She pulled at Kevic’s sleeve. “Out. Up the mountain,” she whispered harshly. “Keep low. Make for the trees.”
Convinced that the men below were moving towards them through the bushes, she knew that their safety depended on both of them reaching the higher ground, where the bushes thinned and where she would have an unimpeded field of fire. Adrenalin coursed through her. She was conscious of the pounding in her temples.
“Now!” she screamed.
They threw themselves up the slope. Half stumbling, she fought to control her breathing as she followed Kevic in their crouching flight upwards through the gorse.
They reached the first pines and threw themselves down behind the protective trunks. Cautiously, she looked back down the slope. There was no sign of pursuit. Her ragged breathing slackened, and she swallowed hard. She struggled to subdue the fear welling within her.
They waited tensely. Her legs trembled, and try as she might she could not stop the shaking in her buttocks. The minutes dragged. She felt Kevic’s eyes on her. With a sharp nod, masking the flooding terror, she indicated uphill and gathered herself together to make the sprint. Christ, please make my legs work.
Kevic rose and turned uphill. Almost simultaneously, he spun in the opposite direction to crash backwards against the trunk of the fir that bounced him forwards to lie spread-eagled at its base. The heavy, metallic twang of the shot assaulted her eardrums. His sightless eyes, which only seconds before had mirrored her own fear, stared unblinkingly in her direction. She pressed her face down into the pine needles and felt the strength drain from her legs. Her thoughts congealed. She could not think.
The shot had come from higher up.
The hunted, now the hunters, were above her on the mountain.
* * * * *
Spider laid his plate to one side, leaned back against the wheel, eyes hooded and wrists resting on his knees, watching the woman in the cab of the truck. Apparently oblivious to his scrutiny, she hungrily spooned the food from the bowl in her lap.
Under medium height, she was slim in build but far from frail. His eyes took in the well-filled camouflaged shirtfront and her narrow waist. She possessed a lithe physical presence that under different circumstances would have excited him and aroused more than clinical curiosity.
Still chewing, she raised her head and looked around her. Her eyes came to rest on him. Expressionless, she looked straight at him. Refusing to avert his gaze their eyes remained locked.
She dropped her head and returned to her meal.
Her short hair was thick and dark. Despite the brutal crop, the strong curls caught the light, reflecting auburn highlights in the evening sun. Left to grow, there was no doubt that it would be one of her strongest features. She had an oval-shaped face and full lips. The dark purple of the bruised swelling contrasted vividly with her translucent rose complexion that emphasized the depth of blackness and sheer intensity of her eyes. She looked up again, tilted her chin and held his stare. This time she did not intend to be first to break the contact.
Spider continued to stare stonily at her, but she would not look away. There was no doubt that she had overcome her initial fear of him. Still holding his eyes, she lifted another spoonful to her mouth and chewed stolidly.
Spider grinned.
Caught by surprise she swallowed, too quickly, half-choked, coughed then spluttered weakly. Not as self-assured as she would like to believe. His smile faded as his gashed arm throbbed. He remembered how viciously she had fought when they had caught her on the mountainside.
Rath’s shot had taken the one nearer the tree squarely in the chest. There was no doubt he was dead before striking the ground. The other had remained face down at the base of the tree and appeared frozen with fear as he and Rath moved down the slope.
They had kept their weapons trained on the survivor and were surprised when they realized that the sniper was a woman. At first, Rath assumed that the dead man had been the sharpshooter, until Spider pointed out who carried the Dragunov.
Nevertheless, they had foolishly relaxed their guard.
As they approached, she climbed to her feet, threw the rifle to one side, then raised her arms. They moved closer but were still several feet away when, with a knife drawn from her boot, she leapt at them like an enraged cougar. Rath dived forward and blocked her attack.
The fury of the assault and the depth of the gash dispelled any doubts Spider might have had about her proficiency as a combatant. Rath obviously reached the same conclusion, and showed that he had overcome any reservations he may have had, by swiping her forcefully with his rifle butt. She went down heavily but it had still taken considerable effort from both of them to subdue her and tie her hands.
She finished eating and dropped the plate from the cab. Rising to his feet, Spider walked over and, without a word, reached up to grasp her left wrist and, far more roughly than he intended, re-fastened the chain that secured her to the steering wheel. He caught the flash of hate in her eyes and the savage curl of her lip.
She would require watching.
* * * * *
Spider enjoyed the hot, sweet tea. Say, what you like, he thought, about the virtues of coffee, you could not beat tea as a refreshing beverage. He turned to the truck and as he reached the front of the vehicle, he saw the woman was looking down at him. He took a swallow of the tea then held the mug up towards her.
She reached down and accepted the proffered cup. Blowing on the surface of the tea, she took several small, noisy sips, making a wry face as she swallowed then laid the cup on the ledge over the dashboard. She shook her arm, making the chain rattle, then holding up her hand and wrist, looked first at the chain then at Spider. He smiled, but shook his head.
“Sorry, but it’s got to stay on.” He could not be certain that she understood the words, but he was in no doubt that, she understood the refusal that lay behind them.
She swore at length in Serbo-Croat, but he had the impression that it was without real passion. She pulled her cigarettes from her shirt pocket, and he searched for his Zippo. Ignoring him, she awkwardly lit her own.
He shrugged and turned his back. His eyes took in the wide expanse of valley and wooded hillside that stretched below them. The landscape reminded him of summer in Austria, with grassy, sloping fields, climbing brightly upwards to the forested foothills, cradled at the base of dark but reassuring mountains.
However, this view lacked the uniformity and postcard prettiness of the country to the north. The patchwork of field and copse was similar, but not as cultivated and developed. The edges were torn, and the overall impression was coarser, less refined and rustically more primitive. It was as though nature had ripped the squares from rougher material to make Bosnia’s quilt.
“Why did you come here to die?”
The soft, husky voice jerked him back to the present. The sheer unexpectedness of the sound threw him, and the shock was evident in his face. The timbre of the voice too had taken him by surprise. He would not have expected such a deep tone from a woman of her stature. She had a balanced rhythm and intonation, despite her accented English.
“I’m sorry, I missed—”
“Why do you all come here to die? Do you not have wives, children? Do you not have families who need you more than strangers?”
“We’re here to help those less fortunate than ourselves. Why do you try to kill us?”
“We do not try to kill you. But if you interfere and get caught up in our fight with the Muslims and their Croat allies, then you should expect to be hurt.”
“And taking food, medicine and other necessities through to starving families in Bosnian towns is interfering?”
“No, that is not interfering. However, your convoys do not just carry food; there are weapons too. Why do you laugh? Why do you think that Kevic and I were trying to stop this convoy? To stop milk and rusks going to Muslim babies?”
Spider’s laughter died, and the smile left his lips. She obviously believed what she said.
“What else? You have a stranglehold on the supply routes. Your people harass or attack the convoys. You’re accused of massacres. Every decent person condemns your actions.”
Her look was venomous, but she did not respond.
There had been rumours in Croatia that the Bosnians were obtaining weapons through aid convoy conduits, but UNHCR officials summarily and categorically dismissed these as Serbian disinformation.
Nevertheless, the earlier attempts on the convoy, made before she had tried to stop them, could indicate that someone else, somewhere, also believed the scuttlebutt. The attacks had been concerted. Perhaps he should at least have considered the possibility that they were carrying something more lethal than medicine and food.
On the other hand, UNHCR had not received specific clearance from the Serbs for the convoy to start out. It had been a gamble. This might be retaliation. He had accepted from the first that this convoy would not be easy. As outsiders, they too had suffered at the hands of the Serbs, and he had sympathy for the Bosnians. Moreover, the convoy had come too far.
It had passed the point of no return.
Spider shrugged and decided. He certainly was not going to waste time and effort searching the cargo. He threw his cigarette down and crushed it with his boot. He had been about to warn her that he was going to secure her for the night when she asked if she could wash and go to the toilet. Looking around he saw that Dennis Crowther had finished his preparations and was sitting against the rear wheel of his vehicle smoking.
Spider called him, and he rose to his feet with a sullen expression.
“Dennis, take her over to the woods so she can relieve herself. I’ll get her a towel and some water.” Spider paused then, only half-joking, said to Crowther, “And don’t lose her.”
The driver indicated the woods with a nod, then trailed behind the prisoner to the edge of the clearing. At the pines, he pushed past her to lead the way into the trees. After ten yards or so, he stopped.
“This is far enough. No one can see you from here.”
She stared at him in defiance, and he grinned back lewdly, as he realized she objected to his watching. He shook his head,
“No way, darlin’. Anyway, you are not my type.”
They contested each other’s stares, then, with an expression of obvious disgust she undid her belt and pushed her uniform trousers down. Crowther relented and half-turned his back. A few moments, later the rustling of clothing told him she had finished. Buckling her belt, she turned to go when Crowther caught her by the arm.
“Da li govorite engleski?” he asked. She did not respond but glared at him, then looked pointedly at his restraining hand.
“Do you speak or understand English, damn you?” he whispered harshly. “Come on, you stupid cow, do you or don’t you? We’re on the same side, see?” He caught the flicker of puzzlement that crossed her face but he felt sure that she had understood.
“Listen to me! We’ve not got much time, but I’m working for Croatian Military Intelligence and—”
The blob of spittle splattered on his cheek and ran down his jaw line. He managed to hold the blaze of rage in check and lowered his fist.
“Listen, you crazy bitch, how do you think your people found out about the weapons on this convoy? Because the man I work for told them! You don’t want them to get through, and we don’t either. We can work together to stop them.” He paused for breath and knew he was getting through to her, because, although the loathing had not left her face there was something else there.
“I’ll prove it to you,” he snapped and pulled the cellular phone from inside his anorak. “I’m going to call Colonel Paroski, and he’ll explain it to you.” He pressed the select button for the pre-set number on which he reached Paroski.
As the phone rang, several times, he wiped the sweat from his face with the palm of a wet hand.
Answer, you Croat bastard.
“Colonel Paroski, Crowther here. We are several hours from Tuzla, a couple short of Vares. Odds are that we will take route Skoda early tomorrow. However, there is something else. We have captured a Serbian woman soldier and—No, no, you listen,” he rushed on, surprising himself at his temerity in interrupting and silencing his nightmare. “She could help me.”
At the other end, Paroski thought quickly. Perhaps the pervert did have something. This woman could be the sniper employed by Kalosowich. At least she had proved she could kill, and as a soldier, be expected to carry out instructions, unlike this pig-dropping of an Englishman.
“She’s here,” Crowther volunteered, ending the brief but uncomfortable pause.
“Put her on,” the colonel ordered.
Crowther, who had been holding the phone in two hands, pushed it towards her. She took the instrument then almost timidly in English said, “Yes. Hallo?”
“I am Colonel Paroski,” replied the intelligence officer in the same language. Then he switched to Serbo-Croat. “Your commander, Colonel Kalosowich, has been very concerned about you,” he lied, “but he is also very angry that you failed. However, there is a way to redeem yourself. Listen to me very carefully then pass me back to the foreigner.”
She turned from Crowther as though it was a private and intimate call.
* * * * *
What’s keeping them?
Spider finished the mug of tea and, rising to his feet, was about to go towards the woods when the two emerged. He glanced over at the bowl of water. It would be tepid now. He passed a towel to the woman and raised an enquiring eyebrow at Crowther.
“She decided to take a dump.” The driver grinned nervously, which Spider misinterpreted as part of the man’s natural shiftiness. “And we had to improvise on paper.”
* * * * *
Spider woke without movement and listened. He held his breath but—nothing.
He waited.
He heard the call of a hunting owl, followed shortly afterwards by the cough of a nocturnal four-legged predator, but he knew instinctively these sounds had not woken him. He continued to listen, then, as he was thinking that it might have been imagination, he heard the noise again.
It was the stifled sound of sobbing. He sat up slowly and peered through the gloom to where they had chained the prisoner the night before. The sobbing was subdued, restrained but nonetheless heartfelt. Spider left his bedroll and crawled over to the supine figure.
He unlocked the padlock on the chain and removed the fetters from her arm. Reaching out, he touched the woman’s shoulder. The crying did not stop but, although not becoming louder, increased in intensity. He lay down beside her, grasping the material of her sleeping bag, and pulled her toward him, pressing her to his chest and thighs. The tears continued as he cradled her in both arms and tentatively touched, then stroked, her cropped head.
As the crying ebbed, she made a half-hearted effort to pull away, but when Spider did not release his hold, instead lowering his face to the nape of her neck to nuzzle the soft fragrant hair that grew there, she sighed and relaxed. They lay together quietly for several minutes.
He tightened his grip when she moved, then relaxed as he realized that she did not want to break free. She lifted her head, turning her face so that her lips brushed lightly against his. They returned to press, at first softly, and then firmly, then even more wildly, unveiling the sexual hunger her eyes had only hinted at during the day.
His tongue probed between her lips, tasting and revelling in their milky freshness mingled with the saltiness of the tears, when they widened even more, and her tongue was probing and, unashamedly, vigorously exploring his.
Their breathing was ragged and uneven, and she helped to free herself from the restraining sack as he tugged and pulled the material away from her body.
His searching hands found her breasts as her fingers tugged his shirt free from his trousers. The unexpected coolness of her fingertips on his naked groin triggered a spasm of unadulterated pleasure. He gasped as his abdominal muscles quivered violently.
Shifting his hands to her waist, he worked at her belt before she, with a moan of impatience, pushed his awkward hands aside and undid the restraining waistband herself. She pushed her trousers down past her knees, and with a movement of her legs, kicked the garment free. In almost the same movement, she then pushed at his shoulder and he rolled onto his back, pulling her astride on top of him.
His fingers dug into and kneaded the firm soft flesh of her parted buttocks, as simultaneously, her fingers found the column of his hardness.
Gripping his flesh firmly with one hand, she pulled the material of her pants away from her body. With a low moan, she lifted her hips and guided him into the waiting wet warmth between her thighs. A nipple between his teeth and his face pressed against the yielding overhang of her naked breasts, he gripped and pulled down on her shoulders as she bucked and thrashed above him.
How long it lasted, he did not know, but he felt sure that they had climaxed together—she with a wracking body shudder as she fell forwards, and he with the overwhelming ecstasy of exhaustion. The weight of her body pressed his shoulders against the carpet of pine needles, and he grunted in total lulling relapse. With his hands still on her buttocks, he felt her sit up, but the glorious heat that seemed to weld them like strange Siamese twins at the groin drew all the strength from his very body. Even his eyelids refused to open.
The torrent of searing agony, when it swept over him, was horrendous, and he yelled involuntarily.
His eyes flared open wide. The blade had sliced through his shoulder muscle down to the collarbone, narrowly missing his neck. His brain screeched hysterically at his arms to block the second blow that his whole being intuitively knew was coming, but his right arm flopped pathetically at his side.
The Tuzla Run Page 16