Dawn was just a little way off, and the truck was stopped atop a small slope in the road. There were few lights in the village below, but the sky was beginning to lighten and they could see it well enough. It was a tiny place, really. Like something out of a storybook but gray and withered as though the magic of old legends had leaked away over centuries. Newer, ugly gray concrete buildings stood among small houses and shops that looked as though they’d been standing there forever.
It was the Russian equivalent of small-town America, Wolverine thought. But there was no Main Street movie theater, or church, or five-and-dime. There was, however, a building that looked to be either town hall, or school, or both. Around that were several others that probably held some kind of market. The place was distant enough from other towns that he supposed they had a garage of some kind, but they were just as likely to have a blacksmith, he thought. Someone had to shoe horses and repair carts.
Around the village, the landscape opened up to accommodate a number of farms, probably a traditional Soviet collective. It was possible that the village itself was merely an extension of the collective.
“I don’t see any base,” Logan said at length.
“It’s not far,” Igor insisted.
“Fine,” Logan replied. “Then we all go.”
Wolverine narrowed his eyes and focused on the village below. One of the larger, more recently constructed buildings was at the edge of town. He had no idea what it was. Probably a firehouse or grain storehouse or something else that would require a two-story structure. But it was large enough to hide the truck behind.
“Get back in the truck,” he said. “Me an’ Creed’ll give it a push. We’ll roll down and leave it behind that ugly icebox down there.” He pointed at the building. “From there, we split up.”
He turned to regard them then. Wolverine didn’t like the idea of splitting the team, especially with so many unknowns along for the ride. But he had to rely on their dedication to the op—and they really didn’t have much choice.
“Sabretooth,” he said, and Creed glared at him, nostrils flaring. “You and Silver Fox take the Russkie here and find some gas. Steal it, siphon it … hell, buy it for all I care. But get it.”
Silver Fox nodded, and Logan knew she understood that he had saddled her with two ticking bombs, and that she was prepared to deal with both.
“Maverick,” he said, “you and Mystique find us some clothes. Local issue. And while you’re at it, see if you can find a shortwave. With the trail we’ve left, the Agency should be monitoring on our favorite emergency frequency by now.”
Logan frowned at Mystique. “You could try to blend in a little,” he said.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, barely acknowledging him.
Wolverine couldn’t blame her. It wasn’t as though she was deaf or blind. She was there for his fight with Creed. She knew what he thought of her. It didn’t make him feel at all guilty, though. Mystique was bad news, and a bad risk. He could sense it. But while he had her, he might as well make use of her particular talents.
He winced. Thoughts of his brawl with Sabretooth reminded Wolverine how long it was going to take him to fully mend. None of the wounds was serious—at least, not now that his healing factor had gone into action—but with so many of them, he wouldn’t be completely up to snuff for hours yet.
“What’re you gonna be doin’ all this time?” Creed asked. “Babysittin’ the Mick?”
Wolverine ignored him.
“By the time we all meet back here at the truck in, say, thirty minutes, me and Agent Cassidy will have rounded up some kind of breakfast, and then we’ll be on our way.
“Let’s do this quietly, okay?” Wolverine asked. “The last thing we need is the Soviet army on our tails while we’re still goin’ into their territory.”
The market proved to be almost precisely what Wolverine suspected. The breads, meats, and produce all seemed fresh, apparently products of the farming collective. He felt a small spark of shame to be stealing from people who so obviously needed what they produced through their own sweat, but it couldn’t be helped.
“This isn’t right,” Cassidy said as he slid several loaves of bread into a sack along with a large cured ham.
Wolverine had a wooden box in his arms loaded with fruits and vegetables. He looked over at Cassidy and their eyes met briefly. Without a nod or a spoken word, he acknowledged the other man’s misgivings, then turned back to the work at hand: petty theft.
Light splashed the large windows at the front of the building, and Logan ducked his head. The headlights moved on, and the rumble of a truck’s engines could be heard. For a moment, he thought that one of his team had gone completely insane and driven their truck right down into the middle of the village.
Then he realized that it wasn’t their truck, and he knew it was worse than that. It was the military.
Brakes squealed, laboring to stop the heavy vehicle. Wolverine surveyed the soldiers in the open back of the truck and came up with a quick count of sixteen. Not counting the driver and the other man in the front seat, likely this squad’s commanding officer. They looked exhausted, and Wolverine guessed that they were coming off duty somewhere and must be on their way back to base.
The officer opened his door and stepped out. He barked orders to the driver, and it took Wolverine a moment to mentally translate the Russian. The driver started the truck up again and continued down the street, leaving the officer behind.
Fuel. That was the key word in the officer’s orders. There must be some kind of refueling station there in the village, Wolverine realized. One of the more recent, ugly gray buildings. Chances were good that Sabretooth and Fox would have found it already, given the fear with which Igor obviously regarded Creed. The KGB man would have known, or at least suspected, the existence of such a station, and led Creed there, if Sabretooth’s nose didn’t show them the way first.
Which would have worked out very nicely if not for the truckload of soldiers who had just passed by.
Wolverine stared at the officer. The man looked up and down the street, then knocked lightly on a door along a row of buildings across from the market and the village hall. The door opened, and Logan briefly glimpsed a woman, clad in a flimsy nightgown, inside. She smiled at the officer and then the door closed behind them.
A second ticked by. Another. A third. Then Wolverine was moving. Cassidy followed behind him without a sound, and Logan took a moment to recognize that the man he was working with was a true professional. He wished that Cassidy really was a part of the team. But then, other than his vendetta against the Widow, Logan thought Cassidy might have trouble with some of the missions for which Team X was responsible.
Fast as they were able, they hustled along the backs of buildings for two long blocks. At the truck, only Maverick was visible, dressed in the drab clothing of the Russian civilian. Not peasant clothes, not farming clothes. Wolverine was satisfied. If they could get out of here without any trouble, they ought to be able to pass, even in Minsk.
But that seemed like a big “if” at the moment.
Logan glanced a question at Maverick, and North had the answer immediately.
“In the back,” he said.
Wolverine dumped his crate in the back of the truck, and Cassidy followed with his sack of meat and bread. He was relieved to see that most of the team had already reassembled and were waiting for him in the truck. Mystique was there, helping to distribute clothing to the others. Igor sat glaring into nothingness as Silver Fox kept a pistol aimed at his chest. There was only one person missing.
“Where’s—?” Wolverine began.
“Went back for more fuel,” Fox said without expression. “We found a depot or whatever, but we only found two containers, and he figured we would need reserves.”
Logan cursed. When he looked up, he already had everyone’s attention.
“For once he was right,” Logan admitted. “But Creed’s timing couldn’t be worse. We got
company, and they’re probably right on top of him.”
“They won’t find him if he doesn’t want to be found,” Maverick noted.
“Yeah,” Logan agreed. “That’s what worries me. After the last twenty-four hours, he’ll be lookin’ to blow off some steam.”
“And get us all killed?” Mystique asked incredulously.
“Hey,” Logan shrugged, “he’s your sweetheart—you tell me.”
She frowned. “He’s not my sweetheart.”
“Whatever,” Maverick interjected. “Point is, how do we pull him out of there without drawing extra attention to ourselves?”
Wolverine was still staring at Mystique. He nodded to himself and pointed at her. “You come with me,” he told her. “Maverick, Silver Fox, watch the truck and our KGB friend, but be ready. I want you out of sight in case we need backup.”
Then he turned to Cassidy.
“Irish, go on ahead and keep an eye out for Creed and the Russkies. I’ll be along in a bit. We may be able to get outta this without a scuffle yet, but it’s real important that you try to keep him from killin’ anybody.”
“An’ how exactly do ye think I ought to go about doing that?” Cassidy asked.
“With your natural charm and scintillatin’ wit.”
To his credit, Cassidy laughed.
Several minutes later, Sean wasn’t laughing at all. He’d stuck to the corners and shadows, but the sun was on the horizon and he’d seen several civilians on the street. The nearby farms would have been working long since, and the village wasn’t far behind. He’d followed Silver Fox’s directions to the fueling station, and now he crouched behind a four-wheel cart across the street and watched the soldiers as they milled about their truck.
Nearly half of them were smoking, and those stood well off from the fuel pump. The others either sat on the edge of the truck or stretched and yawned and leaned against the truck or the wall of the gray cinderblock structure.
But there was no sign of Creed.
Then he was there. A short block away, Sabretooth crossed the street with two black plastic fuel containers in his huge hands. Right in plain sight. Six and a half feet and nearly three hundred pounds of killer with a shock of almost Nordic blond hair, Victor Creed strode from one corner and just kept walking.
Cassidy had to give him credit. He was more than halfway to the opposite corner, where he could have disappeared behind a row of buildings and gone right on to where their own truck was hidden, when the soldiers spotted him.
It was possible, though Creed would never be inconspicuous, that had he been wearing different clothes they never would have looked at him twice. They were obviously tired. Probably just wanted to get home. But Creed wore ragged German peasant clothes, covered with dried blood from his clash with Wolverine.
How could they not go after him?
One of the soldiers shouted at Sabretooth to stop. To drop the cans and raise his hands. Creed kept walking. A pair of Kalishnikovs shot into the air, ripping the sky with rapid-fire punctuation. Creed could have run then. Cassidy knew it. A few bullets wouldn’t kill him, and he might get back to the truck in time for an escape.
But he’d come back for that gas, and Cassidy figured a psychopath like Creed wasn’t about to leave without what he came for. That, and he probably also figured a bunch of dead soldiers wouldn’t pursue spies nearly as vigorously as the living, breathing kind.
Four soldiers ran across the street, their boots rapping staccato rhythm on the pavement. Sabretooth put the cans down and turned to face them. Cassidy had seen the smile on Creed’s face before. It was gleefully savage, and yet smug: the face of a deadly serpent that has just sighted its prey.
Even as Cassidy opened his mouth to scream a warning, Sabretooth struck. The first slash of his claws tore out the throat of the man nearest to him. So much for Logan’s plan, Sean thought.
Then he was in the air, his sonic scream carrying him aloft, propelling him forward, and making him a target.
But, for better or worse, Sabretooth was an even better target.
Creed lashed out at a second soldier, striking at the man’s head with such force that it canted much too far to the right and hung nauseatingly loose from a broken neck as the man tumbled to the pavement. By then, Creed had a Kalishnikov in his hands, and it barked and spat angry black hornets that tore the other two soldiers to ribbons.
Sabretooth seemed to have grown even larger in his killing fury. And Cassidy didn’t know what he could do, what Wolverine had really intended for him to do here. The Soviets were the enemy, sure, but he wasn’t about to go around slaughtering soldiers who were truly only doing their duty. And on their own home turf as well. Sean Cassidy was an officer of the law, not some cold-blooded homicidal lunatic like the gore-spattered blond monster lumbering around on the street below.
A vivid image of the Black Widow blossomed suddenly in his mind. Cassidy was no killer, but he’d vowed to take her life, hadn’t he?
His reverie was interrupted as one of the soldiers finally took an interest in him. He’d only been airborne a few seconds, but now he needed to take evasive action.
On the ground, Creed had started toward the remaining soldiers, who congregated around their truck in front of the refueling station. Too close by far, the way Cassidy looked at it. Sabretooth swept his weapon back and forth, keeping the Soviet soldiers pinned for the moment, though he stood out in the open. His savagery must have stunned them, at least at first.
Then they returned fire, and it was all over.
The first strafing pass of Soviet ammunition across Sabretooth’s chest forced the killer back several steps. Instead of falling down, Creed leaned into the hail of bullets like they were nothing more than a powerful gale. Cassidy didn’t know how much even Sabretooth could take, and he figured a bullet in the brain would take down anyone. For half a second, he was tempted to just let Creed die. The monster had been spoiling for a fight and now he’d found one. There were at least nine soldiers left, and Sean would take odds that they’d finish Creed before he got close enough to finish them.
But he couldn’t just leave him there.
He turned in midair, nearly caught a bullet as he crossed the line of fire of the soldier who was still trying to knock him out of the air. His sonic scream kept him aloft, but now he refocused it, turned its force downward. Cassidy knew how hard to hit a human being with his sonics. But there was no room for caution here. Not with bullets flying all over the place.
Three soldiers were blown back against the cinderblock refueling station. They hit hard, and crumpled to the ground. If they were alive—which Sean dearly prayed—they’d be nearly deaf for hours. And their comrades would have ringing ears for a while just because they were nearby.
Cassidy dropped to the pavement and glanced over at Creed.
Sabretooth smiled that smile again, and for a moment, Sean was certain the monster was going to turn the Kalishnikov on him. Instead, Creed sprayed bullets at the truck again, and Cassidy flinched. He figured it was a miracle the fuel tank still hadn’t exploded.
The ground rumbled. Cassidy turned to see two large trucks carrying Soviet reinforcements trundling down the street toward them. There were no civilians on the street, but apparently someone had been able to get in touch with the base pretty fast. If Wolverine had a plan, Cassidy thought, now would be the time to put it into action.
A soldier popped out from behind the truck and aimed his weapon at Cassidy, squeezed off a few rounds. Sean screamed, and the force of his voice turned the bullets away to punch harmlessly through the roof of the refueling station. He glanced, still screaming, at the soldier who had fired, and the man was thrown off his feet to land painfully.
The trucks had stopped and new troops were pouring out. Cassidy found himself back to back with Creed in the middle of the street, with dawn a memory and morning fully arrived.
“Glad you could join the party, Irish,” Creed growled. “You’re not half bad in the trench
es, for a Mick.”
“If that’s your way of saying thank you, Creed, don’t bother,” Cassidy snapped. “Saving your life is not goin’ to be one of the proudest accomplishments of me life.”
“From where I’m sittin’, it looks like you got a ways to go before you can brag about savin’ my life,” Creed snarled.
But that smile was back on his face. He didn’t even have to tell Cassidy that he didn’t think he’d needed saving. Or that he didn’t think he needed any help at all. It was all there in that smile and in the way he scowled when he spoke.
As cold as it was, Sean couldn’t keep the thought from coming. He looked at Creed one last time and thought, I’m going to die for him. For a man that like as not deserves to be put to death himself.
Then a voice cut through the morning air, a harsh crack like thunder. Cassidy didn’t speak Russian, but he recognized the language. Two men stepped into the street. One of them wore a Soviet officer’s uniform. A major, Sean thought.
The other man was Logan.
The major began barking orders at the soldiers who had piled out of the newly arrived trucks. Several subordinate officers ran over to him, and didn’t even glance wrong at Wolverine.
“What in the name of God could he be saying that’s keeping these men from killing us where we stand?” Cassidy asked breathlessly. “Ye just killed their comrades, and they’ve stopped their attack.”
Under his breath, Sabretooth gave a dry laugh.
“Accordin’ to the major over there,” Creed said, “we’re KGB. All three of us, even though you’ve got the map o’ Ireland tattooed on your face. This was a trainin’ exercise, top secret, and they’re all confined to base while the KGB examines our performance and investigates the actions that led to the deaths of the grunts I just killed.”
“Don’t sound so bleedin’ proud of yourself,” Cassidy snapped.
“I ain’t proud,” Sabretooth replied. “Just amused.”
Cassidy wanted to shoot him, but Sabretooth wasn’t his biggest concern. No, that would be how Wolverine ended up with a Soviet army officer who’d pass off the slaughter of more than half a dozen of his men with such a ridiculously contrived story.
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