Free Survivalist - 22 - Brutal Conquest by Jerry Ahern Page B

Michael offered.
    “I find your wit rather engaging as well, and you are correct of course that if I shoot you, my ends will not be so well served as if you merely die from impact. But I will
    I
    j shoot you if I must. Think of it this way, Herr Rourke. If i you walk toward the balcony, perhaps you can attempt to disarm me, perhaps even succeed. Otherwise, I must merely pull the trigger.”
    “Best to squeeze, as I’m sure you know. More accurate shot placement. Don’t you think Deitrich Zimmer will be able to tell from the remains that it isn’t Martin, but someone else instead?”
    “Ohh, he would indeed be able to tell. But, by the time he arrives, which will not be until several hours have passed, I will have succeeded in beginning a process that not even Deitrich Zimmer will be able to stop.”
    Michael grinned, snapped his fingers, then said, “I know! A coup, right?” t Croenberg smiled with seemingly genuine warmth. “As a matter of fact, yes. You guessed it Herr Rourke. Congratulations.”
    “I don’t understand. You’re all Nazis and you all want to start a war to take over the world. And the only way to defeat the Trans-Global Alliance is to go nuclear—” “I think we have talked sufficiendy, Herr Rourke,” j Croenberg announced, the smile vanishing from his face. » Michael stood up, his cigarette smoked half down. “You • think you can do it better, and you don’t want to worry about Martin Zimmer when it’s all through, right?”
    “Something like that.” Croenberg gestured with the pistol’s muzzle.
    Michael started walking. “You still want to hit Pearl i Harbor, just like the Japanese did in 1941?” \ “Not actually quite like that. They lost their war. We ‘i will not. And we wish to avail ourselves of the United I States Fleet, not send it to the bottom”
    Michael stopped, looking Croenberg straight in the eye. They were dead even now. “Bottom? Whose?”
    There was a moment’s look of incomprehension in Croenberg’s eyes. That was the same moment Michael
    Rourke chose to snap the cigarette into Croenberg’s face and throw himself toward the Nazi, his left hand trying to sweep the gun away from the plane of his body.
    That was not entirely successful, Michael Rourke realized in the very next instant.

14
    The night sky, black as velvet, textured with stars, was magnificendy clear.
    John Rourke navigated by the stars as he rode north. To maximize on the ability of the horses, he planned to stop for ten minutes every hour, rubbing the animals down and switching mounts. He rode the bay mare now. And she was a good runner.
    The countryside rolled gendy here and was more normal in appearance, tree cover in broad, deep stands. At the rise where he now paused, he shifted his gaze to the south, seeing the lights behind him again.
    They were torches. There seemed to be more than a dozen of them, moving at about his own pace.
    He now knew at least part of the story of the men who had fled the gunfight in the bar. The torches could be from no source other than a horse posse, and for no purpose other than to read the ground for the prints of his horses.
    These men lived in the Wildlands, of course, and reading sign would be as much a part of life as reading a street sign had been more than six centuries ago. But there was nothing to say that these men were good at reading sign. Someone really good at it wouldn’t have needed torches on such a clear night.
    The time was not right yet, however.
    John Rourke urged his mount ahead, down the slope and into the shallow, dish-shaped valley beyond, ever northward… .
    Michael Rourke’s left side burned, and the smell on the air was from his own flesh.
    As he rolled from Croenberg, the Nazi was up instandy to his feet. But Croenberg’s right hand was limp and the gun was gone from his grasp.
    Michael Rourke, his left side paining him badly enough that there were floaters across his eyes, drew his feet under him and threw himself toward