Read Online Survivalist - 20 - Firestorm by Jerry Ahern - Free Book Online
Authors: Jerry Ahern
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way. Not that much silence would be needed, and fast follow up shots could be important.
He kept going, keeping his pace slow, even, as he walked into the darkness. And he realized he was afraid. There was always some personal fear in batde; men who denied experiencing it were either liars or lunatics. But it was not this sort of fear, now, which gripped him deep in the pit of his stomach, made his hands slightly slick. If something should go wrong and he should miss this chance, then Rausch would be alive to attempt to kill Sarah, kill Darkwood, aid Commander Dodd in his efforts to turn Eden Base . into his personal fiefdom.
None of that could be allowed to happen.
John Rourke stopped walking, nearing guard post five, near enough that he should have seen their light. There was none to see.
He moved closer to the corridor wall, the whistling moans of the wind from the storm surrounding the German base hospital more intense, or his awareness of the sounds more acute. He couldn’t be sure which.
His back to the wall, John Rourke edged forward, keeping his pistol closeat his side, his eyes slighuy averted lest Rausch should attempt to momentarily blind him with high intensity light.
From the darkness ahead of him, he heard a voice. “Herr Doc-J tor. Do not move!” f
Rourke froze, his right fist locked on the butt of the suppressor-I
fitted 6906. . |
The voice again. “I am Freidrich Rausch, Herr Doctor. I haVe f come to kill your meddlesome friend, Captain Darkwood. Consider the Hen Captain’s death merely a prelude, an overture to the death of your wife. I will find her, kill her.”
“Try killing me, mother fucker,” Rourke hissed, dropping to a crouch so deep he was nearly on his knees. Unless Rausch wore vision intensification glasses, there was no way Rausch could clearly see him, Rourke realized.
“I will kill you, indeed, but only after a most unpleasant murdering of your wife. Sarah is her name, is it not? Death is so much less profoundly felt without mourning; would you not agree?” John Rourke feared for his wife, and he’d experienced fear before, hoped to live to experience it again. But he had never been paralyzed by it. While Freidrich Rausch talked, John Rourke moved.
He edged back along the corridor, toward the nearest open doorway, literally diving across the corridor from one side to the other and through the doorway, coming up out of a roll onto his knees. His back hurt him slightly because of the unnatural way he had moved to avoid the rifle slung there scratching across or banging into the floor and making a betraying noise.
He was up, to his feet, telling himself the muscle pains would work themselves out and, as he moved, they were.
Because of the modular construction of the base hospital, each block of rooms was designed to connect in a variety of ways to similar or dissimilar blocks for maximum utility; hence, there were interconnecting doors and demountable walls.
John Rourke moved quickly to the first door, tried it, opened it, his right fist tight on the butt of the suppressor-fitted 6906.
The door opened onto one of the wards, a half dozen actual German casualties here. As Rourke passed by the nearest bed, he nearly slipped.
Rourke took the battered Zippo windlighter from his BDU pocket and cupped his hands around it as he rolled the striking wheel under his thumb. He had nearly slipped in a pool of blood. The man in the bed had a throat that was slit almost literally from ear to ear.
Rourke slowly, soundlessly closed the cowling of the Zippo, extinguishing the blue yellow flame, his eyes still seeing it as an after image as he checked the next occupied bed. Here, too, the man was murdered.
The others would be the same, Rourke realized.
“Herr Doctor? How does it feel to be so totally helpless to prevent the death of your wife?”
Rausch’s voice talking from the corridor or near to it.
Rourke kept moving, across the floor of the ward toward the demountable wall,
He kept going, keeping his pace slow, even, as he walked into the darkness. And he realized he was afraid. There was always some personal fear in batde; men who denied experiencing it were either liars or lunatics. But it was not this sort of fear, now, which gripped him deep in the pit of his stomach, made his hands slightly slick. If something should go wrong and he should miss this chance, then Rausch would be alive to attempt to kill Sarah, kill Darkwood, aid Commander Dodd in his efforts to turn Eden Base . into his personal fiefdom.
None of that could be allowed to happen.
John Rourke stopped walking, nearing guard post five, near enough that he should have seen their light. There was none to see.
He moved closer to the corridor wall, the whistling moans of the wind from the storm surrounding the German base hospital more intense, or his awareness of the sounds more acute. He couldn’t be sure which.
His back to the wall, John Rourke edged forward, keeping his pistol closeat his side, his eyes slighuy averted lest Rausch should attempt to momentarily blind him with high intensity light.
From the darkness ahead of him, he heard a voice. “Herr Doc-J tor. Do not move!” f
Rourke froze, his right fist locked on the butt of the suppressor-I
fitted 6906. . |
The voice again. “I am Freidrich Rausch, Herr Doctor. I haVe f come to kill your meddlesome friend, Captain Darkwood. Consider the Hen Captain’s death merely a prelude, an overture to the death of your wife. I will find her, kill her.”
“Try killing me, mother fucker,” Rourke hissed, dropping to a crouch so deep he was nearly on his knees. Unless Rausch wore vision intensification glasses, there was no way Rausch could clearly see him, Rourke realized.
“I will kill you, indeed, but only after a most unpleasant murdering of your wife. Sarah is her name, is it not? Death is so much less profoundly felt without mourning; would you not agree?” John Rourke feared for his wife, and he’d experienced fear before, hoped to live to experience it again. But he had never been paralyzed by it. While Freidrich Rausch talked, John Rourke moved.
He edged back along the corridor, toward the nearest open doorway, literally diving across the corridor from one side to the other and through the doorway, coming up out of a roll onto his knees. His back hurt him slightly because of the unnatural way he had moved to avoid the rifle slung there scratching across or banging into the floor and making a betraying noise.
He was up, to his feet, telling himself the muscle pains would work themselves out and, as he moved, they were.
Because of the modular construction of the base hospital, each block of rooms was designed to connect in a variety of ways to similar or dissimilar blocks for maximum utility; hence, there were interconnecting doors and demountable walls.
John Rourke moved quickly to the first door, tried it, opened it, his right fist tight on the butt of the suppressor-fitted 6906.
The door opened onto one of the wards, a half dozen actual German casualties here. As Rourke passed by the nearest bed, he nearly slipped.
Rourke took the battered Zippo windlighter from his BDU pocket and cupped his hands around it as he rolled the striking wheel under his thumb. He had nearly slipped in a pool of blood. The man in the bed had a throat that was slit almost literally from ear to ear.
Rourke slowly, soundlessly closed the cowling of the Zippo, extinguishing the blue yellow flame, his eyes still seeing it as an after image as he checked the next occupied bed. Here, too, the man was murdered.
The others would be the same, Rourke realized.
“Herr Doctor? How does it feel to be so totally helpless to prevent the death of your wife?”
Rausch’s voice talking from the corridor or near to it.
Rourke kept moving, across the floor of the ward toward the demountable wall,
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