by Alex Shaw
Outside, the door to the target address was open and armed militants were standing on the pavement. She saw the owner of the café, the same man who had taken her order, being questioned by a soldier who appeared to be in charge. The café owner pointed at the direction of the bus stop they had used earlier before gesticulating towards the balcony above.
Snow was watching too. ‘Not good,’ he uttered quietly in Russian.
Racine made no reply.
The bus stayed ominously still, its engine idling. A black Mercedes G Wagon containing four men appeared and parked in front of the bus, blocking the lane. Two of the occupants got out and joined the huddle on the street, while the other two stood guard over their vehicle. Both Racine and Snow recognised two of the newcomers. One had an immaculate moustache and dark head of hair, and the other a thick beard.
‘Strelkov,’ Racine muttered. ‘and Boroda.’
‘What an unpleasant surprise,’ Snow said.
‘If they spot us, the game’s up,’ Racine added.
‘What’s happening?’ Iqbal asked, his voice low.
‘Sit tight, but if I tell you to move, you move.’ Snow looked at Racine. ‘How shall we play this?’
‘Hard and fast.’
There was a rumbling noise and a Russian armoured personnel carrier lumbered into view. It stopped on the opposite side of the road and disgorged more Russian troops wearing combat fatigues without their identifying insignia. They fanned out to further prevent the traffic from negotiating the impromptu roadblock. The few cars that were on the road had already stopped, the nervousness of their drivers clearly visible. Racine swivelled in her seat and tried the catch on the large window behind her. Her fingers came away brown with rust where it had oxidised shut. Iqbal coughed and a passenger farther ahead on the bus turned to look back. As he did so, Iqbal coughed again. The man stood up slowly, confusion on his face. Racine could read his mind, ‘Why is he trying to hide?’ Racine felt her pulse start to quicken; she realised that their options were narrowing as the seconds ticked by. The man continued to stare, and then darted for the exit, hands held aloft.
‘Merde! Time to go,’ Racine exclaimed, loud enough for the other passengers to hear. ‘We’re going out of the back. Put your fingers in your ears,’ she said to Snow and Iqbal as she turned, raised her Makarov, and fired a round through the rear window. In the confined space, the retort was thunderous as the window exploded and boomed through the length of the bus. In Russian she yelled, ‘Everyone out! Now!’
There were screams as terrified passengers started to move, but not fast enough.
‘Out!’ Snow caught on, raised his Glock and pumped a round into the roof halfway down the bus as an incentive.
Racine vaulted up and out of the shattered rear window, her new coat protecting her from the worst of the jagged glass. She landed in a crouch, weapon up, and sent three controlled shots around the bus into the Russians who were already moving tactically towards the vehicle. The soldiers scattered, taking up defensive firing positions as one of their number was struck down. Now the passengers from the bus ran, arms raised, onto the road, blocking the Russians’ line of sight. She was sending civilians into a possible crossfire and hated herself for it, but there was no other way to make their escape, she just hoped the soldiers retained enough humanity not to shoot.
Above the screams, as though in a fog, she heard Snow shout, ‘Mo! GO!’
Moments later Iqbal landed in a heap beside her. She hoped to God – or whoever was listening – he hadn’t broken anything. Shots now rang out from the front of the bus and she saw Snow explode into the street and sprint full pelt down the outside of it. They had only a matter of seconds before their human shield thinned and incoming rounds attempted to tear them apart. As if to underline this she heard the zip of the first round. The real firefight had begun.
Without time for words, or explanation she slipped out of the heavy coat, hauled Iqbal up by the collar and half-dragged him away from the bus. Every step took them further from death. In front of her, from the way they had come traffic stopped – frozen; some drivers had abandoned their cars while others sat open-mouthed at the unfolding scene. The nearest vehicle to her was a dull-red Audi 80. The driver raised his hands upon seeing Racine. She motioned for him to get out and when he shook his head, she sent a round into his side mirror. She motioned again and this time the man scurried out.
Racine dove into the driver’s seat as Iqbal scrambled into the back. She put the car into first, floored the accelerator, and aimed in Snow’s direction as he tore towards them. Nearing the SIS man, she hauled on the handbrake and performed a tyre-squealing turn, bringing the vehicle to a halt in the opposite direction. Snow leapt into the passenger seat and before he had chance to close the door, Racine sent the elderly German sports saloon screeching along the wrong side of the road.
‘Are you hit?’ Snow shouted at Iqbal in the back seat.
‘I think I’ve skinned my knee.’ Iqbal’s voice was shaky. ‘Apart from that, no.’
‘Good.’ Snow met Racine’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. ‘And now?’
Racine changed gear and pushed the Audi harder. ‘We get out of here.’
Chapter 19
Leninskyi Avenue, Donetsk
Strelkov stared at the disappearing car for a long moment as the men around him continued to fire their assault rifles. He screwed his eyes shut before taking a deep breath and shouting, ‘Cease fire!’ The Russians stopped immediately; the few DNR militants who had appeared followed suit several seconds later.
Strelkov was incredulous. The man and woman had not only overcome the men left in the apartment, but also torn through the ten-man team in the flat below, and evaded his reinforcements.
Strelkov turned to the nearest militant. The man was unshaven and reeked of alcohol. Strelkov had no doubt the fool would drink himself to death within a few months. ‘Call your units, set up roadblocks. Get these civilians out of here, treat any that are wounded.’
The militant saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’
Strelkov inclined his head, turned and headed back to his G Wagon. ‘Take me to Vasilev’s apartment.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Boroda started the engine. ‘Permission to speak, sir.’
‘You may.’
‘I do not understand. Why is this Iqbal so important? He is just a student.’
‘And a king is just a man with important parents.’ Strelkov stared out of the window at the empty stores.
‘Sir, surely we should use our men to chase the escaped prisoner and not the DNR?’
‘No, Boroda.’ Strelkov shook his head. ‘We should not. We will distance ourselves from the man. The DNR must take responsibility for him, not us, and we have given them the weaponry to do so.’
‘These fools cannot be trusted to do anything.’
‘That is why I am trusting them with this. The winds are changing, Boroda; you and I may soon be needed elsewhere.’ Strelkov had become increasingly unhappy with the men of the DNR, especially when he thought back to his previous assignment. ‘In the Crimea, our approach worked. Why was that? It was because of the Russian soldiers under my control. The locals were merely backup dancers. Here, the DNR act like they are prima ballerinas!’
*
Behind them, no one gave chase and the rounds now fell short; in front of them, a building resembling a glittering cake box appeared and the road wound to the left where Leninskyi Avenue became Golden Ring Avenue. On one side, the city dropped away to reveal a lake known as Miskyi Pond and beyond that, Shcherbakov Park. In peacetime, it was the scenic heart of Donetsk where families, couples, and the elderly strolled. Now, however, the area was empty.
‘Do you know where you’re going?’ Snow asked Racine.
‘Sort of,’ she replied in her almost accentless English. ‘I’ve got a pretty good memory for maps.’
‘Here.’ Iqbal leant forward. ‘That bloke was in such a hurry to lend you his car that he dropped his phone, and he didn�
�t have a passcode!’
‘Great. See if you can open it and find a map app.’
Snow took the Samsung. ‘Tell me Vasilev’s address?’
Racine recited it from memory. A minute later, a Russian female voice provided them with turn-by-turn directions.
‘Can I ask a question?’ Iqbal leant against the back of Racine’s seat.
‘Shoot,’ Racine said, without irony.
‘Why are you after Vasilev?’ Iqbal said, earnestly.
Racine eyed the student in the rear-view mirror. ‘He’s a murdering traitor.’
‘Nasty.’
There was an explosion in the road ahead and Racine slammed on the brakes. Iqbal slipped off his seat and Snow steadied himself against the dashboard. ‘Incoming!’
Through a cloud of white smoke, they could make out the unmistakable shape of a Russian BMP-2 – a light armoured vehicle, faster than a tank and suited to urban warfare. It could shred them with either its 30mm auto cannon, coaxial 7.62mm PKT machine gun, or – if the crew really wanted to make a point – vaporise them with its ATGM launcher firing AT-5 Spandrel missiles.
‘What’s the GPS say about this?’ Iqbal gingerly climbed back onto the seat.
‘If he can’t see us, he can’t shoot us!’ Racine tugged the steering wheel to the right and the worn Audi’s suspension all but buckled as they slewed into another street.
‘Hey, I know where I am!’ Iqbal pointed. ‘This is University Boulevard, but it’s a one-way street!’
‘We’re only going one way!’ Racine replied. It would work for them; the BMP-2 would get snarled up – even if it went over the civilian vehicles.
They grazed an elderly Lada with the outdated Audi. Immediately on their left was a branch of a Raiffeisen Aval Bank, which had been re-appropriated by the DNR. Racine mounted the pavement to move past several angry motorists before bouncing back down on the road. The heavy retort of the BMP-2’s 30mm auto cannon sounded behind them, a chunk of building fell onto the road, and their rear windscreen imploded.
Racine shot a glance in the rear-view mirror. The BMP-2 had also mounted the pavement but was now trapped where the walkway narrowed; stuck in between the solid exterior wall of a building and a cement truck. The armoured vehicle tried to move forward and tore down a blue and white awning proudly advertising an insurance company.
‘I hope he’s fully covered!’ Snow said.
There was a loud thud, and the Audi shook. Racine tugged at the wheel; the saloon had become sluggish. ‘Time to bail out.’
Snow turned and spoke to his fellow countryman. ‘You are going to open the door and run. Take the first turning you find and wait for me there. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
‘Head down, hand on the door handle. Ready?’ Iqbal nodded vigorously. ‘GO!’
Iqbal fell out onto the pavement as Snow fired a pair of rounds back at the Russian armoured vehicle. The rounds wouldn’t penetrate the armour, but they might disturb the gunner’s aim.
Racine was out of the car and running up the street, every sense firing as she sought out possible threats among the civilians cowering in doorways and behind cars. She felt as though she were running through jelly but understood it was just an effect of the adrenalin on her muscles. At the first corner she turned left, immediately passed a second empty bank, and found herself in a small residential street. Iqbal skidded around the corner, clutching his chest. Racine reached back, seized him by the arm and together they ran towards an unfinished house on the other side of the street. She pushed him down the steep, sloping entrance ramp of the underground garage before dropping prone in the gloom, against the rear wall. Looking back up at the street above with her weapon raised, she was a hard target to spot and a harder target to hit.
She heard the impact of 30mm rounds and imagined the chaos it was causing. Whoever the gunner inside the turret was, he cared little for civilian casualties. A window in the building on the corner exploded and a fraction of a second later Snow appeared, arms and legs pumping. Racine popped her head up and beckoned him over. Snow careened down the ramp and landed heavily at the bottom, his cheek bloody. ‘Are we all OK?’
Iqbal, face red, bobbed his head.
‘We can’t stay here,’ Racine stated.
‘And we can’t make a run for it either,’ Snow replied.
Racine looked around. There was a temporary door in the wall behind them, a cheap one-piece item secured with a padlock. ‘Kick it – your feet are bigger than mine.’
‘I’m glad I have my uses.’ Snow arched his back and then drove his booted right foot forward as though attempting to move it through the door. The wood cracked but the door didn’t budge. He tried again. This time the wood splintered and the door opened. ‘Ladies first.’
Racine hustled Iqbal inside and Snow then shut the door as best he could behind the three of them.
The interior of the garage was a featureless concrete box with a solitary door halfway along on the right. Weapon at the ready, Racine moved towards the door. She doubted the building was occupied but she wasn’t clairvoyant. Through the door was a concrete corridor with two rooms without doors on either side. She motioned to the left with her left hand, as though chopping the air. Snow got the message and passed her to check the first room on the left. A couple of seconds later he emerged and then darted into the room opposite. Once he had established this was also empty he repeated the process with the last two rooms. They now moved to a set of concrete stairs leading to the ground floor.
‘On me,’ Racine said, now taking the lead. The first three steps she took facing forward, before twisting around and carrying on sideways, her Makarov extended above her head. She paused. The air seemed still, stale, and the scent of paint assaulted her nostrils. She darted up the last two stairs, all but vaulting into the void that was the ground floor. The room was large, dusty and empty apart from a stack of used paint pots in one corner. On the left-hand side, where windows had been designed to face the street, thick plastic sheeting had been affixed and billowed inwards holding off the worst of the outside world. The room was dry. It was a decent job. At the same end, an attempt to lay parquet flooring had started and then stopped – another example of life interrupted in Donetsk, she imagined.
Racine remained motionless and listened. There were no creaks from the floor above, no rustling, no scratching of minute concrete particles on boots and no hushed commands. She crossed the room and exited into the hallway. Directly to her right a double-height front door stood proud, plastic still coating a square decorative window. To her left a set of stairs led up to the top floor and beyond these was a double-width open-plan room – a kitchen she imagined. She could see it was empty and she heard no sounds of occupancy. Directly opposite her was a room that she presumed mirrored the one she had just left, but without access to the garage. Did civilians like their houses to be symmetrical? She’d never designed a house, so how would she know? Although Baptiste had once attempted to get her to do so on Minecraft. She frowned. Why was she now of all times unfocused? It made no sense and then she sensed Snow in the room behind her. Racine ushered him forward and pointed ahead. She remained in the hall whilst he cleared the last room.
Snow reappeared and they started to climb the second set of stairs. Again the room she entered was empty. Air billowed in through a hole in one of the plastic sheets and bird droppings decorated the floor, a finished, expensive-looking parquet floor. Once more she and Snow checked the entire space before finally accepting that they had the place to themselves.
Snow called down to Iqbal, ‘Come on up.’
Racine moved to the window and peered out. The street was no longer empty. Civilian traffic now crawled along, directed by men in mismatched fatigues holding rifles. She furrowed her brow. Were they directing traffic away from the road they had just inadvertently blocked or was it some lackadaisical way of searching for them? Whatever, the more civilians on the street the easier it would be for her to slip awa
y, but first the militants and their Russian friends had to move on.
‘I don’t like it.’
‘It’s not The Ritz,’ Snow replied.
‘It’s not even a Travelodge,’ Iqbal added.
Racine sighed. ‘Outside. Look. Amateurs.’
Snow joined her at the window.
‘What now?’ Iqbal asked.
‘We can’t leave yet. Rest up,’ Snow said.
Iqbal sat down against the wall and folded his arms. Racine continued to observe. From her vantage point she could see where the pavement met the start of the sloping entrance to the underground garage but not the door they had gone through. ‘They can choose to search this place at any time, and we’ve not got the firepower to stop them. We need to barricade the garage door, to at least give us a warning and a bit more time. We’ll use the paint pots.’
*
They’d been static in the empty house for almost an hour. The lack of movement had made Racine’s adrenalin levels drop and her body ache as she started to realise the full extent of her injuries. She slowly transferred her weight from one foot to the other and rolled her shoulders, to stop her fatigued muscles from tightening. Nothing, however, soothed her throbbing head.
So far, no more than a glance had been cast in their direction by the DNR forces on the street outside. She and Snow had kept watch whilst Iqbal rested. He lay on his side against the wall, having given in to exhaustion. Racine thought he looked like a postcard Parisian beggar and was tempted to ask Snow why he was worth rescuing. It was, she imagined, the first time he’d been able to sleep for a long while in relative safety. He had his own personal security detail, de facto parents, keeping overwatch. Two lines of a poem once learnt and not forgotten found their way into her fatigued thoughts. The words resonated with her. It was a poem about parents and how they mess you up. She quietly recited them aloud.