Free Survivalist - 20 - Firestorm by Jerry Ahern Page B

had to be Rausch-ducked left as Darkwood, apparendy alerted by some sound or some movement, turned toward him. Perhaps the sound of the crossbow’s safety catch being flicked off, Rourke thought.
    Rourke’s revolver discharged, the crossbow flying from the figure’s right hand, the figure falling back.
    Rourke’s shot missed the intended target, the silhouetted figure’s center of mass.
    Darkwood fired his pistol, the muzzle flash-lower with the caseless ammunition than with conventional gunpowders-a quick tongue of flame that endured for only an instant. There was an answering flash from inside the room and Darkwood stumbled back, fell into the snow as John Rourke vaulted through the shot out window and into the courtyard.
    Darkwood was up on his elbow, firing the pistol again as Rourke reached him. “It was Rausch! Had to be!”
    John Rourke heard the slamming of a door from inside.
    “Get inside if you can. FH send help!” Rourke grabbed for his walkie-talkie. “Sam! This is Rourke. Rausch is in the corridor outside Darkwood’s room. Rausch tried and missed. He’s armed. Get help to Darkwood.”
    He didn’t wait for an answer, hitting the doorway into the room, his clothes wet with snow from the brief seconds outside in the courtyard, the 629 in his right fist.
    Rourke crossed the room in two long strides, grabbed up a chair from near the bed, returned to the open doorway and threw the chair through into the corridor.
    A burst of automatic weapons fire tore through the seat back, almost severing the chair in two before it bit the corridor floor.
    Rourke stabbed the 629 through the doorway and emptied the remaining five rounds from the cylinder in the direction from which the gunfire had originated. He dropped the 629 into the Sparks holster and drew both Detonics Scoremasters, thumbing back the hammers as he went through the doorway, firing both pistols simultaneously, crossing the corridor to the doorway opposite but slightly nearer the origin of the gunfire, chunks of wall and doorframe spraying around him, Rourke’s eyes squinting against the cloud of debris.
    There was something in his right eye. He blinked both eyes as he looked down at his pistols, both pistols still holding four rounds each. Backing deeper into the doorway, blinking his eyes to clear
    the right one, Rourke stabbed both pistols toward Rausch’s position, firing them out, another hail of automatic weapons fire tearing into the doorframe.
    Rourke thrust both pistols into his belt, the slides still locked open over the empty magazines. His right hand found the butt of the Colt Lawman at the small of his back, drawing it from the Rybka M.O.B. holster, punching the snubby .357 Magnum blindly down the corridor, firing as his left hand rolled back his right eyelid. Involuntary paroxysms traveled up his spine as he touched his left index finger to his eyeball. Rourke shrank from his own hand, the revolver empty. He blinked his eye, tears rolling from it.
    The offending bit of building material was gone.
    Rourke grabbed for his flashlight, flicking it on, staring into the light with his right eye, making the tears come more freely now. More gunfire. Rourke stuffed the Lawman into the right hip pocket of the black BDU pants he wore, shaking his head, both hands reaching for the litde Detonics Combat Masters under his armpits, ripping the miniaturized stainless steel .45s from the double Alessi rig-His thumbs jacked back the hammers and he punched both pistols around the doorframe simultaneously, firing a double tap from each.
    More automatic weapons fire, the sound light enough to be a 9mm submachine gun.
    Rourke shifted the pistol in his right hand to his left, both of the litde .45s held uselessly there for a moment as he pulled the magazine from the M-16, stuffed the empty into a front pocket, then snatched a fresh thirty-round spare from his musette bag.
    He rammed it home, pressuring his hip against the wall to lock the rifle in place as his