The Hunters h-1

by Chris Kuzneski

  Borovsky looked at him dismissively. ‘The autopsy is complete?’

  ‘No, sir,’ the young man replied. ‘Not yet begun-’

  ‘But you are certain the head wound is what killed this man.’

  The youth stood there with an expression that said, Do you not see the exposed section of brain? But he wisely said nothing.

  ‘Truth cannot enter a closed mind,’ Borovsky said. ‘Old Russian proverb.’

  Anna looked at the attendant and motioned with her head for him to leave the morgue immediately. He did so without pause. When she looked back at her superior, he was examining every inch of the corpse.

  ‘Upstairs,’ Borovsky said flatly, ‘you stated that the theory of this case was a consensus of your fellow investigators. Is that true?’

  When no answer came, Borovsky glanced at Anna, who was trying to figure out the best way to respond. ‘It’s a simple question,’ he said.

  ‘True, sir,’ she replied with obvious reluctance.

  Borovsky nodded. ‘We were taught as young children that religion is the opiate of the masses. However, I put it to you that lies are the true opiate. Repetition makes them seem real — just like religion. In this instance, the obvious solution takes on the mantle of truth and ruins an objective investigation. True?’

  ‘True,’ she said immediately.

  He made his way to the ruined skull. ‘Who do you think was the last man standing?’

  ‘We are still canvassing residents, sir, gathering infor-’

  ‘Who do you think was the last man standing?‘ he repeated without looking up. ‘You had two officers and four skinheads at the scene. Who do you think fell last: Gelb, Klopov, or one of the neo-Nazis?’

  Anna exhaled, drew herself up, and tried to toe the station line. ‘My investigators suspect that the officers were attacked when they asked the skinheads to depart the area.’

  ‘Couldn’t the officers have demanded money? I understand there was cash in their hands.’

  Somewhat embarrassed, she said, ‘We believe it came from a meeting, perhaps a chance meeting, with a motorist moments before.’

  ‘A bribe,’ Borovsky clarified. ‘Money for them to look the other way.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Could the motorist not have been there still when the skinheads arrived?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ she agreed, ‘but we cannot track a hypothetical car since the officers did not report a traffic offense.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Borovsky agreed. ‘But if a bribe did occur, perhaps the skinheads witnessed the transaction. If so, perhaps the officers attacked them to keep them quiet.’

  ‘It is possible,’ she admitted.

  ‘What else have your investigators suggested?’

  She continued with reluctance. ‘They believe the attackers succeeded in downing our officers before succumbing to their own wounds — wounds inflicted by Privates Gelb and Klopov in a vigorous attempt to defend themselves.’

  Borovsky frowned at their conclusion. ‘The skinheads had broken skulls and, in one case, a broken arm. What do you think our comrades used to accomplish that? Their fists?’

  She opened her mouth to paraphrase the investigators, then closed it again. ‘I couldn’t say for sure, comrade Colonel. I honestly don’t know.’

  Borovsky looked at her with satisfaction. Then with the hint of a smile, he quoted another proverb. ‘There is no shame in not knowing. The shame lies in not finding out.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Tell me,’ he said as he returned his focus to the victim. ‘What sorts of weapons were used in this attack?’

  Anna straightened, relieved to report facts rather than theories. ‘We found metal pipes, an AK-47 bayonet, and a large, jagged piece of masonry. All with blood residue.’

  Borovsky motioned for her to come over. She did so without hesitation.

  ‘What do you think made this head wound?’ he asked, pointing at the jagged hole in Kadurik’s skull. ‘The rock, the knife, or the pipes?’

  Anna examined the wound carefully. ‘It is too wide for the pipes or the knife.’ She paused to think, looking at it from every angle. ‘Yet the depression is too uniform for the masonry.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Knowledge is of no value unless you put it into practice.’

  ‘Russian proverb?’ she asked with a weary smile.

  ‘Anton Chekhov,’ he replied. ‘Continue.’

  ‘Now that I see it, I don’t think this wound was made by any of the weapons we found at the crime scene,’ she said.

  ‘Then we have a missing weapon,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, comrade Colonel, I believe we do.’

  ‘And when there’s a missing weapon, there’s a missing suspect.’ Borovsky straightened to his full height. ‘Perhaps the last man standing — is still standing.’

  She nodded, impressed. Multiple investigators had examined the body, yet Borovsky had proven their theories incorrect in a matter of seconds.

  ‘Comrade Rusinko, please take me to the crime scene.’

  Anna drove Colonel Borovsky to the crime scene in an unmarked sedan. They conducted an exhaustive search outside before they asked the building manager to let them into Andrei Dobrev’s apartment. At first, there was a fleeting moment of dread when they grasped the extent of his massive collection of railway memorabilia and equipment, but then Borovsky grinned with anticipation and snapped on the plastic gloves he had pulled from his jacket pocket.

  It was obvious he loved a challenge, and so did she. She always had rubber gloves as well, and she joined him as they started going through every box, file, shelf, book, album, picture frame, and nook. What they were looking for was unspoken, but obvious. It was the weapon, or anything that might lead them to comprehend what had happened on the street outside.

  For that, no words were needed.

  After nearly an hour in which they rarely spoke, Anna broke the silence. ‘Comrade Colonel, I think I may have found something.’

  He withdrew his head from a low, dusty bookcase, happy for the break. He approached the policewoman, who was holding a velvet-lined rectangular box.

  ‘Or,’ she said, ‘to be more accurate, I have found nothing.’

  She opened the box to reveal that it was empty. But he understood. The box had clearly held something precious, and it was just about the only thing they could not find amongst the piles of maps, charts, books, plans, and paraphernalia.

  Anna obviously didn’t think that this small box had housed a weapon large enough to inflict the wound that had killed Marko Kadurik, but from Borovsky’s reaction, she knew she had hit on something potentially significant. He stood, fascinated, his finger slowly and carefully following the small, circular indentation in the red padding.

  ‘A medal?’ she suggested.

  ‘Medals typically use cheap, lightweight metal. This was heavier. A coin, perhaps.’ He leaned closer, angling the box toward the light. ‘A coin that Dobrev felt was special.’

  ‘Do you think Gelb or Klopov might have taken it?’

  ‘You interviewed the occupants of this building. Did anyone mention the police searching any apartments?’

  She shook her head. ‘Perhaps they were afraid.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘In any group there is always one who destroys the silence of the others, one who has integrity. If the officers had entered, someone would have mentioned that.’

  ‘Some people on this floor reported footsteps and loud words in the hallway. We thought it might be the skinheads, calling on Kadurik.’

  ‘Our men searched the clothes and bodies of the victims?’

  ‘Thoroughly,’ she assured him. ‘There was no coin or medal or small memento of this kind. I read the itemized list.’

  They stood silently for a few moments. Anna watched him think, but she couldn’t read the parade of emotions that marched across his face like a procession in Red Square.

  Back at the station, Vargunin had seemed none too pleased when she h
ad left with Borovsky. With a grimace on his face, Vargunin had stared at her while tapping on his watch as a warning. Her warrant officer knew that she had many reports to read, annotate, and file.

  ‘What shall we do, comrade Colonel?’ Anna finally asked.

  Borovsky thought for a moment, then snapped the box closed. ‘I think you should accept the new post I will offer you, Sergeant Rusinko. I think I will need your assistance in finding Andrei Dobrev, at any cost and with all speed.’

  33

  Cobb and McNutt were out the doors instantly, one on each side of the car. Garcia stayed glued to his screen, while Papineau charged back through the train. But Jasmine hesitated. She wanted to warn Dobrev about the threat but felt like she had been a liability to the team at his apartment, so she decided to stay put, leaning over Garcia to watch the security camera feeds on his screen.

  Cobb and McNutt dropped to the ground, both kneeling all the way down to get a better view beneath the train. They couldn’t get a completely clear look because of the truck frames that held the big, metal disc wheels, as well as the fuel tanks and air reservoirs that hung beneath the train, but it was a start.

  The only living thing that Cobb saw was McNutt, who was holding a Ruger Mark III pistol low in his hand. Complete with custom suppressor, the.22 caliber weapon looked bizarre — like a cross between the German Luger and the Japanese Nambu — but there was a reason it was nicknamed ‘Assassin’. It was virtually silent and, in the right pair of hands, deadly.

  McNutt had the ‘right’ pair of hands.

  ‘No killing,’ Papineau shouted on the move. Cobb and McNutt continued the sweep while Papineau raced above them, running across the semi-contained flatbed car. ‘We can’t afford to hide or dispose of a corpse this early in the game.’

  ‘And I can’t afford to be dead,’ McNutt snapped.

  Cobb saw McNutt — and his Ruger — from the corner of his eye.

  ‘You heard him,’ Cobb said. ‘We are running ABM.’

  The acronym stood for Anti-Ballistic Maneuvers: no firearms.

  McNutt wasn’t happy. ‘Whoever we’re looking for won’t be playing fair.’

  Cobb shrugged. ‘Maybe so, but you have your orders.’

  McNutt nodded and reluctantly stowed his weapon. The two men moved quickly in opposite directions, starting their complete search of the train.

  Papineau made a quick visual check of the flat car as he crossed it. The five-foot-tall, slatted fencing created a lip around the surface. Sections or entire sides could be folded, flattened, or removed. Nothing seemed to be out of place. ‘Anyone, is Sarah in view?’

  Cobb and McNutt didn’t answer since they had nothing to report.

  ‘No,’ Garcia said. ‘No visual or sound since the screech.’

  Not good, Cobb thought. That meant she was either down or in very serious trouble. Sarah was the type who’d find a way to make a noise, any noise, if she could.

  Papineau disappeared into the freight car as Jasmine appeared on the train roof. To get there, she had climbed the ladder at the far end of the conference car. Cobb felt a flash of pride. It had taken a while, but Jasmine had decided to stop thinking of herself as a liability.

  That was a major step in her growth.

  Jasmine surveyed the area from her vantage point. ‘No sign of Sarah or anyone else. She has to be under the train.’

  The men had already come to the same conclusion. By then, they were on opposite ends and opposite sides of the four-car length.

  ‘McNutt, under on three,’ Cobb said quietly. ‘One … two …’

  As he said ‘three’, both men rolled and came up crouching low beneath the train. The underside of the train was like an iron enclosure, with openings between the wheels. The ground, like the turf of so many train stations, consisted of small rocks over earth that supported the wooden ties and steel tracks. Cobb and McNutt had unstable footing on loose, uneven stones, their backs bent by the unforgiving underside of the train.

  Since Cobb was nearest the fourth car — the sleeping quarters — he spotted her first. Framed in the circle of one of the train’s wheels was Sarah. Her back was to the wheel, which she was seemingly using as a cover or shield. But something about it didn’t seem right. As Cobb peered closer, he saw that her eyes were closed and her head was lolling. She was unconscious.

  ‘Fourth car,’ he whispered. ‘Back my play.’

  Cobb knew what she had done in Brighton Beach. Whoever had taken her down so easily was more than likely not a Russian cop or a neo-Nazi. He was a professional.

  ‘Wait for me,’ McNutt whispered.

  ‘No,’ Cobb ordered, ‘just back my play.’

  McNutt growled softly but kept his mouth shut.

  Wasting no time, Cobb crept closer and closer to Sarah. He quickly realized that her body was in an impossible position. If she was truly unconscious, she should have slumped over to the ground. Instead, she was sitting upright with an arched back.

  Instantly, Cobb became still. It was different from freezing in place. When people froze they stiffened like ice, ready to crack or shatter. When Cobb stilled, he settled like calm water, ready to flow in any direction. He stilled because he realized that the backs of the train wheels were not black. They were shades of dark blue and darker gray. But behind Sarah’s blond hair, white skin, and green clothing was a black shape.

  Someone was holding her upright.

  Approaching from the front of the train, McNutt saw the action before he could comprehend it. Cobb rushed forward in a controlled sprint as a lifeless Sarah — who’d been flung by her nearly invisible assailant — flew through the air toward Cobb. McNutt blinked a few times before he saw a black figure scurry through the shadows. Only then did McNutt realize that Sarah had been thrown by a man, not launched by a wizard.

  Thank God, he thought. We aren’t prepared to fight magic.

  For Cobb, it wasn’t about thinking; it was about reacting. He reached out with both hands as Sarah’s body hurtled toward him. He caught her head in the crook of his left arm, cushioning and cradling it, while he stopped her forward momentum with the palm of his right hand. At the same time he lowered himself into a wide stance so they would be closer to the hard ground. It wouldn’t have worked on anyone bigger, but this way he could open his arm and slide her head down to the gravel. The back of his left hand took the pain of settling her head down on the stones. The rest of her body might be a little bruised, but her head was safe.

  At no time did Cobb lose his balance, but his maneuver meant a nanosecond of blindness when his focus was on Sarah instead of on his adversary. Had the shadow been attacking, that moment of inattention might have been a deadly mistake. Without coming up from his stance, he looked for the black shadow’s position and listened for breathing. He quickly felt a presence.

  The shadow hadn’t fled. He had merely gathered himself.

  He was preparing to launch an attack.

  Cobb sensed a shift in air pressure in the blackness to his left. He responded by adjusting the back foot in his stance, then unleashing his right leg in a sidekick at his opponent’s sternum. With his gloved hands, the shadow stopped Cobb’s foot with a classic V-shaped block, driving down hard on Cobb’s lower leg and pushing it to the gravel.

  But Cobb did not panic. In fact, he became calmer.

  Now he knew what he was facing.

  The man was using a Russian martial art called Samooborona Bez Oruzhiya, which was often shortened to the better-known term ‘Sambo’. Created in the 1920s by the Russian military, it literally translated as ‘self-defense without weapons’, but its combat style combined the most devastatingly effective means of killing from every other martial art in the world. Karate striking, jiu-jitsu choking, judo locking, muay thai crushing, and so on. Nothing was off limits in most martial arts around the world, but everything was encouraged in Sambo.

  Cobb almost smiled. He still couldn’t see his adversary, but that didn’t matter. He slid his right leg f
orward, along the gravel, toward his opponent. That’s all it took to break the figure’s pincer-like grip on his leg. Cobb knew that to execute the move, the figure would have ended up bent slightly forward, presenting his head for whatever Cobb decided to do next. That would have been to grab the back of the individual’s head and send his face into Cobb’s knee, which was there and waiting. But the figure had anticipated his vulnerability and inverted the V of his arms so it was facing up, to catch Cobb’s hand as he reached. That delayed Cobb’s attack long enough for the figure to back deeper into the shadows — back to the left, from the crunch of the rock. Cobb thrust his already extended hand after him, grabbed cloth, but his opponent had enough momentum to spin out of his grip and run away.

  Cobb hoped that McNutt knew what to do next. They’d saved Sarah; now it was time to get the attacker. A second later, Cobb was thrilled to see McNutt in hot pursuit.

  Wasting no time, Cobb scurried back to Sarah. Even from a distance, he could see that she was breathing evenly, so he had no worries about her long-term health. But just to be safe, he checked her carefully and spotted no obvious damage. In Cobb’s mind, her condition was both good and bad news. It was good because Sarah would recover and his team could move on as planned. It was bad because it reaffirmed his earlier theory: the assailant wasn’t a thug; he was a trained professional. A corrupt cop, black marketeer, or psycho skinhead would have used a weapon to take Sarah out, but this guy took her down with ease.

  Someone like that could ruin a mission like theirs.

  ‘Gone,’ McNutt whispered from the other side of the station. A minute later, he was crouching down next to Cobb, explaining how the assailant had escaped. ‘I’ve never seen anybody move that fast without a jet pack. Who the hell was it?’

  Cobb shrugged, his focus still on Sarah. ‘I don’t know, but I’ve got a bad feeling that we’ll find out soon enough.’

  34

  Garcia accessed the video feed from a security camera outside the train yard and transferred it to his computer screen. Papineau and Cobb leaned over the seated tech expert and studied the digitally recorded image of the man in black, racing from the yard.