by Tom Hron
He jumped up the ladder to the floor of the attic, lay down, and hooked his feet under the rafter boards, then dropped his upper body and rifle below the ceiling, hanging upside down. Sasha was halfway back. The pounding footsteps were coming upstairs again. He sighted on the wall nearest the stairs and fired. The magnum bullet exploded in the hallway. Sasha screamed again. He couldn’t blame her because the men on the steps had to have thought that a cannon had gone off, and the blast must have been deafening. He prayed the brass-jacketed bullet had ricocheted down, buying them more time.
He heard the sound of an Uzi outside the building, then a second burst of automatic fire.
Simon and Molly had come alive—but Simon and he’d gotten both women in the middle of a running gunfight. Would everyone live? How many Russians were they facing?
Still hanging below the ceiling, he jacked another round into his rifle and watched Sasha begin climbing the ladder. They needed another four or five seconds. He saw the first Russian hit the top of the stairway and start aiming at her.
He blew the man back down the stairs with his rifle. She crawled past him, and he pulled his body up and faced her.
“Give me the pistol—take the rifle and find the door to the roof. Leave it open so I can see.” He grabbed the Glock and rolled upside down again, peeking below the ceiling. Bullets smashed into the plasterboard beside him, turning it into white dust. Stay cool, he told himself, remember you never hear the shot that kills you. He sighted the red laser on the gunman down the hall, fired, and saw him crumple to the floor. Another gunman ducked back down the stairway. Silence. He reached below, grabbed the ladder, pulled, and slammed the attic door shut. He got to his knees, pushed the ladder down a little, found the pull-rope with his hand, and fished it through the opening. He tied it to a rafter, turned around, and saw Sasha had opened the trapdoor to the roof.
Safe for the time being, he told himself. The men below would have a hard time figuring out how to reach them. Then he heard footsteps in the hallway under him and gunshots ripping through the ceiling. Bending down for head room, he ran toward the daylight ahead. He could help Simon and Molly by laying down a cross fire, and he doubted the Russians had thought about defending themselves against someone with a long-range rifle. He ran onto the rooftop and saw Sasha peering over the side of the building.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“There are two men down there, but I’m afraid to shoot at them with this rifle.”
He took the rifle and aimed at the nearest of the gunmen hiding behind a cement abutment beside the next building. Both had Kalashnikov automatics with thirty-round clips and likely were the ones who’d shot at him when he’d peeked out the top floor window. He froze the cross hairs, squeezed the trigger, and felt the sudden recoil. The man collapsed.
The other gunman ran for an empty warehouse down the road. He sighted the rifle again but then stopped, not believing what he was seeing. Molly hurtled out of the doorway of the adjoining building, diving as if she was stealing second base, and cut the gunman down, meanwhile with him returning fire, spraying dirt on her. She rolled to her feet and raced back inside. My God, the woman is nuts, and he doubted that Simon or he would have had the same courage. Shaking his head, he wondered how many Russians were left. Somehow, the Mafiya boss had learned about their hideaway. He hoped there weren’t more than six or eight, otherwise . . .
He heard an Uzi go off again, this time on the other side of the roof. Well, they hadn’t killed Simon yet . . . though he hadn’t really feared they would. Simon was like a phantom, popping out one place and then another, faster than an eye could blink. He signaled Sasha to stay put and ran to the opposite side, searching. Where the hell was he? Then he saw him below, hunting for more Russians. He waved and Simon looked up.
He signaled with his right hand, holding up four fingers. Simon nodded and raised two fingers, for the total of six. The number stunned him. Christ, how many were left? There were at least two more below him. How many more were sneaking around outside, and did Molly have anyone stalking her? He held his hands flat and waggled them back and forth, hoping Simon would understand. His friend held up two fingers, then three, and pointed ahead. Two or three . . . and they were trapped between Molly, Simon, and him. Jake signaled that he was coming down through the apartment in an attempt to flush them out. He saw Simon nod his head again.
He ran back to Sasha and saw Molly peering up, waving her hand at them. Pantomiming, he began communicating with her, telling her to stay hidden, and that he meant to come down. She nodded her head, too.
“Sasha, I’m going down. Keep the rifle and remember to lock the trapdoor after I leave. You’ll be safe here.”
“No. I’ll carry the rifle because you might need it. Don’t leave me behind—”
He paused. Had he ever denied her anything? Besides, she’d shown her courage all along.
“Stay right behind me and watch my back. When I ask, call out in Russian, maybe we can get them to surrender. I’m sick of killing them—”
“We’d be dead if you hadn’t shot them. The Mafiya is more bloodthirsty than anyone, and they never leave anyone alive. Don’t trust them.”
He nodded because she was right. His life had only been spared by an inch when they’d first shot at him. Their own lives had been forfeited when one of them had gotten an itchy trigger finger, typical when you wanted to kill someone for the simple joy of it. He had read enough about mobsters to know they were psychos looking for thrills, and the men below would murder Sasha and him in a New York second.
“Hand me the pistol when we reach the ladder. I want to give these guys a taste of their own medicine. Do you have any tissue? We need to plug our ears, because it’s going to get really loud.”
She took some from her shirt pocket. Both tore off small pieces, rolled them into balls with their fingers, and stuffed them inside their ears.
He walked to the trapdoor they’d come through a little while before and stepped down with Sasha close behind him. He began walking the length of the attic, firing straight down, reloading, and firing again. No one would want to stay in the hallway down below. The magnum rifle was lifting the rafters and blowing off plasterboard with each round.
“Give me the Glock and take the rifle,” he said.
“There’s a live round in the barrel so keep it pointed straight up. Come down when you see me hit the floor.”
He loosened the rope he’d tied off earlier, turned on the pistol’s laser, and snapped off its safety. He stood beside the attic ladder, took a deep breath, jumped on its bottom, and felt it collapse. The instant he hit bottom he saw a man at the end of the hall, round-eyed with shock. He shot him before he could lift his Kalashnikov. The man pitched forward, clutching his chest, and fell flat on his face.
“Come on—” He watched Sasha scoot down the ladder, her legs flying. Both then ran to the nearest doorway and ducked behind a wall. There should be only one or two left, he told himself, and they must be really scared by now. He wondered if they knew they’d lost all their friends. “Tell them to surrender,” he said. “Why should they want to die when we’ve already shot seven of them? There can’t be many left.”
He watched as Sasha peeked around the corner and called out. Someone answered, and he sounded terrified.
Her face paled. “I think it’s the godfather, and he wants to know if you’ll let him live.”
“Ask him how many men he has left and if there are others hiding outside?”
She called again, and the same voice answered.
“He says only one.”
“Tell him if he wants to live then he and his friend must step out, unarmed. We have them trapped so there’s no escape. Talk some sense into him.”
She pleaded with a pitched voice, telling both to surrender. Finally, they stepped into view at the end of the hall, holding their hands high. Jake stepped into the hall.
“Sasha, stay here. I’ll go down and search them. Afterward, we�
��ll take them downstairs.”
He walked toward them, centering the pistol’s laser on the larger one on the left, an oliveskinned man with black eyebrows and a white bandage covering half his face. Both men stayed frozen in place.
Kaboom!
He flattened himself, then saw the bandaged Russian pull out a pistol.
“There’s one behind you,” screamed Sasha, “but I missed him. He ran back in a room!”
The bastards had set him up, and the only thing that had saved his life was Sasha’s shot, wild as it was. He rolled over and fired at both men at the end of the hall, each now with a pistol in his hands. He heard their shots shriek by, ripping the floor beside him. He kept pulling the Glock’s trigger, until both went down, clutching their bellies.
“Sasha, have you reloaded the rifle?”
“Yes, I’ve done it.”
“Tell the man behind me to throw down his weapon and step out, or else we’ll burn down the building and wait for him outside.”
He heard her speak again. The third gunman walked into the hallway, holding up his hands.
Ten in all . . . but were there more? He had to be sure because they’d already proven they couldn’t be trusted. The time had come for some questions.
“Sasha, break out a window and tell Simon to come up here, then walk across and tell Molly to stay put until we’re finished. I want to ask this guy a few questions.”
A moment later he heard glass breaking and her voice, then footsteps running up the stairs two at a time. Simon ran up to his side, reaching him at the same time that Sasha returned. The lone Russian stood sullenly with his back to the wall.
“Simon, I want to know if he’s the only one left, or if there’s more outside. Give Sasha your Uzi and let’s drop him out a window. And ask how they found our hideout.”
Simon smiled. “Heights always help people remember things.” He handed his Uzi to Sasha, walked over, and shoved the man down the hall.
Jake turned to Sasha. “Keep the godfather and his friend covered. I think they’re dead but don’t take any chances, not after what happened a minute ago.”
She stared at the bodies, tears in her eyes. “I can’t believe he’s dead, but will I ever be free of him?”
Jake shook his head, not wanting to answer, not even knowing how to answer. Someone else would take his place—that’s how the mob worked, especially in Russia. The price on her head would just grow even larger. He walked away, not daring to say a word. He was falling in love with someone who had been sentenced to death.
Simon and he questioned the Russian, binding his hands and threatening to drop him from the top floor. The man babbled, pleading to be pulled back inside the window where they had him hanging by his heels.
Simon finally stroked his unshaven face with a hand. “I can’t imagine he could have made up his story so quickly. He says they came across the lake from Severobaikalsk. The godfather had spies scattered everywhere, watching for anything unusual, and our dollars talked louder than words. Once they reached Davsha, the locals told them where to find us, because a few of them remembered this place.”
Jake picked up his Winchester and shoved the Glock inside his belt. “Take him downstairs, tell Molly to watch him until we find some place to lock him up, and let’s pick up the guns and take them to the hangar. We’ll put off leaving until we can clean up this mess.
“And make him dig graves for his friends, then we’ll let him go when we leave. I wouldn’t want to walk out of here without a gun, and I hope the bears kill him.”
“I’d rather shoot him,” said Simon, “then he can’t come after us ever again.”
“It’s too late for us to think we’ll ever rid ourselves of the Mafiya. They will always be out there, trying to collect on our heads, even though their boss is dead. Might as well get on with our lives.”
His apocalypse silenced them. Simon pushed the Russian downstairs at gunpoint, and Jake walked over to the godfather’s body. Might as well look death in its face.
PART FOUR—THE HUNTERS
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WOLVERINE
“Let’s go down and kill him,” said Yuri. “I’m sure we can get away.”
“Patience, white man. My magical powers only work when my intelligence makes good decisions. The second helicopter will come back soon, and I haven’t made us invisible yet.”
“What are they doing?” Yuri wondered why Wolverine’s black eyes never blinked when he was stalking his prey. The old shaman was like a snake.
“Zorkin and his military friend are hiding soldiers all around this place. See how they’re using the radio station to talk to them. They’re watching for someone.”
“Maybe they’re looking for us. You said that he didn’t think we were dead.”
“Why would they bring a second helicopter that has guns and rockets just to capture two unarmed men? They must be afraid of someone who has dangerous weapons as well. We’ll wait.” Wolverine sat on the ground, seemingly with little worry about the danger that lay less than a mile away.
Yuri kept peering through the berry bushes, remembering the lessons the shaman had taught him—stay down, break up your outline with leaves, and keep quiet. He wondered how the shaman had known when to ride south on their reindeer, letting them arrive in time to see two helicopters set down and unload fourteen men and their supplies at Zorkin’s old base camp.
“How did you know when to come?” he asked. “I still don’t understand. Is this more of your magic?”
“The reindeer told me. Didn’t you see them listening last week? They knew the helicopters were flying here, because they heard them coming.”
“That’s nonsense. We were camping over five hundred kilometers away. How could reindeer hear rotor blades at that distance?”
“Tell me how animals know earthquakes are coming. Even your university at Akademgorodok has studied that phenomenon. Why won’t you ever believe me when I tell you something?”
“Sometimes it’s better if I don’t trust you. You often tease me, seeing if I understand the mysteries of this place.”
“So . . . finally your wisdom is showing a little.” said Wolverine. “Maybe someday you’ll learn my secrets after all.”
“I think you simply guessed the logical time that Zorkin would come looking for the diamonds again. He’s a greedy man who won’t rest until he finds them.”
“Oh, so you would you forbid me the powers of logic when I practice my magic? Be sensible. I’m a messenger of the spirits, gifted with the ability to see what other men usually miss. When the reindeer become restless or the songbirds stop singing or the flowers bloom, I wonder why and then decide what might happen next. Even you, despite your many doubts, must have known he’d come back.”
“Yes, but not so soon, and I also missed seeing any change in the herd. Next time show me.” Yuri wondered if there would be a next time. Both had come on their mission of revenge, but they were badly outnumbered, as well as outgunned. All they possessed was a single-shot shotgun and a few fine-shot shells they’d borrowed from the Nenets, along with the bow and arrows of the winter before. They would have to sneak very close, then run for their lives.
“How long must we wait?” he asked.
“Two or three days. You can stay here tomorrow and watch them while I learn where they’re hiding their men. But be careful. Every hill for many kilometers around has someone on top of it. We must stay invisible.”
Yuri felt himself smiling. For the first time since he’d met the old man he was being trusted with a dangerous task. Then he began feeling embarrassed. Grow up, he thought. What are you, a little boy? Why get so worked up over hiding in the berry bushes all day? But . . . he still felt proud. The whole summer had been exciting.
They had migrated off the calving grounds to the More Laptewych, the great northern ocean off the mouth of the Lena River, and he’d fallen into a ritual of life he’d never known before. Warm temperatures, endless daylight, living daily wi
th the half-wild deer that were so vital to the Nenets, bathing in the lakes and rivers, no one ashamed of their nakedness . . . it had been a charmed life only cursed by the bugs, the hungry, stinging mosquitoes, black flies, and gnats that plagued the High Arctic. The howling winds of the tundra had given the only relief from the biting insects.
He had discovered a land rich in wildlife, spilling over with marshy places, deep lakes, and wild rivers running north, always north to their home in the sea. Clouds of snow geese and ducks and hunting raptors had filled the sky. It was one thing to study the environment from the comforts of Akademgorodok, but quite another to see the High Arctic in real life. Sometimes it had been gruesome, but it had never failed to fascinate him with its divergent life, struggling for survival, raising their babies, despite the predators and weather. He was starting to understand mankind’s place in the scheme of things, at least from the shaman’s point of view.
One day the old man had said that it was time to leave the Nenets. They had gone to the clan’s matron (Nenets are governed by women) and asked to borrow two bull reindeer and a rusty old shotgun, promising to free the deer once they’d reached their destination. The leader of the reindeer people had agreed and wished them well, even asking them to return someday. Wolverine and he planned to do just that . . . if they stayed alive.
“It looks like Zorkin will keep his new friend and two soldiers with him in camp.” Yuri said. “How will we overcome them? It doesn’t even get dark at night yet.”
“My powers will show me the way, but first we must find their weaknesses. Man is much less difficult to hunt than other animals, but I’m curious why Zorkin is watching the sky rather than the ground. Why would he look up when he should look down? Tell me more about your daughter. Maybe you’ve missed seeing her true spirit.”