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from where the girl had snared him. It was way past time to get his legs
working.
The market square held at least a hundred Russians and beyond them lay the
tangled web of small streets and al-leys. Normally Ryan would have tried for
that, but the odds were too high against him to risk being trapped and run
down.
The only other alternative was down the stairs.
As he sprinted toward them, the unwounded elderly woman tried to snatch at his
legs. But he clubbed her across the ear with his pistol, smashing her glasses
into her eyes.
Five bullets were left in the gun. He had another couple of mags in his
capacious pockets, but to stop and reload would be to go down.
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The carriage began to bounce and jolt down the steps, the baby bawling at the
top of its lungs. The load of tur-nips skittered out at every stair.
The sec patrol on the stairs had been alerted and had formed a line across the
steps, rifles ready, prepared to tackle the solitary intruder. The toppling
carriage appear-ing over the dark skyline threw them into some confusion. One
or two men began to ready themselves to try to catch it, while others were
obeying the bellows of the bearded sergeant for them to stand firm and ignore
it.
Ryan, gun drawn, saw the confused tableau and decided instantly to charge
through. He was so far committed that retreat was impossible.
Shooting on the run, he killed the noncom and took out the two men on each
side of him, leaving a gap for him-self a gap that opened directly in front of
the careering baby carriage.
The SIG-Sauer held only two rounds.
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Panicked, one of the sec men jerked on the trigger of his rifle. Bullets
sprayed everywhere. The blaster was out of control, spitting fire across the
steps, chilling the woman with the leg wound.
Before the sec men realized what was happening, Ryan was on top of them. With
only two bullets left it wasn't a time to get careless. He followed the
carriage, the squeal-ing of the baby rising above the rest of the bloody
cacoph-ony.
A sec man stood in front of him, rifle at his hip, braced and ready.
Shooting from above and on the run, Ryan was pleased to see the sec man tumble
backward, blood flowering from a wound in his upper chest. The dropped blaster
nearly tripped the fleeing man, but he managed to vault it, keep-ing his
balance.
He overtook the rocking, rolling, jolting carriage, now three-quarters of the
way down the immense flight of steps.
Ryan could see thirty or forty people near the bottom, but none seemed to be
in uniform and they were all mak-ing desperate efforts to save themselves. No
one seemed as though he were interested in trying to stop the one-eyed man
with the smoking blaster in his fist.
Then Ryan was at the bottom of the steps, seeing his avenue of escape opening
to his right the fringes of an ancient nuke site, broken buildings leaning and
tumbling against one another. It was a place where nobody lived, a place where
he could run, dodge and hide, eventually working his way back toward the row
of workshops where his friends were waiting for him.
He heard a bumping, clattering sound behind him, and turned to see that the
carriage had miraculously made it all the way to the bottom. It pitched over
the last two stairs, the red-faced occupant still screaming its head off.
A stout sec man, with faster reflexes than the rest, was halfway down the
steps, and he leveled his AK-47 in Ryan's direction.
The last round from the SIG-Sauer hit him below the left armpit and drilled
through his chest, shattering ribs. Shards of edged bone sliced through the
man's
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Axler,_James_-_DeathLands_9_Red_Equinox heart and lungs. As he fell, the sec
guard's finger locked on the trigger, send-ing a final burst of lead fanning
across the bottom of the steps.
The carriage had just bounced to a stop, a few feet clear of the last stair.
The baby was still strapped in place, shocked but alive. The turnips were all
gone, tumbled to the four winds.
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Half a dozen of the bullets from the Kalashnikov ex-ploded into the carriage,
shattering its hood and sides, killing the child instantly.
Ryan clutched his empty blaster and sprinted away from his pursuers.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
THE NEWS TOOK a half hour to reach Major-Commissar Zimyanin. He'd been working
out that evening in the seedy gymnasium beneath the monolithic building that
housed the ville's principal sec offices. He hadn't left word where he'd gone,
as he intended to be out of his room for only a few minutes. But the weights
had beckoned to him, and he'd been pushing himself harder and harder. He added
more disks of iron to the polished bar, pressing greater and greater poundage,
his muscular body streaming with sweat, veins throbbing at his temple.
A young clerk eventually tracked him down, peeping cautiously into the weight-
lifting room.
"Comrade Major-Commissar Zimyanin?"
At that moment the officer was struggling to bench-press 120 kilos, straining
to raise the heavy bar. His teeth gritted in determination, he hardly even
heard the muttered, ner-vous query.
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"Comrade Major-Commissar Gregori Zimyanin?" the clerk said a little louder.
"Yes!" The word was spit out with a ferocious venom that nearly sent the young
man rushing off down the ill-lit passage.
"Message& There's a& Sir, a message for& for you."
Zimyanin eased the bar back onto its rests and slid out from under it. He sat
up and wiped himself with a clean towel. "What message? The Americans? What is
it?"
"The man with one eye, Comrade Major-Commissar. He has been seen."
Zimyanin's face didn't change expression, and he kept his voice flat and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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