Read Online Survivalist - 17 - The Ordeal by Jerry Ahern - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jerry Ahern
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body weight back and left, the animal snarling, yelping, then a cracking sound so loud that it was almost earsplitting—the neck—and then all effort against Rourke subsided.
John Rourke fell forward, face down into the snow.
Six.
On hands and knees, his right fist still clenched to his shoulder harness, he looked around him as much as the dying light would allow.
None of the animals seemed particularly weighty—lucky for him, Rourke smiled—but it would be easy enough to make a quick post-mortem and separate the healthiest of the pack.
The explorers Lewis and Clark had survived for a time on dog meat and, though Rourke had never tasted it, he’d worked with men all over the world who had, at one time or another, thrived on it. If nothing else, the hearts.
He stood up, inspecting his shoulder holster as best he could in the fading light, finding it none the worse for wear, shrugging into it, checking that both .45s were secure. His coat was another matter. Much of the left sleeve was in shreds. He had needle and thread and could adequately repair it.
The 629 would need a barrel-swabbing again. He wiped it clean with snow, dried it on the outside of his coat and holstered it.
His little A.G. Russell knife. It lay only a yard from his feet, still partially attached to a stump of pine sapling shaft.
He picked it up, began to clean it with snow.
It would not be good for Natalia to know what they were eating, but— He sheathed the Sting. John Rourke spotted the Crain LS-X on the ground and picked it up, mechanically wiping the blade with handfuls of snow. There was a school of thought which held that long-bladed, seriously proportioned knives were less than practical, merely for show. He smiled, finding himself wondering how many of those adherents to that philosophy had found themselves confronted by six hungry wild animals when the use of a gun was all but out of
the question. He shrugged.
On the negative side, what he contemplated made for a more than mildly disgusting proposition, but on the plus side his exertions had worked up a healthy appetite. He began inspecting the provender providence had brought them.
Chapter Twelve
She twirled once in front of the mirror, the silk skirts of the almost midnight-blue dress she wore ballooning outward from her ankles, the glass slippers on her feet catching the firelight and sparkling to rival the diamonds at her throat, her ears, her wrists, all but the diamond on the third finger of her left hand which was at once enormous yet tasteful, beautiful.
She heard his footsteps along the tiled wooden floor behind her and felt her heart skip a beat, saw his image in the mirror and felt her cheeks flush.
Natalia turned toward him so abruptly that the fabric of her dress rustled.
“Hello.”
His voice was as one imagined the voice of God might sound, but too human, in a single word saying more to her than any man had ever begun to express in ten thousand.
His left hand reached out to her, beneath the french cuff of his.shirt the simple elegance of his stainless steel Rolex wristwatch catching the firelight as well. His fingers stroked gently at the bareness of her neck, found a loosened lock by the nape, entwined gently in it and she bent her face to his wrist, her lips softly caressing the strength that was his hands.
He took a step back from her, shrugging his massive shoulders so slightly that she would not have noticed had not her eyes been in thrall to his every movement. Her hands touched the black butterfly bow which emerged from the white
collar of his shirt, the black pearl studs of his shirtfront rising and falling gently as he breathed.
He took her into his arms, the texture of his tuxedo wonderfully rough feeling against her bare chest and arms and shoulders, her breasts pressing against the fabric of her bodice, tight against him.
“I love you,” he told her.
But she knew that.
John Rourke bent his face over hers and his lips parted. She closed her
John Rourke fell forward, face down into the snow.
Six.
On hands and knees, his right fist still clenched to his shoulder harness, he looked around him as much as the dying light would allow.
None of the animals seemed particularly weighty—lucky for him, Rourke smiled—but it would be easy enough to make a quick post-mortem and separate the healthiest of the pack.
The explorers Lewis and Clark had survived for a time on dog meat and, though Rourke had never tasted it, he’d worked with men all over the world who had, at one time or another, thrived on it. If nothing else, the hearts.
He stood up, inspecting his shoulder holster as best he could in the fading light, finding it none the worse for wear, shrugging into it, checking that both .45s were secure. His coat was another matter. Much of the left sleeve was in shreds. He had needle and thread and could adequately repair it.
The 629 would need a barrel-swabbing again. He wiped it clean with snow, dried it on the outside of his coat and holstered it.
His little A.G. Russell knife. It lay only a yard from his feet, still partially attached to a stump of pine sapling shaft.
He picked it up, began to clean it with snow.
It would not be good for Natalia to know what they were eating, but— He sheathed the Sting. John Rourke spotted the Crain LS-X on the ground and picked it up, mechanically wiping the blade with handfuls of snow. There was a school of thought which held that long-bladed, seriously proportioned knives were less than practical, merely for show. He smiled, finding himself wondering how many of those adherents to that philosophy had found themselves confronted by six hungry wild animals when the use of a gun was all but out of
the question. He shrugged.
On the negative side, what he contemplated made for a more than mildly disgusting proposition, but on the plus side his exertions had worked up a healthy appetite. He began inspecting the provender providence had brought them.
Chapter Twelve
She twirled once in front of the mirror, the silk skirts of the almost midnight-blue dress she wore ballooning outward from her ankles, the glass slippers on her feet catching the firelight and sparkling to rival the diamonds at her throat, her ears, her wrists, all but the diamond on the third finger of her left hand which was at once enormous yet tasteful, beautiful.
She heard his footsteps along the tiled wooden floor behind her and felt her heart skip a beat, saw his image in the mirror and felt her cheeks flush.
Natalia turned toward him so abruptly that the fabric of her dress rustled.
“Hello.”
His voice was as one imagined the voice of God might sound, but too human, in a single word saying more to her than any man had ever begun to express in ten thousand.
His left hand reached out to her, beneath the french cuff of his.shirt the simple elegance of his stainless steel Rolex wristwatch catching the firelight as well. His fingers stroked gently at the bareness of her neck, found a loosened lock by the nape, entwined gently in it and she bent her face to his wrist, her lips softly caressing the strength that was his hands.
He took a step back from her, shrugging his massive shoulders so slightly that she would not have noticed had not her eyes been in thrall to his every movement. Her hands touched the black butterfly bow which emerged from the white
collar of his shirt, the black pearl studs of his shirtfront rising and falling gently as he breathed.
He took her into his arms, the texture of his tuxedo wonderfully rough feeling against her bare chest and arms and shoulders, her breasts pressing against the fabric of her bodice, tight against him.
“I love you,” he told her.
But she knew that.
John Rourke bent his face over hers and his lips parted. She closed her
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