“In the mountains,” Serge said, pointing to a slump of hills in the distance. I squinted, taking stock of the distance, and realized they weren’t hills at all, but mountains. They were simply much farther away than I’d originally thought; what I’d mistaken for grass-covered knolls were in fact tree-covered slopes.
“How often do they come down?” Vitaly asked.
“Every weekend, to drink and dance,” Serge said. “The townspeople asked about truck. I told them we were with troops.” He said this without an ounce of irony, despite that fact that—dressed in a pair of khaki slacks, a short-sleeve white button-up, and loafers—the mild-mannered Serge looked as much like a Russian soldier as I did. Maybe less so, depending on how egalitarian the Russian military was these days.
“What unit are they with?” Othello asked from where she sat on the bumper, studying the map and the mountains alternatively. She glanced up, searching Serge’s face. “Are they Rasputin’s men?”
“I do not think so,” Serge replied. “Townspeople say Russian infantry. Ground Forces.”
Othello nodded, then cocked an eyebrow at what Serge held in his hands as if noting the fish for the very first time. “What are those for?” she asked. Othello’s tone prompted Vitaly to poke his head out, his face, neck, and fingers grease-stained. Vitaly stared at Serge as if he’d lost his mind, his expression mirroring Othello’s to such a degree that I wondered how I’d ever missed the resemblance.
“Dinner,” Serge replied, hoisting the fish with a grin before wandering towards the back of the truck, leaving us all to stare after him in disbelief. Othello shook her head, then returned her attention to the map at the exact same instant Vitaly returned his to the engine.
I cleared my throat.
“What are we goin’ to do?” I asked.
“We’ll have to take a look for ourselves,” Othello answered, not bothering to look up. “My guess is they are guarding the entrance we’re looking for. There are outposts like these all over the world, places that are kept off-limits by governments because of what happens to those who get too close. They blame radiation leaks or weather phenomena.” Othello shook her head. “One day they’ll have to admit the truth to themselves, but for now…” she trailed off, waving vaguely at the mountains.
“When do we go up?” I asked, peering at those gargantuan slopes with more than a little trepidation. I was a city girl; hiking was something you did if your plane went down in the jungle and you had no other choice, not something you did on purpose.
“Tonight,” she replied. “We’ll take the vampire. See if we can sneak in.”
“And what am I supposed to do until then?” I asked. Unlike these two, I had nothing to occupy my time unless I wanted to wander into town and meet the locals—which I would have done if it weren’t for the fact that I spoke almost no Russian and would almost certainly blow our cover, assuming anyone had bought Serge’s crap cover story.
“Did you check all the guns?” Othello asked.
I snorted but nodded. I’d spent two days stuck in the back of a truck full of weapons—of course I’d checked all the guns. Hell, I’d taken them apart, cleaned them, and put them all back together. Except the bazooka; I wasn’t that ambitious. “Aye, that’s already done,” I replied.
“Then help Serge with dinner,” Othello suggested.
Vitaly’s sniggering laughter echoed within the confines of the engine block.
I scowled at them both, then walked off.
Maybe I’d check the guns again.
Just to be safe.
Chapter 21
We’d parked as close as we could to the encampment while still avoiding detection, which meant I ended up hiking, after all—if by hiking you meant wandering around half-blind in the near dark, stumbling every few steps, cursing God for inventing nature. Despite all that, I think I would have been fine had Serge not actually cooked the fish and insisted we join him for a meal. Sadly, that’s exactly what he’d done. So—between the exhausting uphill march and the half-digested fish—my body was less than happy with me. Which sucked, because we’d spent the last ten minutes or so crouched in the same cramped space, eyeballing soldiers who manned the barbwire fence that surrounded the bivouac, and all I could think about was how much I missed my glorious bed.
I shook it off, took a deep breath, and concentrated on studying the camp.
Floodlights, so large and so bright they seemed to emit daylight, had been mounted along the fence at specific intervals, overlapping enough so that there were no shadows to speak of. Beyond the fence lay a mass of canvas tents that could have housed anywhere between twenty and two hundred troops, depending on how cozy they wanted to be. Judging by the two personnel vehicles and the fact that no one in Oymyakon had mentioned being completely overrun by soldiers, I was leaning towards the lower number.
Of course, that still meant there were at least twenty armed soldiers between us and the entrance Othello had mapped out. Our odds of taking them out wouldn’t have been exceptionally daunting if it were a straight firefight; more than half our number could take a bullet and keep on going like nothing had happened. But we knew better than that; we couldn’t afford to charge a fortified encampment, not considering the fact that we’d have to come back through at some point. If the Russian government found out a whole unit had been wiped out while we were gone, I had a feeling our welcome home party would be less than stellar.
What we needed was subtlety. Finesse.
“So, what d’ye t’ink we should do?” I whispered to Othello. “Because I have nothin’.”
“I can rig a Gateway to get us past the gate, but once we’re there, we can’t afford to be seen,” she replied, tapping a finger to her lips. “We need a diversion, something to get them looking outside the fence, rather than inside.”
“Like what?” Vitaly asked, crouched down on Othello’s other side.
“That’s the problem,” Othello replied. “If they think it’s an attack, they’ll increase security, making it harder for us to escape unnoticed once when we come back.”
“If we come back,” Natasha muttered.
“Are all Russians so pessimistic?” I muttered, mostly to myself.
“You should read our literature sometime,” Vitaly remarked, grinning.
“Ye can read?” I asked in mock surprise.
Othello stared at us until we both fell silent, murmuring apologies.
“What about a fire?” Serge asked, leaning in to join our conversation.
“That would get their attention, but not keep it,” Othello replied. “We’ll need time once we’re inside to find the entrance and open a Gateway.”
Serge was nodding his head. “But when a fire starts, it drives the animals away, yes?” He had a gleam in his eyes that reminded me of Othello when she’d thought of something particularly ingenious. I wanted to tease him for it, but you know what they say about bad habits: easy to pick up, harder to put down. “We could hide with animals, force them to run toward camp?” He gestured to his fellow skinwalkers. “Cause distraction.”
“That could work,” Othello said. “But you’d never make it back to us in time. And you’d need someone to start the fire.”
“I will do this,” Vitaly said. He glanced over at his cousin, and his face was serious. “I know you are family, but I belong here. This strange world you speak of,” he shook his head, “it is not something I would like to see. But if I do not go, you must promise to come back to us.”
Othello smiled and squeezed Vitaly’s arm. “I promise.”
“Good, because I have never been good at taking care of animals,” Vitaly said, grinning. “And this one,” he jerked a thumb at Serge, “has not been house broken.”
“And what will ye lot be doin’ while we’re gone?” I asked.
“I will go fishing,” Vitaly said, rubbing his stomach. “Teach Serge how to cook fish properly.”
“And ye two?” I asked, glancing back at Felix and Felicia.
/> “We like fish,” they said, in unison, then glared at one another.
Well, I guess that was settled, then. We’d wander into a hellish, frozen landscape that promised certain death to save our friends, and they’d all go fishing.
Awesome.
Chapter 22
Say what you want about the Russians, but those suckers know their guns. As I busied myself throwing on extra layers beneath my black leather trench coat—everything from thermal underwear to a form-fitting fleece pullover—I studied my options. The bazooka was out. It wasn’t the weight; I simply didn’t want to be responsible for carrying the bulky thing around all damned day. Instead, I picked out two worthwhile assault rifles, neither of which I’d ever seen outside promotional videos on the internet. The first was the AK-9, a subsonic rifle capable of punching through a bulletproof vest without making enough noise to alert your local librarian. The second, the ASh-12.7, had the most extreme close-distance stopping power I’d ever seen outside a shotgun—and those made a much bigger mess. I slung one each across my shoulders, letting the straps cross over my body along the line of my cleavage, then bound them using a black leather belt so they wouldn’t jostle much during the night’s festivities. Between the pistol in my shoulder rig and the revolver holstered on my hip, the two assault rifles, and the two incendiary grenades I’d pocketed, I felt prepared for just about anything.
“You look ridiculous,” Natasha said, staring at me. She looked a bit silly herself with the military-issue duffle bag chock full of MREs and blood bags riding her back. The duffle held enough food to see us through a two-week journey—hopefully a lot more food than we’d need.
I considered saying as much, but decided it wasn’t worth getting into a name-calling, hair-pulling altercation with a centuries-old vampire. Instead, I twirled a little, testing my mobility. Not great. If I were human, I’d be too weighed down to walk comfortably, let alone run. But I wasn’t human. I suspected I could run a solid mile in this crap without breaking a sweat. Hell, Scatach’s training regimen made shit like that sound like a warm-up. Just for kicks, I drew my sidearms as I turned, my right hand coming up higher than my left, and sighted on Natasha’s disdainful face. “Do I, punk?” I asked, bastardizing Clint Eastwood in the process.
Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “Bullets do not kill my kind.”
“This one,” I said, raising my right arm a hair, “is full of silver bullets. Have ye ever seen a vampire take a silver bullet to the face?”
“Is that a threat?” Natasha asked, bristling.
I shook my head and sighed, holstering both guns, realizing she hadn’t gotten the joke. “No matter how ye feel about what we’re about to do, from now on, ye and I are on the same side.” I held out my hands and showcased my body. “At some point while we’re inside, I may need to use all this to keep us safe. All of us, includin’ ye.”
“And to keep me from running,” Natasha added.
I thrust my hands in my pockets. “What can I say? I’m an equal opportunity shooter.”
Natasha scowled, but Othello interjected before she could respond, informing us it was time to go. Frankly, I was glad for the interruption; I really had no intention to shoot Natasha, no matter what she thought. Even a year ago, the simple fact that she was a bloodsucker would have put her on my hitlist. But lately I’d come to realize that very few of us could help being what we were. I hadn’t asked to be born Fae, and Natasha hadn’t asked to be turned into a vampire. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t shoot her, but it did mean I’d rather avoid it.
Besides, we needed her.
“Let’s go,” I said, turning to follow after Othello.
“What if I take your supplies and run off?” Natasha asked. “You would both starve and die.”
I shrugged but glanced back at her over my shoulder. “I guess ye could try, but Othello is the only one who can get us out once we’re in, unless ye want to try wanderin’ around in the snow until the sun comes up?”
Natasha’s eyes widened, perhaps realizing for the first time that she was going to be outside during the daylight hours. Fortunately, Othello had been two steps ahead and had already come up with a plan for that. I snatched a tube from the pocket that held the grenades and tossed it back to her. “Sunscreen,” I said, cheerily, and began walking into the woods. Natasha rushed to catch up to me, using her supernatural speed to cover the distance in the time it took most people to breathe.
“Sunscreen will not save me from the light of the sun,” she hissed, snatching my arm, her grip hard enough to bruise. “Do you take me for a fool?”
“D’ye take us for fools?” I asked, yanking my arm free. “D’ye t’ink we’d go through all the effort of findin’ ourselves a guide just to let her burn up the next fuckin’ day?” I grabbed her wrist and raised the tube to her face. “Read it.”
“SPF Bloodsucker,” she read, haltingly.
“If Othello says ye won’t burn up provided ye put that on, then I suggest ye rub it in like a good little vampire.” I let her arm go and continued walking up the slope. A moment later, she trailed after me, still studying the tube. “Oh,” I added, “and don’t get any more funny ideas about runnin’, either. That stuff will run out at about the same rate as our food and your blood supply.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you are a bitch?” Natasha asked, her voice petulant.
I laughed, but it was a cruel sound. Natasha’s attitude was starting to really piss me off, and I was beginning to think shooting her might actually be fun. “Listen, Natasha, I get that you’re scared and would rather pick a fight with me than play tour guide, but I can promise ye two t’ings.” I turned and held up a finger. “One, if ye work with us, no games, I’ll do everythin’ in me power to keep us all alive and get us all home.” I held up another finger. “Two, if ye don’t, I’ll blast ye into a dozen squirmin’ pieces and won’t lose a night’s sleep over it.” I let that thought show in my face. Let her see how little it would cost me to kill her. “So, do we have a deal?” I asked.
Natasha was quiet for so long that I thought she might not answer, which meant I’d have to follow through on my promise. I lowered my hands, letting my right rest on the revolver, just in case I didn’t like her answer.
“We have a deal,” she said, finally.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Ye made the right choice,” I said. “Now come on, we’re losin’ moonlight.”
Chapter 23
The fire Vitaly started was much larger than I expected to send so much smoke billowing into the night sky, obscuring the waning summer moon like a swarm of insects. Othello, Natasha, and I hunkered down among the trees, watching flames flicker in the distance, waiting for the soldiers to notice the burgeoning forest fire.
“Are ye sure they’ll see it?” I asked.
“He used diesel fuel,” Othello answered, her voice hushed, not so much because we might be overheard this far from the camp, but because we were doing something we knew we weren’t supposed to do, like drunken teenagers sneaking into the house at dawn. “It’s almost too thick to burn,” she explained, “but when it does, there’s a lot of smoke and it’s very difficult to put out.”
I frowned, considering the impact a fire might have on the natural environment for the first time. “What if it keeps goin’ and takes out half the forest?”
Othello shook her head. “Vitaly knows what he’s doing. He’ll start the fire near water. And I gave him something to control the spread, in case the soldiers are incompetent.”
“The soldiers have seen it,” Natasha said, jerking her chin towards the encampment. She was right: several of the uniformed men were pointing towards the flames, and a half dozen had gathered on that side of the gate as if watching some grand spectacle. Of course, maybe that’s exactly how they saw it. I couldn’t be certain, but I was willing to bet genuine entertainment was hard to come by in the Siberian wilderness.
“Wait until they send someone to check,�
�� Othello said, reiterating the plan. She checked her watch. “Serge and the others should be making their move soon, too.”
A howl, almost inhuman, split the night air, as if on cue.
“What was that?” Natasha hissed. She’d squatted next to us, using a tree limb for balance, and I could hear it creak beneath her hand as she stared nervously out into the trees.
Othello and I exchanged glances. “Serge,” she said.
“Skinwalker,” I added.
Natasha’s scoff was louder than it should have been, and she covered her mouth almost instantly. “There has not been a skinwalker sighting in centuries,” she muttered, from behind her hand.
“Maybe not on this continent,” I replied, thinking about the time Serge and I squared off in Boston, narrowly avoiding collateral damage in the process. Still, I wasn’t surprised by Natasha’s reaction; the wizard who’d sent me after Serge in the first place had been equally as incredulous.
Natasha gave me a funny look.
“Serge is a skinwalker,” Othello said, though I noticed she didn’t explain where the skinwalkers had been all this time, or how she’d met them. Maybe it was need-to-know, only. “As are the other two Dimitri took hostage,” she added.
“That is ridiculous,” Natasha said. “If they were skinwalkers, they would never have let Dimitri’s servants take them. It would have been boynya. A bloodbath.”
“I asked them not to reveal themselves,” Othello said, still studying the camp, ignoring Natasha’s dubious expression. “Look!” she pointed.
The two personnel vehicles came roaring out of the gate, carrying four men apiece, each looking remarkably well-armed. I muttered a quick prayer under my breath that none of our people would end up on the wrong side of those barrels. The instant I finished, another howl sounded, followed by faint hissing sounds I couldn’t quite place, then the bleating of deer and the bellows of bears. Far off in the distance, I could see creatures tearing through the forest towards us, little more than shadows with the light at their backs. Somewhere among them, I knew, were the haunting green eyes of a skinwalker with the face of a taxidermied wolf. I repressed a shudder at the thought.
Moscow Mule: Phantom Queen Book 5 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries) Page 10