Survivalist - 23 - Call To Battle by Jerry Ahern Read Free Book Online

here by itself,” Rourke added, smiling. He began removing the shoulder rig. There was a small table opposite from the closet where he could set the guns. His little knife wouldn’t really matter.
    “Kind of take the fun out of it, don’t they? Driving, I mean. Must have been terrific to really drive. Like flying still can be when you turn off the right things,” Emma enthused.
    But she looked a little nervous. He wondered if he should make some comment about her hair or her dress or something? But, that would be unprofessional. He told her instead, “Nice house.”
    “Want the nickel tour?”
    “Smallest Tve got’s a twenty” Rourke responded.
    “How about a drink?”
    “Sure.”
    “Why don’t you fix, okay? I’ve got something in the microwave I need to check.” “Fine.”
    “This way,” she told him.
    Rourke watched her walking across the room for a beat; she reminded him of Sarah in some physical ways. He shook his head and followed her, past a comfortable-looking couch that seemed more like something from his era than hers, up
    three steps to the kitchen. The counter had several bottles of liquor set on it and some glasses. He picked up a bottle of vodka. The brand name was unrecognizable. He set it down and picked up the bottle of blended whiskey. It was the same story. He remembered the expression about any port in a storm as he cracked the seal. “Ice?” “No.”
    “You don’t have any ice?”
    “Ohh, no!” Emma laughed. “I mean, I don’t use ice. I’ve got ice, though.” She went to what Rourke assumed was a refrigerator, opening a large panel which didn’t look like a refrigerator door at all and was set between part of the counter spaces. She touched a lighted rectangle within the door and what seemed to be an icebucket emerged and ice fell into it with a comfortingly familiar clattering sound. The ice stopped falling and she took the bucket away and closed the door. “Here you go, John.”
    “What do you drink?”
    “Scotch.”
    “How many fingers?”
    “Fingers?” There was a look of puzzlement in her eyes as she looked at him over her shoulder. He realized she was beautiful. “I don’t understand. Fingers?”
    “A primitive measuring system.A lot of scotch or a little?”
    “A little.”
    Rourke set down the blended whiskey and picked up the unrecognizable brand of scotch. He poured two fingers into an appropriately sized glass. She set the icebucket down on the counter, then gently pressed the rim and the lid which had evidently sealed over it opened. He handed her the scotch. “Put your own water in it. I could never get it right.”
    “Fine. I like a lot of water, anyway.”
    Rourke took three ice cubes-they were perfectly formed-and put them in his glass. He touched at the rim of the icebucket and the lid fanfolded out toward the center, closing.
    He poured whiskey over the ice until the ice was submerged and set down the bottle, closing it. The tap in the sink shut off.
    When Rourke looked up, she was standing on the other side of the counter, holding her glass as if raised for a toast.
    John Rourke smiled, clinked glasses with her. “To good friends and comrades-in-arms.”
    Emma Shaw smiled a little oddly, but touched her glass to his.

6
    Wilhelm Doring looked magnificently handsome. His short blond hair was caught up in the wind and the fine mist of spray blowing over the prow of the hired Russian vessel. His chest swelled beneath the black turdeneck, his strong chin jutting defiantly forward, the set of his brow in profile more than human.
    And she was drawn to him like a moth to the proverbial flame.
    He was all that was German and strong and pure, a hero of the race.
    As if he’d read her thoughts, he turned away from the sea and looked at her. By the yellow light of the lamp swaying in rhythm with the swells, attached to a bracket a meter or so away and just above bis considerable height, she could just make out his expression. Wilhelm Doring seemed at