Doomsday Warrior 19 - America’s Final Defense Read Free

dismay, Rock realized no one had managed to keep a weapon above the weighty prison of sand.
    There was a laugh. The music stopped. The light ahead was blocked by a slowly approaching figure. The gaunt form of the wild-eyed Russian madman was limned in the light from afar. He came forward, stopped, and looked down at each head projecting out of the dead-weight sand. Killov. Archer tried to bite Killov’s left boot, but got a kick for that. The enraged mountain man cursed him and promised him vengeance. Killov laughed again.
    Then he found Rockson. He bent down as Rockson struggled, pinned like a bug. “Like my special sandbox for American heroes?” Killov snickered, and took a steely grip on Rock’s long black-and-white locks and pulled hard, tilting the American’s head back.
    “Look at me when I talk to you! You’re not so big now, are you, Rockson?” The black, beady eyes flashed in triumph. “That’s a new type of quick-setting material called silica-40 that you’re trapped in. Do you feel like a fool, Rockson? Admit it.”
    Rock didn’t reply. Killov stood up, then Rock felt the hard edge of a steel-tipped boot—Killov’s boot—against his chin. Numb and bleeding, Rock twisted and struggled. The sucking sands gave a bit. Killov was surprised. He reached for his sidearm, but fumbled.
    Rock had summoned a power he didn’t even know he possessed, a mutant strength born of desperation and anger, and he had somehow overcome the tons of weighty sand. Rockson crawled out of his living grave as Killov backed off, muttering, “Can’t . . . be!” He lifted his pistol and fired. But Killov’s sidearm was jammed by Rock’s throw of sand—accurate and lucky!
    Now the fight began tooth and nail—over the half-buried alive bodies of the brave men Rock had brought to this hell. Rock vowed they would not die because of his mistakes. And he wouldn’t die!
    The opponents grappled and rolled about. Killov was amazingly strong, though he should have been a pushover. Perhaps, Rockson thought as they struggled, the KGB madman was charged up with some sort of stimulant. Indeed, Killov’s eyes were bloodshot, red, like a world afire. His breath was like acid against Rockson’s face. “You die,” the KGB head snarled, and his long metal-replacement fingernails raked Rock’s shoulder. They felt like icepicks.
    “Not yet!” Rock smashed a fist into the man’s yellow teeth. Rotted-out stumps fell out; the thin and cracked mashed lips uttered a groan. Killov pulled away and again tried his jammed weapon. This time it worked.
    After the loud report of the pistol came flaming pain. Rock had been hit in the shoulder. Then the Luger misfired again. Desperately, Rock dived at Killov’s legs and tried to topple the man. He succeeded, but not before another solid hit of an explosive bullet hit his chest, inches from Rock’s heart.
    Killov had mortally wounded him. Rock knew that. He’d pass out in another second. But not before Rockson killed the man. He had to save his men, even if he died.
    Rockson smashed Killov with his good fist, sending the man’s head to the side with a snap. As his entrapped men cheered, Rock smashed in the rib cage of the bastard with the butt of his gun. It had fallen to the side when Rock had hit Killov’s jaw.
    The madman lay twitching now. Red blood gushed out of Killov’s lips and he sagged, wide-eyed. Rockson felt a lack of breath, a searing pain. He couldn’t stay conscious. Before he passed out, he jabbed at the KGBer’s face one last time and a piece of flesh tore away.
    Rock, in his last moment of consciousness, saw that it was not Killov. His opponent was someone else, a man wearing a mask.
    He had been fighting an impostor!
    Rockson passed out just as Archer repeated his commander’s feat and smashed out of the silica trap. He couldn’t awaken Rockson, so Archer broke the others out of the sand trap.
    Chen examined Rockson, and said, “It’s real bad. We’ve got to get him to a