The Hunters h-1

by Chris Kuzneski

  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 w
as 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.

  ‘If they haven’t been killed yet, they won’t be,’ Cobb said. ‘At least not at the hands of the villagers.’

  ‘Trial or deprogramming?’ McNutt asked. ‘What do they do here?’

  ‘Russian gunmen in Romania?’ Cobb said. ‘They’ll have their brains rewired by the Serviciul de Informatii Externe, the Foreign Intelligence Service. Then they’ll be sent back to Moscow to spy.’

  ‘Better than a bullet in the back of the neck,’ McNutt opined. ‘Speaking of bullets, you okay?’

  ‘Dandy,’ Cobb replied.

  ‘We haven’t found anyone that we consider, shall we say, “leadership material” amongst the Black Robes,’ Garcia prodded. ‘We were thinking maybe you knew something about that?’

  ‘I do,’ Cobb answered. ‘And he’s been neutralized.’

  ‘Neutralized? Neutralized how?’

  ‘Shot. Crushed. Incinerated.’ Cobb answered. ‘That good enough?’

  ‘It wasn’t the first time around!’ McNutt joked. ‘They did all that and more to good ol’ Raspy, and he’s still sitting in the damn train — wherever that is.’

  Cobb nodded, smiled, and exhaled with honest relief. It was the first time in a while that he allowed himself to enjoy McNutt’s humor. Then he visibly brightened and slapped McNutt on the back. ‘Nice shooting out there.’

  ‘Anna kept her steady when all get-out was … well, getting out,’ he said.

  Cobb stepped forward to where Anna was hovering protectively over Borovsky and saluted her. With a smile, she saluted back. Then he put his hand out, and she took it.

  ‘Spasiba,’ he said.

  ‘You … are … velcome,’ she replied.

  Cobb knelt beside Borovsky, whose right arm was in a sling. He slipped a hand under the Colonel’s shoulder, raised him slightly, pointed to the front of the train. On the track, in front of the locomotive, were three large, burlap sacks bulging to near bursting.

  ‘Gold,’ Cobb said. ‘For the village. They can start over, anywhere.’

  Borovsky nodded in understanding. It would have been an exaggeration to call him happy, but he seemed contentedly resigned.

  He said something in Russian before Cobb laid him back.

  Jasmine’s voice was in his ear. ‘He said, “If I had to lose the treasure to a thief, at least it was an honorable one.”’

  Cobb wanted to point out that the man was protecting stolen treasure. For that matter, the gold itself was probably bought with awful taxes levied on the Romanian people.

  Instead, he simply nodded and walked away.

  68

  Choban, Romania

  (63 miles east of village)

  It was mid-afternoon when a virtually unrecognizable Sarah and Jasmine — dirty and sweaty from the blast and the battle — stepped off the treasure train on the edge of the sun-dappled town of Choban. Waiting for them was Jean-Marc Papineau, who had hired a crew of armed guards to protect the treasure on its journey to its final destination.

  ‘Well done, ladies,’ the Frenchman said.

  ‘That was quite a ride,’ Sarah said, running her hand through her soot-permeated hair. She took off her sunglasses and shook them. Black ash from the engine and white powder from the explosion drifted down, but her blue eyes gleamed.

  Papineau’s eyes settled on Jasmine. ‘You learned quickly. I’m very proud.’

  ‘I had a master class,’ Jasmine said.

  ‘Under fire,’ Sarah added.

  The moment Jasmine had finished the coupling maneuver with the rogue car, Sarah suddenly appeared in Ludmilla’s cab. She had explained that there was a new plan — one that only she and Cobb had known about. If the engine of the treasure train was operational, they were to uncouple the ancient cars and leave immediately. While everyone else was busy with the Black Robes, they would ensure that the treasure was safe.

  Jasmine hadn’t wanted to leave Dobrev, but Sarah convinced her that they needed to put distance between the train and the Black Robes in case the fanatics triumphed; and that the conductor would be happier to lie in state with his lady.

  Jasmine couldn’t dispute either point. When the old engine didn’t make an argument — it started immediately due to years of continual maintenance — she agreed to drive. As Ludmilla made her way back toward the main line they had traveled earlier, Sarah, Jasmine, and the treasure train took off in the opposite direction, down the other side of the mountain.

  Under the watchful eyes of the armed guards, Papineau did a quick inventory of the treasure. He didn’t stop smiling until he reached the final car.

  ‘Is it all there?’ he asked with a cocked eyebrow.

  ‘We had to use some of it,’ Sarah said.

  ‘We?’

  She cleared her throat. ‘Chief, care to explain?’

  Cobb answered in their ears. ‘I told her to leave three bags of gold for the village. They need to start anew. They’ve suffered. They saved our lives. They earned it. If you’ve got a problem with that, you can send some of your armed guards to collect it.’

  Papineau wanted to argue but decided against it. The treasure, or at least part of it, was in his hands. That was enough for now. He removed his earpiece and walked toward his waiting limousine for a drink.

  69

  Monday, October 6

  Uelen, Chukotka Autonomous Okrug, Russia

  (77 miles west of Tin City, Alaska)

  Bundled in a warm jacket, Sarah stared out the window at the tundra. For the last hour, her view hadn’t changed. ‘And I thought we were in the middle of nowhere in Romania.’

  Compared to the wilds of the Chukchi Peninsula, the Transylvanian Plateau was downtown Las Vegas. Stretching two hundred and eighty-five thousand square miles across the northeastern tip of Russia, th
is place was home to only fifty thousand hearty souls.

  ‘It’s the only part of Russia that partially rests in the Western Hemisphere,’ Jasmine said.

  ‘Very interesting,’ Sarah admitted. ‘Useless, but interesting.’

  They soldiered on, using equipment Papineau had secured for them to cross the miles of undeveloped, unforgiving, and nearly uninhabitable wasteland. The air was heavy with frozen mist, created by the waves that continually crashed against the rocky shores of the Bering Strait.

  ‘Who on earth would think a tunnel could be built out here?’ Sarah wondered.

  ‘The Russian railway, that’s who,’ Jasmine said. ‘Andrei told me that Trans-Siberian rail links had been discussed for more than a century, and the Bering Strait tunnel had been planned ever since the nineteenth century. They had built all the way to Vladivostok before they figured out you were right: it’s crazy to build out here.’

  They were inside a converted Toyota Hilux off-road truck, specially made for Arctic regions. Complete with forty-four-inch tires, the dependable, comfortable Hilux would hardly look out of place even on tropical roads. Here it was their versatile, reliable home away from home. It was even outfitted with sleeping berths in the back and a satellite dish for cell phone communication.

  ‘There were boats. Then there were airplanes. Why a tunnel?’ Sarah continued.

  ‘Why anything?’ Jasmine asked. ‘Simple. People are builders.’

  ‘People are crazy,’ Sarah said. ‘I once went whaling up here. It’s only-’

  ‘You went whaling?’ Jasmine looked at her disapprovingly. ‘But that’s-’

  ‘Illegal?’ Sarah blurted. ‘Is that what you were going to say, Little Miss Shot-a-bad-guy-in-the-face?’