The Hunters

by Chris Kuzneski

  Sidorov gestured broadly, looking left and right as he pointed at the train before disappearing into the BRDM. A moment later the big vehicle stopped and pivoted on its central axis until it was facing in the direction Cobb had flown.

  Then it set off in pursuit.

  Of the remaining Black Robes, a dozen headed toward the slowing train and a half-dozen joined the BRDM to track down Cobb before he could harm their master.

  * * *

  Garcia stared at the camera footage on his video screen. ‘You’re nearly there, Jasmine. About ten feet … eight … five …’

  She braked, hoping that the last expenditure of momentum would do the trick.

  It did. There was a squeal, a thump, and then a clang as the couplings hooked.

  ‘Beautiful!’ Garcia yelled. ‘Way to go!’

  Half a flatbed away, McNutt swore. A dozen Cossack cycles were tearing back toward the train, and he was the main line of defense. McNutt slammed his palm on the flatbed fence in frustration. He vaulted over the side of the flatbed car.

  ‘Josh!’ Garcia cried, seeing him land and sprint toward the nearest Black Robe.

  McNutt fired two rounds at the ground, each one closer to the front tire than the one before. He was out of range, but hopefully the rider wouldn’t know that. The Black Robe with the empty sidecar swerved a little too quickly and nearly tipped over. He skidded toward McNutt just enough. The gunman was already running at him, right arm stretched ahead, left hand supporting it at the wrist. The Glock spat twice, though the second ‘insurance’ shot wasn’t necessary. The first had made a raw, red hole in the rider’s forehead.

  McNutt ducked and hurried over to snatch the AK-47.

  He kicked off the dead driver and hopped on.

  ‘Okay, you bastards,’ he said. ‘If it’s killing you want …’

  He gunned the engine and tore off across the field at the oncoming Black Robes.

  The remaining eleven Black Robes bore down on him. McNutt grinned in ferocious anticipation at the sight of the arrogant driver who pulled away from the group, the occupant of his sidecar sneering as he carefully aimed his own AK-47.

  McNutt watched the man’s shoulder. Just as it rose, McNutt pulled back the throttle and quickly decelerated. He felt the bullet go by his right ear an instant before he heard the sound of its firing.

  Stupid headhunter, he thought. You should have gone for the chest.

  With leisurely grace, McNutt placed a nine-millimeter slug into the man’s heart. The Cossack driver reacted in surprise as the sidecar occupant’s head snapped back, his chest opening like a broken window. McNutt punctuated the driver’s surprise by putting a Glock round in his ear as he passed.

  The driver flew off the bike as if in slow motion, and the cycle just kept going. So did McNutt - ignoring the driver as he crashed into the ground in an ugly heap.

  There are more where he came from.

  McNutt swung wide and passed to the right of the group, doing what he used to do in the rodeo: he ducked low and far to the side, giving the Black Robes nothing to shoot at but the bike. They were surprised to see him vanish and held their fire just long enough for him to speed into a protective thicket. When they recovered and turned to pursue, McNutt was upright again. He swung the motorcycle to its side, aimed through an opening, and took down a pair of Black Robes.

  * * *

  Sidorov had heard the gunfire coming closer - not toward the train, where it was supposed to be going. He looked back through the slotted window of the BRDM and saw the enemy, who was obviously an experienced warrior and sharpshooter, pick off three more cyclists.

  Sidorov sensed it was time to make a stand. Cursing the incompetence of his men, Sidorov stared angrily at his two Black Robe assistants - one behind the wheel and one beside the driver. He knew what lay ahead. He knew what had to be done.

  ‘The grenade launcher,’ Sidorov said. ‘Give it to me.’

  66

  McNutt pulled up to where Anna was cradling Borovsky’s body. McNutt only had a few rounds left in the automatic. He would have to get a weapon from the Russians.

  Anna looked at him with certainty, her face unmarked by tears.

  ‘There’s no blood on his teeth,’ she said in Russian. ‘I don’t think he has any major internal injuries.’

  McNutt shrugged helplessly. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t speak Russian.’

  ‘He …’ Anna said in halting, heavily accented English. ‘No dead.’

  McNutt could see that Borovsky was breathing, albeit raggedly. The gunman looked back to where the train had stopped in front of their old compartment car and where the villagers were swarming over the crashed and toppled Black Robe motorcycles he had dealt with. The horsemen had dismounted and had effectively circled their wagons using abandoned bikes. McNutt turned back to Anna and started talking rapidly.

  She looked confused, but then a hand touched her cheek. She looked down to see Borovsky gazing up at her.

  ‘The forest does not grieve for the loss of a single tree,’ he said.

  ‘Quiet,’ she laughed in relief. ‘You’re not going to die. Not yet.’

  McNutt did a somewhat elaborate mime to convey what he wanted to tell her.

  ‘Leave him,’ he said, pressing both palms toward the ground. Then he pointed at the train, made a cradling gesture. ‘The villagers will take care of him.’ He pointed at himself and Anna. ‘We have to take out that bastard.’ He indicated the armored car, crashed his fists together, then threw open his fingers, trying to convey that the vehicle must be destroyed.

  ‘He makes a good point,’ the colonel grinned, grimacing. ‘Go. I will be fine.’

  Her face cleared, and she nodded at McNutt. She laid Borovsky’s head down tenderly, then grabbed an AK-47 and approached McNutt’s motorcycle.

  ‘Let us go,’ she said in English.

  He nodded, unholstered the only specialized weapon he still possessed, and took the AK-47 from her.

  ‘You drive,’ McNutt said.

  * * *

  Cobb laughed. Not at the Black Robes. The Black Robes were deadly, dedicated, and unafraid. But as soon as he crossed the grove, he had them at a very distinct disadvantage. In order to give chase, the Black Robes would have to follow a winding trail through the dense forest or trample through the thick underbrush. The gaps in the trees would give them only brief opportunities to take clear shots.

  That is, if Cobb could navigate the H-4 through those same narrow gaps.

  If the rotors clipped the nearby branches, the Black Robes would be the least of his worries.

  Shots popped. Even over the hum of the engines, Cobb heard them whiz by. The air was buzzing with projectiles. And up here, an accidental hit would kill him as surely as a purposeful one. Any loss of control would surely send him careening into the trees. He rose above the canopy, but the fierce wind made it virtually impossible to control the light H-4 at that altitude. Cobb wasn’t susceptible to vertigo or motion sickness, but the rush of air against his face made him wish he had goggles.

  Dumb oversight, he told himself.

  He dropped back into the forest, the Black Robes still in pursuit.

  The first casualty was the lead motorcycle. Determined to be the ones responsible for taking out the aircraft, the driver took the motorcycle off of the beaten path and plowed through the forest in a beeline toward Cobb. Gnarled roots and exposed rocks nearly bounced the rider from the sidecar as low branches and saplings sliced into the driver’s cheeks and forehead.

  As the gunman took aim, the front wheel of the IMZ-Ural found an unseen tree stump, causing the motorcycle to jerk erratically. The jolt tossed the gunman violently toward the outside of the car, spinning his body wildly at the driver. In a split-second of panic, the gunman accidentally squeezed the trigger on his Uzi submachine gun, decapitating the driver with several close-range shots to his face.

  Like the Headless Horseman, the driver’s body refused to release the accelerator. Unfortunately for the
gunman in the sidecar, the effect turned the motorcycle into an unguided missile. Overwhelmed with shock, the gunman simply watched in horror as the corpse rammed the sidecar into an oncoming tree at full speed. The impact crushed the sidecar and its occupant as the bike ripped in two.

  Cobb watched the action from above and was dumbstruck by the sight of a headless Black Robe careening through the wilderness on what was left of his IMZ-Ural.

  That leaves two more bikes, he thought.

  Cobb spun the H-4 back around and charged forward. Suddenly, the ground dropped out from beneath him, and he found himself hovering nearly one hundred feet above a wide creek. The ravine had caught him by surprise, and he hoped it would do the same to the Black Robes. Cobb kept the H-4 over the edge of the chasm just long enough to make a show for the second motorcycle.

  Sensing that they had closed the gap between themselves and their target, the second driver eagerly sped down the straightaway toward Cobb. As the second gunman took aim, Cobb fought the whirling updrafts and down-currents that raged over the stream.

  It only bought him a few seconds, but it was all he needed.

  Only yards from the cliff, the Black Robe driver realized his mistake. He slammed the brakes while cranking the wheel as hard as he could. The sidecar rose as the bike tilted on two wheels. As it dropped to the ground only inches from the edge, the engine stalled. Both the driver and the sidecar gunman breathed a quick sigh of relief.

  But their reprieve wouldn’t last long.

  They turned at the sound of the H-4, which Cobb was now advancing toward them as fast as the craft could carry him. His gun drawn, Cobb fired two shots, yet neither of the Black Robes was hit. It took them a moment to realize why, and by then it was too late.

  Cobb hadn’t aimed at them; he had fired at the third motorcycle behind them. As the Black Robes on the stalled bike turned back, they saw the third driver slumped over the handlebars. And the gunman’s head was lolled back, a gaping hole where his throat should have been.

  Meanwhile, the bike was heading right at them.

  Before they could start the motorcycle again or even jump clear of the path, the last Black Robes were pushed over the cliff by the third IMZ-Ural. Cobb watched as four bodies - two dead, two screaming - tumbled down the rocky embankment.

  The eventual explosion was music to his ears.

  * * *

  As the BRDM rounded the last bend before the straightaway, Sidorov opened the hatch. The heavy metal door clanked back, and Sidorov rose to his feet in the vehicle’s roof opening. Ahead of him was the American in his skeletal flying machine. The man held a pitiful firearm in his hand - something from the American West, which suited this mad cowboy.

  The American would pay for his transgression.

  Sidorov brought up the six-foot-long tube to his shoulder, using the optical sight to home in on Cobb. His target was making a lazy curve in the sky, coming lower to align with his team. No matter. The TGB-29V’s three-foot-long, thermobaric, anti-personnel warhead would blow him out of the sky even if it only detonated near him. The Russian pulled the shoulder brace tight against his body. He wrapped his hand around the pistol grip trigger mechanism.

  The rocket engine would start, and the missile would leave the barrel at almost a thousand feet per second. The eight fins on the rear of the projectile would deploy, stabilizing the warhead. It would reach its effective range of sixteen hundred feet without delay or obstruction. The sixty-five-millimeter explosive would detonate, killing any living thing in its vicinity.

  Sidorov had Cobb dead to rights in his optical sight.

  He smiled and gripped the trigger.

  67

  With Anna driving, McNutt reached into the sidecar seat, pulled up his last remaining weapon, and shot it point blank at the leader of the Black Robes. There was a pop and a whooshing sound as Sidorov was enveloped in a net.

  McNutt’s timing couldn’t have been better. Sidorov was knocked back against the edge of the hatch. On impact, he instinctively pulled the trigger even though the launcher was pointed aimlessly to the right. A moment later, the rocket engine of the missile ignited.

  From his elevated perspective, Cobb saw it all. The warhead, designed to penetrate the armored hulls of tanks, flashed out in what looked like a thick line of yellowish smoke, then it smashed into the edge of the hill. The ground erupted in a billowing circle of red, gray, and brown debris that knocked the massive BRDM on its side. Rock and dirt cascaded onto it - some of it actually molten from the heat of the grenade. Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over - save for the loud echo, which rolled through the distant hills like a roar of the gods.

  When the dust settled, the BRDM was left dangling precariously from the edge of the hillside. The slightest shift in its center of gravity, and the entire thing would tumble to the bottom of the ravine, hundreds of feet below.

  Cobb swung down above the armored vehicle. He edged toward the hatch where Sidorov lay half inside the truck and half outside, covered with net and earth and blood and wriggling like an earthworm. The leader of the Black Robes looked up. A curious expression came over his face as he realized he had been bested. He knew he would die today.

  Cobb moved the handlebar controls and descended. He landed, unbuckled himself, and hurried over to the armored vehicle. The ground was brittle. He didn’t have much time.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ Cobb asked as he squatted beside Sidorov.

  The Russian coughed, then smiled with bloodstained teeth.

  ‘I’ll make a deal with you,’ Cobb said. ‘A trade before you meet your maker. I’ll tell you what you want to know, and you do the same for me. Sound good?’

  Sidorov laughed. ‘What … do … I … want … to … know?’ His English was heavily accented, and his breathing was increasingly labored.

  Cobb reached into his pocket. He grasped the tiny object between his thumb and forefinger and stretched out his arm, giving Sidorov a closer view. ‘This.’

  Sidorov’s eyes brightened at the sight of Rasputin’s ring. He closed his eyes and smiled, content in the knowledge that his master’s body had been found after all these years.

  ‘Hey!’ Cobb yelled. ‘Don’t you die on me! Not yet!’

  Cobb, who had borrowed the ring while the train was moving, returned it to his pocket, then quickly pulled out his cell phone. Using the touchscreen, he scrolled through his photos. Finding the one he wanted, he held the screen toward Sidorov so he could see it. ‘Is this the man you dealt with? The man in charge of this mission?’

  Sidorov laughed at the question, blood spewing from his mouth. ‘Him? … In charge?’ He laughed at the notion. ‘He is not the boss.’

  Cobb pulled the phone back and studied the picture of Papineau he had taken in Fort Lauderdale. He had long since known that Papineau had associates, men and women who helped him do his bidding, but now he had confirmation that there was someone higher up the ladder: a puppet-master, pulling Papineau’s strings.

  Cobb rose. He thought about shooting the Russian in the head for all the carnage he had caused but decided that Sidorov deserved a long, lingering death.

  Cobb went back to the H-4 as Sidorov lay dying on the roadway, his body still lodged in the window of the heavy BRDM. As Cobb took off, the ground trembled, bringing the inevitable fall of the vehicle that much closer. Cobb floated above the BRDM and watched as Sidorov pulled a single-shot pistol from somewhere under his robe. Cobb could not distinguish the model, but he knew the weapon’s singular purpose: it was designed to take one’s own life.

  Sidorov pressed the barrel into the middle of his brow.

  He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

  A bullet in the brain - just like Rasputin.

  As Sidorov’s limbs slumped to the earth, the ground underneath the BRDM finally gave way. Cobb watched as the massive vehicle slipped over the steep embankment and tumbled into the ravine. As a final insult, the BRDM burst into flames, sending a magnificent plume of smoke in
Cobb’s direction - a fire that would burn Sidorov’s corpse beyond recognition.

  Satisfied, Cobb turned the H-4 toward the village and the rest of his team, but deep inside, he wondered if anyone would ever go looking for the body of that lunatic.

  * * *

  Having returned to the train after the BRDM was immobilized by the rocket blast, McNutt kept an eye on things until Cobb’s arrival. Garcia was there, too, standing beside Anna, who was tending to an injured Borovsky. He was lying on a stretcher made from branches and leaves that the old women had assembled in what seemed like seconds.

  Everyone watched as the H-4 hovered inches off the ground before it touched down like a dainty ballerina. The two counter-rotating blades slowed, then stopped abruptly. Cobb unclipped his seatbelt and slipped out of the aircraft.

  ‘What’s our status?’ he asked.

  ‘Chief,’ McNutt blurted, ‘you’re not going to believe this, but Jasmine and the treasure train are gone. Ludmilla is still here, but the old train is—’

  ‘Gone,’ Cobb said, not the least bit panicked. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll explain later.’

  Garcia exhaled. ‘Good, because I’m totally confused.’

  ‘Welcome to my world,’ McNutt grumbled.

  Cobb glanced around. ‘What’s the situation here?’

  McNutt frowned and refocused. ‘The villagers gathered all of the dropped weapons, and they went after the remaining Black Robes,’ he reported, admiring the industry of the people, who were, even then, helping each other as much as they could. ‘I don’t envy any Black Robes who are unable to get away.’

  Cobb looked over at the handful of surviving Black Robes. They looked simply numb - tired from their massive effort in a mission that they probably had never fully understood.