Traitors

by Alex Shaw

  The banging at the front door became more insistent. A brusque voice commanded, ‘Open the door. That is an order!’

  Snow chanced a glance through the peephole. In the hallway, Russian soldiers had taken up tactical positions; crouching in cover, keeping their rifles trained on the door. Was this the reinforcements or yet more men? An older man, an officer, stood at the front brandishing a pistol; his fist became comically large as he brought it towards the door and banged. Snow backed away; this was not going to be easy at all. The troops hadn’t opened fire yet but they would.

  ‘Speak,’ Snow ordered. ‘Be louder.’

  ‘Everything is fine,’ the soldier said, again.

  ‘Open the door … immediately!’ the officer barked.

  There was no other way out. Snow moved to the side. ‘I’m going to open the door, and then you will walk out.’

  The soldier swallowed and said nothing.

  ‘Tell him you are going to open the door and come out.’

  ‘I’m going to open the door and come out.’ The soldier’s voice was croaky.

  ‘Louder,’ hissed Snow, ‘say it louder.’

  The soldier repeated the sentence, his voice louder but still strained.

  ‘Now!’ Snow ordered.

  The soldier took hold of the handle and then jerkily pushed the door open. Unseen by him, Snow had dropped to the floor to the side of the door, with the AK in front of him. Snow imagined the collective Russian trigger fingers taking second pressure. It opened farther, the young soldier stepped out, and Snow opened fire. Just off the floor, angling up, the rounds tore at the shins of the officer and the centre masses of those farther away. AK on full automatic, Snow sprayed the landing, hoping to overwhelm and subdue the opposition by using aggression as a force multiplier. Several soldiers had escaped his fusillade but as he watched them readying to attack, they spun away, taken out by precise shots coming from what he could only reason was the doorway of the next flat, the old man’s place.

  ‘Clear!’ Racine yelled and then burst into his field of fire, weapon up.

  Six Russians lay either dead or incapacitated. The young soldier huddled in the corner with his hands over his head. Racine booted him to the floor. ‘Face on the floor, hands on your head.’

  Snow got to his feet, a smile had unconsciously formed on his face. Racine was quite an operator. He tactically advanced into the hall and kicked away the rifle of an injured soldier. To his left, the officer lay on his back, both lower legs turned to a pulpy mess. Tears of pain ran down his face. His left hand was in his pocket, Snow’s eyes grew wide as the Russian withdrew it. Time seemed to slow as Snow stared at what it contained.

  ‘Grenade!’ Snow shouted as he swung the Kalashnikov and drilled the officer’s chest with a burst of rounds. The Russian fell limp, the grenade rolled, and Snow dove to the floor in the opposite direction. When Snow opened his eyes eight seconds later, he knew it hadn’t been armed. The olive-green, egg-shaped RGD-5 grenade had a delay fuse of approximately four seconds. Snow got to his haunches and double-checked the grenade before he pocketed it. He looked at Racine; she seemed calm, almost icy. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, I couldn’t shoot my way through them all.’

  Snow went back inside for Iqbal. He found him crouching on the balcony, peering over the edge.

  ‘We have to go.’ He placed his hand on the young Brit’s shoulder.

  ‘There’s a whole group of people down there.’ Iqbal pointed through the balcony doors.

  Snow glanced at the street below; a circle of gawking locals stood around the body of a soldier. The most worrying development, however, was the two Russian army trucks now disgorging troops outside. ‘Come on.’

  They exited the apartment; Iqbal put his hand to his mouth at the sight of the carnage.

  Racine had turned over one of the Russians, removed the dead man’s military jacket, and thrust it at Iqbal. ‘You need to wear this.’

  Iqbal was numb. ‘Why?’

  ‘Camouflage,’ Racine said.

  ‘The Russians are on the street, we need to hustle.’ Snow switched out his AK’s magazine for one taken from the nearest Russian.

  ‘Merde!’ Racine swapped her own magazine. ‘We need to exfil.’

  Snow agreed. ‘Those troops will breach this place any minute.’

  He moved to the end of the landing and looked out of a window that had a clear view of the rear of the block and the other buildings beyond. ‘On me, we’ll go out the back. It’s clear for now but you can bet it won’t stay that way.’

  Snow advanced down the stairs, the AK tracking his line of sight. Iqbal was second and Racine was tail-end Charlie. As they reached the bottom of the first-floor steps, Snow held up his fist to indicate that they should stop. Racine pulled Iqbal backwards against the wall, three steps above.

  Snow crept forward until he had eyes on the ground-floor flat used by the Russians. The door was open. Had the occupants been included in the assault team upstairs? There was only one way to find out, yet he couldn’t waste time checking. He stood by the door with his AK trained inside, and was about to beckon Iqbal and Racine past when movement in another direction caught his eye. AK and eyes moving as one, he turned to face the exterior first-floor window. It was an architectural feature designed to illuminate the stairwell and provide views of the communal playground below. What Snow saw through the discoloured pane, however, was a line of Russian troops advancing across the space. Strelkov’s soldiers had arrived.

  They were trapped.

  ‘We’ve got company. Russian troops coming from the rear.’

  ‘Putain!’ Racine swore, the whispered curse floating on the landing.

  ‘Wh … what are we going to do?’ Iqbal’s voice was strained.

  Snow pointed to the door of the apartment. ‘We go in there; we hide. It may buy us some time, and they’ll think we’re upstairs.’

  ‘Upstairs,’ Racine said. ‘I’ll go upstairs. You two get in there.’

  Snow frowned. There was no time for questions or debate.

  *

  Racine raced back up the stairs, knowing that there was danger below but none above. She reached the floor with the dead Russians, grabbed two more magazines for her Kalashnikov, then carried on up the stairs to the top floor. The landing was empty and the doors to the remaining flats were shut, their residents either absent or cowering behind settees. She was sorry she’d given them nightmares.

  In the corner of the space, a green-painted steel mesh door now blocked her path to the last few steps and a smaller wooden door that led to the roof. The padlock seemed more solid than the frame it was attached to. She slammed the butt of her AK down against it and was rewarded not with the lock breaking but with the frame twisting. Using the famously indestructible Russian rifle as a lever she pulled the frame some more until the space between it and the wall was big enough for her to squeeze through.

  The wooden door gave her less trouble; a well-placed stomp of her right foot was all it took to splinter the wood.

  She stepped out onto the roof. A breeze not detectable at ground level whipped around her, carrying the shouted instructions of military men below.

  Shouldering her Kalashnikov, and moving at a crouch, her boots crunching on loose gravel and debris, she edged to the front of the building to see soldiers readying themselves to stream inside. She ignored these and moved to the back. Immediately behind the building was a narrow street with cars parked on one side, dumpsters on the other, and then a grassy area that passed for a playground surrounded by tall trees. It was a classic layout that was found in most cities and the towns of the former Soviet Union, and it reminded her of the older Paris banlieues. Past the trees the buildings in the next street were smaller, older two- and single-storey houses and industrial units and it was here that she saw the Russians. She counted twenty, perhaps more. They were approaching weapons up, in a tactical formation, scanning the area ahead – but not looking up …

/>   Racine had a plan. She had one Kalashnikov, but she also had ninety rounds. She checked the selector switch was on ‘semi-automatic’, so she could fire single shots, dropped to her haunches and rested the AK on the protective railings at the edge of the roof. The wind was less on this side and the Russians were now advancing to within range of her rifle. On the ranges she’d trained on the most popular foreign weapons including several versions of the rifle now in her hands, so knew its capabilities, and her own. Hitting the men at this range and elevation, however, was not going to be a duck shoot.

  She slowed her breathing, looked down the iron sights and squeezed the trigger. Her first round zipped past the lead Russian and hit the concrete path to his right. There was a slight pause before any of the men reacted. They moved backwards bumping and concertinaing into each other, weapons sweeping erratically. Racine realised; they may be Russian army, but they were not specialist commandos. She fired two more single rounds in quick succession. The second man in line spun on the spot as a round hit his left shoulder and he lost his weapon. Now the troops started to take action, dropping to their knees or adopting other firing stances but none opened fire, as Racine’s position remained undetected.

  Racine switched the selector to ‘burst’ and aimed towards the middle of the pack of men and fired two brief bursts. Three soldiers this time were hit. She chanced a third burst as her vision now flashed with return fire. Racine retreated from the edge until she couldn’t be seen and moved as quickly as she could parallel to her first position along the edge of the roof.

  When she popped up again her angle was different, because she was further away, but that was her plan. With a new magazine, she fired again in rapid, staccato bursts until the magazine emptied, her shots missing but again getting the Russians’ attention. She stepped back, moved further away, switched her magazine for a new one and now in a third firing position, half-emptied the third magazine in the direction of the Russians in a single burst.

  The Russians were advancing. They were following her progression along the roof and moving away from the end of the building – the corner where Iqbal and Snow were hiding. Racine only hoped she’d done enough to create a big enough diversion because now she had to escape and continue her own mission.

  Running, stumbling and crunching along the centre of the roof unseen, she reached the door she had come out of. She looked inside and saw no one but on a lower floor could hear the sound of boots on the steps and curt commands. She continued on to the far edge of the roof and the curved steel railings that protruded from it. Racine glanced over the edge of the building, the side that faced nothing but its smaller neighbour. The four-metre-wide space between the two buildings was empty. For a crazy moment she contemplated jumping from one roof to the next but instantly dismissed the idea, this wasn’t some Hollywood action film. Holding her Kalashnikov now with her left hand, she turned around and swung her legs one at a time over the edge and just hoped that the rusty rungs would hold her weight until she was low enough to jump to safety.

  *

  Although only a metre from the ground, the flat had an enclosed balcony on the back wall of the building. With the top of his head just appearing over the line of the windowsill, Snow watched the Russians manoeuvre and fire, clearly aiming at someone shooting at them from the roof and being led away from his position. He’d started to like Racine more and more.

  Snow moved back into the empty flat, which stank of soldiers – sweat and greasy food – to find Iqbal washing his face and hands in the kitchen sink. ‘We need to go.’

  Iqbal looked up, water dripping from his nose and eyebrows. ‘How?’

  ‘Through the balcony at the back; it’s clear for now.’

  They headed for the rear of the flat, as outside the front door the sounds of troops in boots continued past and up the stairs. It wouldn’t be long before the Russians started to search the place flat by flat. With luck, they’d reach their own lodgings last.

  The pair crouched as they entered the balcony, Snow checking their escape route again.

  Still clear.

  After undoing the latch on the two connecting central windows he pushed them wide then, holding his Kalashnikov to his chest, stepped up and dropped out. Hitting the ground, he immediately bent his knees and then twisted to face the backs of the retreating Russians. They were some distance away at the opposite corner of the building now, but they were still well within weapons’ range and if they looked back he’d have no chance.

  Snow silently but urgently beckoned Iqbal to join him. After hesitating for only a second or so he landed on the ground next to Snow. ‘Get to the next building; try the back door.’

  Iqbal nodded and said nothing but also didn’t move.

  Snow pointed to the door barely twenty metres away. ‘Go!’

  Now Iqbal loped away, favouring his right leg.

  Snow started to back away from his position and was now in the gap between the two buildings. There was a noise to his right and he saw a figure approaching him. Their eyes met and she joined him.

  ‘Nice of you to drop in,’ Snow said.

  *

  ‘We need to move.’ Racine was impatient. She could feel her mission slipping away from her and babysitting Iqbal wasn’t going to help. Outwardly she remained calm but inside she chastised herself for failing, for being foolhardy and rushing into an assault without an ounce of planning or absolute proof that her target was there. This was not, however, the time to doubt herself or her skills, and she wasn’t alone. She was glad still to have Snow by her side. He was a professional just like her, perhaps even as good. She wouldn’t break away from him just yet.

  There was a shout and then another. The Russians had turned back.

  Racine dropped to one knee and opened fire with her AK, providing the other two with covering fire.

  ‘Moving!’ Snow raced for the rear of the next building.

  Racine’s rounds made the Russians duck back behind the far edge of the building, but then her AK clicked empty on her last magazine. She dropped the assault rifle and sprinted after Snow and Iqbal. Iqbal had already gone through the back door, but Snow was now on a knee with his AK covering her and aimed at the retreating troops. She reached the rear door, still shuddering from having slammed shut, opened it and plunged into the interior gloom as Snow opened up with his Kalashnikov.

  Racine heard footsteps at the front of the building and the creak of a door opening. She bounded up the steps, from the rear exit and into the hallway. She saw two figures. The first was Iqbal, who was cowering by the front door; the second was an old woman who was fiddling with her keys and attempting to get in through the door to her flat. She had a huge bundle of clothes on a trolley behind her. Racine recognised her as the woman who’d been selling clothes outside, next to Yuri. Racine reached into her pocket, found a couple of $100 bills and thrust them into the woman’s hand.

  ‘I need a coat.’

  ‘Th … this is too much,’ the woman stammered.

  ‘I’m worth it.’ Racine took the first thing she saw, which was a heavy-looking woollen greatcoat. Military chic, she imagined. It was oversized and she slipped it on over her existing leather jacket. ‘Thank you.’

  She now focused on Iqbal. He was peering out of the front door at the street. Racine knew she had to act. They had no time to wait for Snow, and besides the Russians were looking for a group. She made a decision.

  ‘Mohammed, take my hand. You are I are a couple.’

  ‘W … what?’

  She grabbed his hand. ‘Don’t let go,’ and then she slowly pushed open the front door.

  Looking one way and then the other, she scanned Leninskyi Avenue. Back in the direction she had come from, the two military trucks stood blocking the street in front of the building Iqbal had been held in. In the other direction, however, past the apartment block, a bus had stopped on the road. It was headed the wrong way but it was their only chance of getting away unseen. A huddle of locals were bu
sily boarding the bus and trying to escape the ensuing firefight.

  Racine knew it was movement that drew the attention of the human eye, and she also knew she had to move. Fighting every instinct that told her to stay hidden or sprint away, she walked out of the front door, holding hands with Iqbal, and took the steps down at a casual walking pace. He was visibly limping, and she just hoped no one picked up on it. The pair headed for the bus. She could hear shouted instructions behind from a voice she recognised, and she could all but feel eyes looking in her direction. Ahead now she saw a further door of the building swing open and Aidan Snow nonchalantly take the steps down. An elderly woman was on his arm. Despite herself Racine smiled; Snow looked like a doting son. He got to the bus before her and helped the babushka on board. Racine and Iqbal managed to join the bus queue just as the last two passengers were about to board.

  Racine paid the driver. He eyed Iqbal suspiciously but made no comment and they moved up the aisle. On the street she now saw soldiers frog-marching residents, including Yuri, away from the building Iqbal had been kept in and yet more soldiers outside. Inside the bus, the back bench seat was empty save for a solitary passenger – Snow – who had deposited the old lady near the front. Snow stood and let Iqbal squeeze into the corner. Racine scooted onto the end of the seat, facing down the aisle.

  No sooner had the bus moved off than it started to slow again, its route blocked by the two trucks. Through the shared seat, Racine could feel Iqbal shaking; she noticed Snow put left his hand on the younger man’s leg and squeeze. Meanwhile, his right held his Glock in his lap, hidden from sight.

  The driver performed an abrupt, emergency stop. A woman near the front of the bus cried out as a group of soldiers, brandishing assault rifles, blocked their progress. They fanned out across both sides. Another passenger crossed herself with her right hand.

  Snow pushed Iqbal down below the level of the windows.

  The other passengers were either silent or whispering to each other. All well aware that civilian buses had been caught up in the crossfire before or simply been targeted. Experience had told them to keep their heads down and give the men with guns no reason to view them as a problem. Racine huddled against Snow – taking on the role of a cowering girlfriend – but below seat-level, both their handguns were good to go. If she had to fight her way out of the bus, she was going to be the first to open fire.