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  "Victory," he shouted. "The final victory over the Americans!" Suddenly

  the glass from the wire-meshed corridor windows shattered over his head,

  shards of it falling on and around him.

  He stepped away from the wall, looking through the corridor windows into

  the dawning sky—a huge star-burst, the largest firework he had ever

  seen—pale colors against a pale sky. And the concrete beneath him began to

  tremble, the walls to shake, dust and infinitesimally small chunks of

  debris drifting down.

  "My God!" Where had he learned that? he thought. "They're blowing it up!"

  He started to run, the crates— the precious crates—behind him. Survival

  was more immediate now as the cross supports began crumbling and a

  three-foot section of concrete killed the commando beside him—just beside

  him.

  Squads of assault rifle-armed Soviet infantrymen were pouring through the

  streets.

  "Damn it," Rourke rasped, both of the twin Detonics stainless .s in his

  fists. Suddenly, the ground beneath him began to rumble, to shake.

  He glanced at the black luminous face of the Rolex Submariner on his left

  wrist, then squinted skyward— full dawn. The explosions had begun just as

  Martha Bogen had said they would.

  There was no time now—no chance to save the town. Russian troops—why?

  The explosions. Already, in the distance near the high peaks of the rim of

  the valley, he could see rock slides starting.

  He had waited near the school, still several blocks from Martha Bogen's

  house—and the garage where his Harley should still be hidden.

  But waiting for the Soviet troops to clear the street in front of him

  would be suicidal now.

  Thumb-cocking both pistols, he started to run, the ground shaking beneath

  him still more violently.

  Gunfire. Soviet AK series assault rifles, firing toward

  him, glass shattering in the louvered classroom windows beside him as he

  jumped a hedgerow, running.

  Rourke wheeled beside a concrete vertical support for a portico rooi. He

  fired the pistol in his right hand, then the pistol in his left, bringing

  down an assault rifle-armed soldier. The man's body spun, his assault

  rifle firing wildly, into his own men.

  Rourke started to run again. Past a flagpole. During the day there would

  have been an American flag there and a Kentucky state flag as well.

  He was nearly to the street beyond the school front lot. The ground

  trembled again.

  He tried envisioning what the men and women of the town would have done to

  ensure their mass suicide. The ground trembled again and he saw a black

  disk sail skyward out of the street. There had been a large natural-gas

  storage area. . . .

  "Natural gas," he rasped, throwing himself to the grassy ground beneath

  him.

  The gunfire, the shouts, the commands in Russian and in English to

  halt—all were drowned out. Rourke dropped his pistols, covering his ears

  with his hands.

  The street a hundred yards ahead of him was a sea of flame, chunks of

  paving hurtling skyward. They had mined the gas system.

  Rourke grabbed for his pistols, pushing himself to his feet, running,

  stumbling, running again. A line of explo­sions—smaller ones—ripped

  through the road ahead of him in series. He had to cross the road to reach

  Martha Bogen's house on the other side.

  He ran, bending into the run, arms distended at his sides. The gunfire

  resumed from behind him; he couldn't hear it, but could see the grass and

  dirt near his feet

  chewing up under it.

  He hit the pavement, still running, the explosions gutting the road

  drawing closer. Debris—bits of tarmac and cement and gravel—rained down on

  him. His hands, the pistols still in them, were over his head to protect

  it.

  The road was now twenty-five yards away; his body ached; the waves of

  nausea and cold were starting to take hold.

  "Narcan," he rasped. He needed the Narcan shot. He tripped, sprawling,

  pushed himself up, then ran on.

  Ten yards. He was feeling faint, sick, the morphine was taking hold of him

  again.

  Five yards. He jumped, the street ripping as a manhole cover less than a

  dozen yards to his right sailed skyward, roaring up on a tongue of flame.

  The street behind him exploded and he was thrown forward.

  Rourke rolled, still clutching his pistols.

  He started to his knees, hearing—not hearing but feeling—something behind

  him.

  He wheeled, hitting the road surface, firing both pistols simultaneously.

  Two Soviet troopers fired at him; the ground beside him erupted under the

  impact of their slugs, both men going down under the impact of his.

  He stumbled to his feet, lurching, feeling as though he would black out.

  Rourke rammed both pistols, cocked and locked, into his wide trouser belt,

  then snatched at the injection kit inside his shirt against his skin. His

  hands shook, cold and nausea making his head reel. He dropped to his

  knees. The Narcan injection was in his right hand.

  He looked beyond his hand as he tested the syringe.

  "Man with a gun—Russian," he rasped, telling him­self to act, forcing his

  body to respond. His left hand—he

  could feel the slowness—found the butt of one of his pistols.

  Automatically, he swept the left thumb around behind the tang of the

  Detonics to reach for the safety on the left side of the frame. He worked

  it down as the Russian soldier raised his assault rifle.

  Rourke's right hand worked toward his left arm, the sleeve pulled up

  already—he had planned ahead as he a/ways did.

  He started raising his left arm, as if both sides of his brain were taking

  separate control of him. He tried squinting at the sights a moment, seeing

  the hypodermic come into his line of fire.

  His right hand jabbed the hypo into his left forearm.

  "Aagh," he shouted, feeling the change sweep over him, seeing the

  slow-motion movement in his left hand as the thumb moved back around the

  tang, out of the way of the slide.

  He was suddenly back—cold and sweating, but back, his mind working. His

  left first finger worked the trigger and the Detonics bucked hard in his

  hand.

  The Soviet trooper's assault rifle fired skyward as his body twisted,

  almost as in a dance, then crumpled to the roadside.

  Rourke pushed himself to his feet. That had been the last Narcan shot, but

  the last he should need. He snatched at the other pistol in his belt,

  worked down the safety and—he could not run again—he started into a loping

  walk to the curb.

  Rourke assessed his surroundings—head left. He started that way. It was at

  least another block, maybe two. The B-complex shot would start working

  soon after he administered it—after he got to it.

  The nausea was passing, the coldness subsiding; his

  head ached and his muscles ached.

  As he increased his stride, more explosions rocked the ground beneath him.

  Glass, in windows on both sides of the street he loped into, shattered;

  fires erupted every­where.

  Another m
anhole cover sailed skyward on a column of flame and Rourke

  jumped away, the explosion ringing in his ears, debris falling like rain

  on him.

  He rolled onto his back, protecting his face with his left forearm.

  He had to run. He rolled onto his knees, then pushed himself up, starting

  forward, lurching into a ragged, long-strided run.

  More gunfire behind him. He wheeled, almost losing his balance. He pumped

  a shot at hip level with the Detonics in his right fist, downing a Soviet

  soldier at the end of the block.

  He turned and kept running.

  He could see the house—white frame with green vines growing up the round

  columns on the front porch. Rourke could see the driveway; his bike would

  be in the garage at the end of it.

  Still running, he glanced behind him. No one. Perhaps the Russians were

  getting out while they still could.

  More explosions. Rourke glanced up, toward the rim of the valley; rock

  slides were everywhere, the very faces of the peaks changing, seeming to

  melt away.

  Rourke turned up the driveway, running harder now, sweating. The garage

  door—ten yards, five . . . He stopped. It would be locked. He raised both

  pistols, firing the one in his right hand, then the one in his left. The

  garage-door lock shattered as he loped and lurched forward. He fell

  against the door.

  Jamming the pistols into his belt, he wrenched the door handle, twisting

  it, shoving it up, letting the door slide out of sight.

  The jet black Harley—he saw it. Rourke stumbled toward it. His gear looked

  untouched.

  He snatched at the CAR- wrapped inside a blanket and a piece of ground

  cloth.

  He ripped the covering away, then searched the musette bag slung on the

  handlebars, he found a thirty-round magazine, rammed it up the well, and

  eared back the bolt handle.

  He let the bolt slide forward.

  "Come on," he rasped, staring out into the street. He could hear the

  sounds of more explosions; the gas lines were still going, of their own

  accord now.

  Rourke slung the CAR- cross-body from his left shoulder, under his right

  arm.

  He started searching the Lowe pack and found his medical kit, the

  injection kit inside it. Rourke opened that, taking the B-complex syringes

  and jabbing one into his left forearm.

  He dropped to his knees, trying to even his breath.

  Her jaw hurt where the man, John, had hit her. On her knees, on the window

  seat in the main room of the library overlooking the street and the post

  office beyond, she wrang a handkerchief in her hands, red hearts

  embroid­ered on it, a gift from her husband years ago.

  There were fires all over the city; she was afraid of fire.

  Everyone else was with someone, safe, ready to die. John was out there in

  the streets, somewhere. He wouldn't make it; she knew that. She had nursed

  for her husband often enough to know that in hib condition, he would be

  too weak (o travel far. She had never even told him the secret paths

  through the valley to reach beyond the mountains.

  He would die alone; she would die alone.

  She wondered what his last name was.

  He hadn't hit her because he hated her. It was because he hadn't wanted to

  die with her.

  "I hope you live, John," she said, suddenly feeling a weight slip from

  her.

  The manhole cover in the street outside rocketed skyward, the flame under

  it rising, spreading. The floor under her shook; the plate-glass window in

  front of her shattered.

  She had one more injection—one she had saved in her desk drawer.

  It would make her sleep. She gave it to herself, letting the needle fall

  from her hand, her hands bloody from the glass that had cut her as the

  window shattered around her.

  There was a cool wind and as she closed her eyes, she could see her dead

  husband's stern face. He was scolding her for what she had tried to do,

  but there was love in his eyes. &#; • .

  Rourke settled himself on the seat of the Harley, the motor purring under

  him, the tanks full, the Detonics stainless .s reloaded and holstered in

  the Alessi rig across his shoulders. He was slightly cold—the exhaus­tion,

  the drugs coursing through his veins. The collar of his Drown leather

  jacket was snapped up.

  Under the jacket he carried the musette bag on his left side, spare

  magazines for the Detonics pistols and for the CAR- slung under his

  right arm.

  On his right hip was the Python, Metalifed and Mag-Na-Ported; spare ammo

  for the big Colt was in the musette bag, too, in Safariland Speedloaders.

  There were Soviet troops on the ground, Soviet helicopters in the air

  above. The ground beneath him trembled. Fire was everywhere—in the houses

  on both sides of the street, a wind whipping it up as he looked out of the

  garage.

  He had been breathing, slowly, evenly, getting the house (hat was his body

  in order, summoning up the reserves of strength he would need.

  It was that or die.

  His left fist worked in the clutch, his right throttled

  out, and the Harley started ahead.

  With his right thumb he worked the CAR-'s safety off, then moved his

  left hand quickly, securing the dark-lensed aviator-style sunglasses.

  He squinted through them as he braked in the middle of the street.

  In an inside pocket of his leather jacket were some of his dark tobacco

  cigars.

  He took one and placed it between his teeth, rolling it into the left

  corner of his mouth, unlit.

  "Ready," he whispered to himself.

  He throttled the Harley, working through the gears, lowering his frame

  across that of the bike, reaching the end of the street, making a sharp

  right, then accelerating again. In his mind's eye he could see the way

  he'd entered the town and that was the only way he knew to leave it.

  He passed the post office. As he cut another left, into the street angling

  past the library, it was a sea of flames.

  "Martha," he rasped, looking away as he gunned the jet black Harley ahead.

  Despite it all, he felt a sadness for the woman.

  Soviet troops on the right, two of them aflame from the gas fires, three

  of them wheeling toward him, started to fire their assault rifles. Rourke

  gave the Harley gas then shifted his grip to the CAR-. Firing rapid

  two-round semiautomatic bursts, he nailed the nearest of the men, then the

  one behind him.

  Gunfire from the third man's assault rifle ripped into the street surface

  beside him. Rourke throttled out, cutting a broad arc as he made a hard

  right, then angled off the street and into the grassy shoulder paralleling

  it, Fires still raged on the far side by the school building. Soviet

  troops ran haphazardly about, an officer in their

  midst; Rourke spotted him, a tall man, his hat gone, his face

  dirt-smudged.

  There was an overturned jeep, and though the officer called to his men,

  they were scattering. The officer was tugging at something under the jeep.

  Rourke sped past, glancing left, seeing a form half under the jeep, the

  officer workin
g with a pry bar, trying to get someone out.

  Rourke slowed the Harley, cutting a wide arc. The jeep was close to the

  fires raging down the center of the street; the grass on the far side of

  it was burning.

  "Shit," Rourke rasped, gunning the Harley back toward the jeep.

  The officer dropped the pry bar, snatching at a full-flap military holster

  on his right hip.

  Rourke slowed the bike, stopping, the CAR- pointed straight at the

  Russian.

  "Shoot me, then. But first help me get this man out; he's still alive!"

  Rourke said nothing. His right thumb flicked the safety of the CAR- on,

  and he let down the Harley's stand, the engine cut off.

  He walked toward the Russian, saying, "I'm ill—not as strong as I usually

  am. You work the pry bar; I'll pull him out."

  "Agreed." The Soviet officer nodded.

  The man—a major, Rourke noticed—ieaned against the pry bar. Rourke dropped

  to his knees in the street be­side the injured man pinned under the

  overturned jeep.

  An older man—a senior noncom of some kind. The face, unconscious, was

  pleasant-looking.

  Rourke grabbed the man's shoulders, "Now, Major," Rourke ordered, feeling

  the jeep rising slightly beside

  him, hearing the groaning as the Soviet officer strained on the pry bar.

  Rourke put his own right shoulder to the end of the overturned jeep, then

  threw his weight back, sprawling backward into the street with the older

  man, getting him clear as the jeep fell.

  "I could not hold it anymore!"

  Rourke ignored the officer, looking to the older man. "He's gonna need a

  hospital and quick."

  "There are helicopters—cargo helicopters. They can be used for the

  wounded."

  "You get him outa here fast," Rourke rasped. "This whole town's gonna

  blow."

  "What are you doing?" The major's right hand went out to Rourke's right

  forearm.

  Rourke shook it away, then opened the leather case which had Martha

  Bogen's shot kit.

  "Morphine," Rourke rasped. "Relax. Vm a doctor. Put a compression bandage