The Hunters

by Chris Kuzneski

  She tried to remember what she had been taught: focus on one finger. If she could pry one digit from her throat, his grip would loosen significantly. At the same time, she thought about her stance, and how she might be able to knock him off balance.

  But training is not instinct. Thought is not muscle memory. And the seconds Jasmine squandered remembering the techniques cost her air and consciousness.

  Now she was helpless.

  Jasmine’s face turned red. Her tongue stabbed out of her frighteningly twisted mouth. Then her body jerked forward limply as if she were trying to throw up. The sounds of her gagging made Garcia and Papineau sick with helplessness all those miles away.

  ‘Sarah!’ Papineau screamed in the Moscow railroad office. ‘Where the hell are you?’

  But Sarah wasn’t answering.

  ‘There must be something wrong with her unit,’ Garcia said.

  ‘Quiet!’ Cobb whispered, low enough so that Kadurik wouldn’t hear.

  ‘You!’ Kadurik snarled in heavily accented English. ‘Kick … pipe … here!’

  He clutched Jasmine to him, huddling behind her, shaking her head with his hand at Cobb like a mad puppeteer.

  Cobb motioned to lower his elbow first, relax the choke.

  ‘Do it!’ Kadurik threatened.

  Cobb shook his head. ‘She dies, you die.’

  Kadurik relaxed slightly - but it was enough. Jasmine was in no condition to fight, but at least she could breathe, albeit raspingly.

  Cobb agreed to his end of the bargain. He slowly placed the pipe on the ground and kicked it forward - all the while deciding when to make his move. But before he had a chance to do anything, there was a blur of motion behind Kadurik, who made a whining, wailing sound, which was drowned out by the stomach-turning noise of ripping skin and smashing bone.

  Kadurik crumpled to the sidewalk like a rag doll. Jasmine fell, too, but before she hit the ground, Andrei Dobrev caught her in his blood-splattered hands. To do so, he was forced to drop his nineteen-inch-long saddle-bolt spanner - an open-ended wrench used to tighten bolts in locomotives. Covered in strands of hair and bits of flesh, it clattered to the cement in the suddenly quiet night.

  Cobb blinked a few times, surprised by the turn of events.

  Although Jasmine was his main concern, Cobb rushed to Kadurik first. Not to treat his wounds, but to make sure he was no longer a threat.

  He wasn’t. The skinhead was dead.

  Cobb patted him down and searched his pockets. Then he placed the weapons back in the hands of the men who had been carrying them - including the rock, so the police would know who had attacked their colleagues.

  All in all, it wasn’t a bad result.

  Six men down, but his historian/interpreter was still alive.

  Cobb knelt beside her and pressed two fingers behind Jasmine’s inner left ankle. It was an acupressure technique he had learned in the service, intended to help her recover. A few seconds later, her eyes fluttered open. Her pupils were clear and her flesh was pale in the streetlight, but she appeared okay, at least physically. And she would benefit from this experience: the next time she felt that fear, she would know it, confront it, and hopefully get past it.

  That was how combat worked.

  Jasmine looked up at Cobb in wounded wonder.

  ‘What happened?’ she croaked.

  Cobb put his hand on Dobrev’s shoulder. ‘You survived - thanks to your friend.’

  ‘Really?’

  Cobb nodded. ‘Really.’

  She smiled at Dobrev and thanked him in Russian.

  * * *

  McNutt had heard the confrontation through his earpiece, but he never had a clear view from his vantage point across the street. And he felt sick about it.

  ‘Chief,’ he said sincerely, ‘I didn’t have a shot. I’m sorry.’

  Cobb waved off the apology. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘I’m coming now. Two minutes out.’

  ‘Don’t. We don’t need you … Sarah?’

  ‘Ready,’ was all she said.

  McNutt slowed to a halt. ‘Instructions?’

  ‘B to A,’ Cobb said quietly. ‘We’ll pick you up as soon as we can.’

  ‘Outstanding,’ McNutt replied.

  Over the intercom, Papineau pleaded with the team, hoping that someone - anyone - would recognize his authority. ‘See if you can get back upstairs. Tell Andrei that Jasmine needs a drink. If you do that, see if you can get the coin. We—’

  ‘Shut up,’ Cobb said.

  ‘Boss man,’ Garcia said fearlessly, ‘it would be a big help if I was able to laser-scan it.’

  ‘A painful process, if I shove that coin up your ass,’ Cobb growled.

  He practically heard Garcia’s mouth snap shut.

  Cobb helped Jasmine and Dobrev. He was angry with himself for having assumed Kadurik was among the initial gang of three. That was a mistake that could have cost them dearly.

  ‘Now what?’ Jasmine wondered.

  ‘You hear that?’ Cobb asked.

  ‘Hear what? My ears are ringing.’

  ‘Sirens,’ he said calmly. ‘Someone must have seen the fight and called the police. We need to go before they arrive.’ He pointed at Dobrev. ‘Tell him that.’

  Jasmine did, and Dobrev replied sadly.

  ‘He understands,’ she told Cobb. ‘He said he’ll keep our names out of it if anyone asks.’

  Cobb smiled. ‘He doesn’t get. I mean we all have to go. Now.’

  Papineau objected from afar. ‘Jack, what are you thinking? We don’t know this man. His presence puts everyone in jeopardy if—’

  Anger flared in Cobb’s eyes. ‘Another word and I terminate. Got that?’

  Papineau’s response was heavy breathing. The only reason Cobb was still listening at all was because he needed to stay in touch with the other team members. On most missions, this was the point when he pretty much stopped giving a damn about what the bottled-water-drinking bastards back in their ops tents thought, said, or did.

  But Papineau wasn’t the only one objecting to Dobrev’s inclusion in their escape. Dobrev himself was arguing with Jasmine, shaking his head and pointing to his apartment.

  It was obvious that he intended to stay.

  Jasmine translated for Cobb. ‘He says he’s not leaving without the coin. He left it in the open, and he’s afraid he might never see it again if he doesn’t go get it right now. I think he’ll come with us if we just let him run upstairs and—’

  ‘There’s no time for that,’ Cobb replied.

  The sounds of the sirens were growing louder.

  ‘Sarah, you copy?’ Cobb asked.

  ‘Heard it all,’ Sarah answered.

  ‘Good. Smash and grab,’ Cobb instructed. ‘Two minutes. Then get down here.’

  ‘Two minutes?’ Sarah repeated. ‘In two minutes we’ll be two blocks from here.’

  ‘Prove it,’ Cobb challenged.

  25

  Sarah jumped backwards over the edge of the rooftop directly above Dobrev’s apartment. Her rappelling gear held fast, preventing a quick plummet to her death. In a mere fifteen seconds, she had dropped several stories to Dobrev’s locked window. A quarter-minute more, and she had popped the latch that anchored the window to its sill. She climbed inside the apartment then unfastened her harness, leaving the rope dangling down the side of the building.

  She would need it again in less than a minute.

  Darting through the apartment with the grace of a ballet dancer, she deftly avoided the floor lamp that cast a dim light on the apartment’s only chair. The scene struck her as sad, and she couldn’t help but wonder how many nights the old man had sat alone in the dark, staring at his treasure. But it was a thought she quickly dismissed when she spotted the coin on a small wooden table near the door, right next to the closet where Dobrev had grabbed the saddle-bolt spanner from his toolbox. With gloved hands, Sarah tucked the coin into a zippered pocket, then scampered back to the open window. She rea
ttached her harness to the rope, closed the window behind her, and began her descent.

  Anyone who happened to be looking up at the side of the building as Sarah made her way down would have been forced to choose between two, equally unlikely scenarious: Catwoman exists, or the laws of gravity had changed. Dressed from hood to booties in another black catsuit, Sarah literally ran down the edifice. The muscles in her arms burned as she pulsed her grips to keep her pace. It was not a beginner’s move; it required practiced balance and unbelievable strength. But once Sarah had gotten the hang of it, she preferred it over the standard, backwards dismount. Today it actually served a purpose, as it was the fastest way to reach the ground … other than a freefall.

  True to her word, it had been little more than a minute since Sarah had entered the apartment. As she hit the ground, she reached inside her suit and withdrew a credit-card-sized remote control. Sliding back the cover to reveal the buttons beneath, she entered the combination. On the roof, the electromagnet that held the loop of rope in place around the fire escape ladder decoupled instantly. Sarah could feel the slack, moments before the full length of the rope hit the pavement. It was the latest in climbing technology, a gift from McNutt.

  This is too easy, Sarah thought as she spooled the rope around her arm.

  * * *

  ‘How we doing?’ Cobb asked as he slammed the door of the SUV behind Jasmine and Dobrev. She was doing her best to keep the old man calm.

  ‘Satellite says you’re clear for about forty seconds,’ Garcia said in everyone’s ears. ‘Cops are converging from the north and east.’

  ‘Look to your left,’ McNutt said.

  Cobb glanced and saw a glimmer of light where the roadway curved. It could have been a small mirror, a pair of glasses, or a watch face, but he knew it was McNutt.

  ‘On my way,’ Cobb said as he climbed behind the wheel.

  Cobb pulled the SUV into the street and started his U-turn. As he did, Sarah appeared from the shadows and ran to join them. She jumped into the passenger seat as Cobb pressed the accelerator to the floor.

  ‘We’re golden,’ Sarah said. ‘Literally.’

  Cobb smiled. ‘Jasmine, tell Andrei we got his coin.’

  They drove forward as the faint red glow of police lights illuminated the horizon. Nearly a block away, Cobb slowed just enough to allow McNutt to climb into the rear of the truck.

  ‘About time,’ McNutt joked. ‘I almost caught a cab.’

  He slammed the tailgate shut as Cobb floored it.

  Jasmine stared at the lights ahead. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘B to A,’ Cobb answered as he turned off the main road to avoid the flashing lights. It was the second time he had used that expression in the last five minutes.

  McNutt, who was familiar with the term from the military, leaned back and smiled. ‘B to A - music to my ears!’

  ‘B to A?’ Sarah asked. ‘What does that mean? You keep saying it.’

  ‘It’s an exit strategy,’ Cobb explained as he looked for lights in his rearview mirror. ‘You’ve gotten to where you wanted to go, now you gotta get back to where you started.’

  McNutt laughed as he closed his eyes for a quick nap. ‘B to the fuckin’ A.’

  * * *

  Their destination was the Moskva-Kazanskaya train station, the depot furthest southeast from Moscow’s center and the one with the biggest train yard.

  Andrei Dobrev watched in amazement as Cobb drove past the security booth and into the private parking lot. The wonderment did not subside as Cobb led him and Jasmine through the Venetian-style, green-tinted glass entrance beneath the four-tiered spire. The structure had been modeled on the glorious seventeenth-century Soyembika Tower in Kazan, supposedly built by Ivan the Terrible’s artisans.

  Cobb walked beneath it as if he had built it himself, and he led the two through the chandelier-lined, arched-ceiling lobby, along the tile-stoned floor, past the arched train platforms and granite columns, and around the advertising kiosks. He sauntered as if he owned the place; much to Dobrev’s surprise, no one stopped or questioned him. Cobb walked them past the waiting areas and up to the door that separated the passengers from the workers.

  He looked back at Dobrev with a knowing smile, then pushed open the door.

  Stretching out before the veteran railroad man was a scene out of his dreams. It was the rail yard, lit up like it was a Spartak-CSKA match in the Russian Premier League. The lights illuminated four linked train carriages.

  The first one was from a Grand Express, which was essentially a hotel on wheels. But Dobrev knew that this was one of the conference cars, designed for moving meetings of top-level businessmen, politicians, and dignitaries. It came complete with Wi-Fi, LCD TV screens, toilets, showers, and air conditioning. It was taken from the country’s first private train company.

  The second was a flatbed car, with a staging surface dotted with bolted-down handles and hooks. The third was a modified freight car with a new, dull gray, armored exterior and what looked like movable window slats at every level. Its ceiling also looked as if it were outfitted with tracking and surveillance devices.

  The last was a classic first-class compartment car from the train Lev Tolstoy, which made the first direct trip between Moscow and Helsinki in 1975. It had sleeping quarters for six as well as a galley and restaurant area. As Dobrev watched, a four-man team was painting over the artful blue, white, and red exteriors of the once famous cars with a uniform dark gray.

  He only managed to look away when Jasmine touched his arm.

  Cobb stood behind her with an encouraging smile on his face. ‘Please ask Mr Dobrev, what engine would he want if he had to drive this train through any condition?’

  26

  Monday, September 17

  Moskovskaya, Russia

  (18 miles southwest of Moscow)

  Colonel Viktor Borovsky, a member of the senior supervising staff of the Investigations Special Branch, leaned against the doorway of Anatoli Vargunin’s tiny office in the Moskovskaya police station. The warrant officer became aware of Borovsky’s presence before he saw his face.

  ‘Who’s there, and what is it now?’ Vargunin asked irritably, pecking with stubby, inexperienced fingers on the keyboard of his relatively new computer.

  Borovsky smiled at Vargunin’s tone. The Moskovskaya station was in much better shape than most in the Moscow suburbs. Although the plain exterior of the station was ominous, the interior had been freshly painted in a cheerful sunflower yellow, and freshly redecorated with wide, white tile floors that were geometrically divided by glass and steel cubicles.

  Borovsky remained silent as he studied Vargunin’s office. He noted that the cramped space bridged the old and the new: the new being his computer, the old being everything else, most prominently the building’s walls that seemed to loom more than stand.

  ‘I asked you a question,’ Vargunin said. ‘Who’s there, and what is it now?’

  ‘What is it now?’ Borovsky growled. ‘That’s what I was about to ask you, comrade.’

  At the sound of the unfamiliar voice, Vargunin’s large head snapped up. His eyes rose slowly, widening, but the annoyance fled like a rat when he saw the polished military bearing of his visitor. His blood-stained eyes, stinging from the new computer monitor and reddened by increasing amounts of drink the past few years, took in the visitor’s proud, polished belt buckle, his gray jacket, the three-starred epaulettes, and the decorations over his upper left jacket pocket.

  Vargunin had not yet reached the visitor’s face when he jerked up to attention, sending his old wooden office chair banging into the wall behind him.

  ‘Excuse me, comrade Colonel,’ Vargunin said crisply. He kept his eyes straight ahead, focused on the wall, as he had been trained to do. ‘No one told me of your visit!’

  ‘Ana, Ana, Ana,’ Borovsky laughed, fully entering the office now. ‘Do I have to make appointments to see an old friend?’

  Finally, Vargunin’s tired eyes
made it to his visitor’s face. At that precise moment, his own face relaxed and broke into a welcoming smile.

  ‘Viktor!’ he exclaimed. ‘Viktor, is it really you?’

  ‘I hope it’s really me. Who else would I be then?’

  The two met at the front of the desk and gripped each other’s forearms.

  Borovsky looked his old militia friend up and down. ‘Still in the blue-shirted, black tie and slacks uniform, just as I remember,’ he said. ‘Maybe a bit thicker around the middle and a bit thinner in the hair - but, yes, still the same old Anatoli.’

  ‘No,’ Vargunin said. ‘I am a crabbier version, out of alignment with the modern world.’ He dipped his head toward the computer. ‘I hate that thing.’

  Borovsky laughed. ‘There was a time when everything was new. People adjusted.’

  ‘They had time to adjust,’ Vargunin countered. ‘You had time to adjust to an electric light before there was an automobile. Today, it’s one thing after another after another.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Borovsky said, smiling. ‘You are crabbier.’

  Both men were silent for a moment, then they laughed.

  ‘How long has it been?’ Vargunin wondered, mentally counting backwards.

  ‘Close to three years,’ Borovsky informed him. ‘Well before “the Bill” was introduced.’

  Vargunin sneered. ‘The Bill. I hate that thing, too.’

  ‘I know,’ Borovsky said. ‘A plague on it.’

  ‘It ruined enough people to qualify as one.’

  ‘It was necessary.’

  Vargunin shook his head. ‘So is a tooth extraction. One doesn’t hate the dentist, but don’t ask me to cheer the decay.’

  Borovsky laughed at the comment. It was the same debate that they’d had three years ago, mercifully reduced to this shorthand.

  ‘The Bill’ was the Bill on Police, one of the first major reforms of the department since 1917. It had previously been the People’s Militia, but after almost a hundred years of growing corruption, President Dmitry Medvedev had introduced sweeping reforms in 2010. They were ratified by the State Duma in early 2011 and put into effect on March 1st of that year.