of the road."
"Any gas cans?"
"Yes—yes," Pincham snapped.
"Much obliged," Rourke said, then, shouting, "Paul—go over there and get some gas for the bikes. Take that thing you call a Schmeisser in case they left someone on guard. Did you leave anyone on guard?" Rourke asked, lowering his voice and eyeing Pincham.
"No—no-nobody on guard!"
"Good—if anything happens to my friend, you get an extra nostril."
"Nobody on guard!" Pincham said again, his voice sounding higher each time he spoke.
After a few moments, Rubenstein returned with the gas cans, filled the bikes and mounted up. Rourke walked Pincham toward his own bike. Already, some of the troopers were starting to fall, unable to support themselves on their hands.
"Barbarian," Pincham growled.
"No," Rourke said quietly. "I just want them good and tired so they can't get back here fast enough to follow us. It's either that or we disable your vehicles. And I don't think you'd like being stranded out here in the desert on foot. Right?"
Pincham, biting his lower lip, only nodded.
"All right—captain," Rourke said. "Order your men onto their feet and get 'em walking ahead of us—you bring up the rear. Anyone tries anything, it's your problem." Rourke started his bike as Pincham got his men up, formed them in a ragged column of twos and started them down the road toward El Paso.
As Rourke and Rubenstein followed along behind them, Rourke glancing at the Harley's odometer coming up on the second mile, Pincham—walking laboriously, close in front of him—said, "Mister— you killed three of my men."
"Four," Rourke corrected.
"If I ever catch sight of you, you're a dead man."
"There's some great baby food back there in the truck in case you fellas get hungry," Rourke responded, then to Rubenstein, "Let's go Paul!" Rourke gunned the Harley between his legs and shot past Pincham and his column, Rubenstein on the other side close behind him. Past the paramilitary troops now, Rourke glanced over his shoulder—some of Pincham's men were already sitting along the side of the road. Pincham was standing there, shaking his fist down the road after Rourke.
Rubenstein, beside Rourke, was shouting over the rush of air. "I saw that trick in a western movie once—with the pistols, I mean."
Rourke just nodded.
"What do they call it, John, where you roll the guns like that when someone tries taking them?"
Rourke glanced across at Rubenstein, then bent over his bike a little to get a more comfortable position. "The road-agent spin," Rourke said.
"Road-agent spin," Rubenstein echoed. "Wow!"
Chapter Four
Varakov was pleased that he had ordered the intelligence briefing to be in his office at the side of the long central hall. The desk was closed in the front, and with the chairs arranged in a semicircle no one could see his feet. He wiggled his toes in his white boot socks and leaned back in his chair. "There are several other priorities aside from the elimination of political
He could hear Rubenstein shouting similar commands to the men with Pincham on the trailer side of the road. Rourke looked at Rubenstein, hearing the younger man say, "What do we do now?"
"You want to kill them?"
"What?"
"Neither do I, especially. Why don't you get the bikes straight in a minute here and we can take these fellas for a walk a few miles down the road, then let 'em go. Let me reload first—keep them covered." Rourke jammed the Python in his belt, changed magazines on both of the .45s and reholstered them. He caught up his pistol belt from the dirt and slung it over his shoulder, the Python back in his right fist. Already, Rubenstein had begun dividing the loads for the bikes.
"You guys got any vehicles around here?" Rourke asked Pincham. The captain said nothing. Rourke put the muzzle of the Python under his nose.
"Yes—on both sides of the road."
"Any gas cans?"
"Yes—yes," Pincham snapped.
"Much obliged," Rourke said, then, shouting, "Paul—go over there and get some gas for the bikes. Take that thing you call a Schmeisser in case they left someone on guard. Did you leave anyone on guard?" Rourke asked, lowering his voice and eyeing Pincham.
"No—no-nobody on guard!"
"Good—if anything happens to my friend, you get an extra nostril."
"Nobody on guard!" Pincham said again, his voice sounding higher each time he spoke.
After a few moments, Rubenstein returned with the gas cans, filled the bikes and mounted up. Rourke walked Pincham toward his own bike. Already, some of the troopers were starting to fall, unable to support themselves on their hands.
"Barbarian," Pincham growled.
"No," Rourke said quietly. "I just want them good and tired so they can't get back here fast enough to follow us. It's either that or we disable your vehicles. And I don't think you'd like being stranded out here in the desert on foot. Right?"
Pincham, biting his lower lip, only nodded.
"All right—captain," Rourke said. "Order your men onto their feet and get 'em walking ahead of us—you bring up the rear. Anyone tries anything, it's your problem." Rourke started his bike as Pincham got his men up, formed them in a ragged column of twos and started them down the road toward El Paso.
As Rourke and Rubenstein followed along behind them, Rourke glancing at the Harley's odometer coming up on the second mile, Pincham—walking laboriously, close in front of him—said, "Mister— you killed three of my men."
"Four," Rourke corrected.
"If I ever catch sight of you, you're a dead man."
"There's some great baby food back there in the truck in case you fellas get hungry," Rourke responded, then to Rubenstein, "Let's go Paul!" Rourke gunned the Harley between his legs and shot past Pincham and his column, Rubenstein on the other side close behind him. Past the paramilitary troops now, Rourke glanced over his shoulder—some of Pincham's men were already sitting along the side of the road. Pincham was standing there, shaking his fist down the road after Rourke.
Rubenstein, beside Rourke, was shouting over the rush of air. "I saw that trick in a western movie once—with the pistols, I mean."
Rourke just nodded.
"What do they call it, John, where you roll the guns like that when someone tries taking them?"
Rourke glanced across at Rubenstein, then bent over his bike a little to get a more comfortable position. "The road-agent spin," Rourke said.
"Road-agent spin," Rubenstein echoed. "Wow!"
Chapter Four
Varakov was pleased that he had ordered the intelligence briefing to be in his office at the side of the long central hall. The desk was closed in the front, and with the chairs arranged in a semicircle no one could see his feet. He wiggled his toes in his white boot socks and leaned back in his chair. "There are several other priorities aside from the elimination of political
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