Free Survivalist - 24 - Blood Assassins by Jerry Ahern

terms of physical age, merely a few years his junior. His daughter was married, his son had been married, then widowed, losing an unborn child in the process. John Rourke’s wife, their mother, bore a third child and, effectively, had been murdered in the moments following giving birth.
    And, without the hands, procedures and appliances of the man who nearly killed her, she was doomed to
    cryogenic sleep for God only knew how long, perhaps forever.
    Simplicity into complexity.
    He took another sip of his drink.
    And he thought of two women, neither one of them his wife. He had been in love with Natalia, and she with him, but because of his marriage they had never consummated that love. And now Natalia belonged to Michael, and he to her, what John Rourke had planned on what, for all he knew, might be humanity’s last morning.
    And then there was Emma Shaw.
    It seemed to John Rourke that he could not have feelings for a woman without bringing her pain.
    He finished his drink, then sat there for a time longer, smoking his cigar.
    In the morning, he would embark upon the most desperate gamble of his life.
    Tonight, he would be alone with his thoughts …
    friendship would be lost to her, that he would somehow blame her for the terrors of the day, terrors which would have destroyed a lesser man. Although she admired many things about John Rourke, Emma Shaw realized that the man’s resiliency was perhaps his finest and most unique quality. After the talk with her father, after being informed that the earlier reports that Sarah Rourke was dead were erroneous, that she was, instead, held prisoner by the leader of the Nazis, he had come over to her where she’d sat on the porch railing, sat down beside her. “Emma, I’m very sorry.”
    “I’m so happy for you, John, at least there’s a chance for you and your wife, now. I, uhh, got carried away.” She’d tried to smile.
    “No. I was carried away by you,” he told her. Then he said the oddest thing. “And, I guess I still am.” And he kissed her cheek and walked away.
    She could still feel that kiss.
    It burned against her cheek.
    Alone in her bed, staring at the ceiling, Emma Shaw realized that she was starting to cry.
    The ceiling of her BOQ was stippled, meaning that it had an almost infinite number of tiny bumps in it. The drapes open—she was on the second floor—there was enough ambient light from outside that when she strained her eyes, she could make out subtle patterns in them—the bumps.
    Her nightgown, of soft, natural cotton, felt rough against her nipples each time she inhaled, moved. And there was a slightly sick feeling in her abdomen, like an ache.
    Emma Shaw could not sleep.
    For a while, she’d thought that perhaps even John’s

Fifteen
    The communications center at Pearl Harbor was a series of interconnecting rooms built about a central hub, allowing for expansion or contraction of the facility depending on the demands of the situation. The main portion of the complex—the hub itself—was surprisingly attractive by comparison to most military decor, John Rourke felt. The walls—what could be seen of them where there was not equipment—were so deep a grey as to be almost black, and the floor was of synthetic black and grey marble.
    The first communique arrived precisely at four in the morning, saying nothing but that a second communique would arrive in two hours. The second communique arrived precisely when it was supposed to, John Rourke returning to his quarters, shaving and showering in the interim.
    The eruption on Mt. Kilauea had slowed, and plans were already well along to put into action the plan of vulcanologist Thorn Rolvaag for diverting the lava flow. John Rourke had wanted to be with Bjorn
    Rolvaag’s descendant, but that was impossible now. It was hard to equate the survival of two people, one his wife and one his friend, with the lives of so many that would be ended or altered if the volcanic eruption continued unabated, and