by Baen Books
Of course, it should make it hard for Anders to hide a safe house, too. Not only would the blond giant stand out, but the vehicles they'd probably be using would, too.
The village sort of wrapped around the hillside in a crescent, with the roads forming something akin to switchbacks as they wound around the hill. We were rolling through the ruins of the upper half of the village when we saw another car on the road.
It was an ancient, ugly LuAZ 969, colored a mix of faded yellow and rust. I couldn't see the driver and passenger clearly, but a vehicle in this ancient dump of a village was an indicator. I just pointed, and Ivan nodded. We'd see if we could tail them; if they were Anders' people, they might lead us back to their safe house. Then we might be able to plan a proper, and less suicidal, hit on the place. Or at least set up more low-profile surveillance so that we could take them on the move.
We were going to lose sight of them if we kept going the way we were; they were on the next road downhill, and were going to pass behind some more ruins and thick stands of trees. But without going full car chase on them, we wouldn't be able to avoid it. Looking at the crude map I'd drawn based on the overheads, the two roads should come together up ahead, anyway.
The road entered the trees, ruined houses looming on either side, and I put out a hand to have Ivan slow down. I didn't want to run into them unprepared or unawares; if this was going to be an ambush, I'd rather be the ambusher than the ambushed.
We crept forward, Ivan's foot just off the brake, as I drew my AKS-74U out from under the seat and slid it under a jacket on my lap. For the most part I was just being careful, but if by some chance that was Anders in that car, I was going to have Ivan sidle up to it and hose it down. Even that huge freak would die with enough 5.45 holes in him.
By now, I was keyed-up, scanning the woods and the gaping, darkened holes of the abandoned windows and doors in the shells of the village houses as we rolled past, looking for an ambush, a triggerman, or even any signs of IEDs in the piles of rubble alongside the road. After having that farmhouse blow up and narrowly avoiding going with it, I was a little more paranoid about explosives than usual.
I wanted a cigarette, but we had the windows rolled up to make it harder to see us, and while Ivan smoked, he didn't chain-smoke the way I did, and even I wasn't all that keen on hot-boxing the UAZ with Black Russian smoke.
“There he is,” Ivan said, nodding toward where the LuAZ was coming around the bend just downhill and in front of us, barely visible through the trees. If the house at the bend hadn't been reduced to little more than a rubble-strewn foundation, we probably wouldn't have spotted it at all.
The vehicle turned right, heading further downhill and away from us, and Ivan pressed the accelerator, picking up speed to catch up. It would be easy to lose them in this labyrinth of empty, crumbling buildings and steadily encroaching trees, but it would be just as easy to get burned and wind up in a fight we weren't ready for. We had to find a balance.
We hit the intersection at just the same time that the LuAZ turned left on the next road down. A quick glance at the map told me we had a little bit of leeway, provided they didn't floor it as soon as we lost sight of them.
Ivan glanced at the rear-view mirror just as we turned down the road after the LuAZ. “Who is that?” he asked.
I hunched down and looked in my own rear-view mirror. There was another car behind us. An ancient, rusty Lada sedan, it had just come up on us from the same road the LuAZ had been on.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered. We'd gotten focused on the LuAZ and hadn't noticed that they were being followed. But who was who? There were two big dudes in the Lada, both looking hunched and uncomfortable in the little car, but I couldn't see much more detail than that, at least not in the tiny, cracked and scratched mirror that wasn't at a very good angle. I turned in my seat and looked back.
“Well?” Ivan asked as I turned back forward. We were still following the LuAZ; there was no point in doing anything else until we decided to break away and try to lose the Lada.
“I don't know,” I answered, still peering in the rear view while trying to keep an eye on the LuAZ, which had just trundled past a Y intersection and was continuing straight ahead. “The driver is a big black dude. I don't remember anything in the intel about Anders having a big black dude on his team.”
“Nothing in intel said anything about booby-trapped house or Russian brodyagi, either,” Ivan pointed out. “What do you want to do?”
“Keep driving,” I said, my hand on the Suchka's grip under the jacket. “Let the situation develop.” We really didn't have much of a choice, aside from opening fire, and I was pretty sure that Anders wasn't in that Lada, so starting a gunfight just had the potential to get us both ventilated without getting any closer to our target. Even so, I was looking for an escape route. We were not in a good position.
The LuAZ suddenly turned off the road, heading toward a larger house some way off the road and back in the trees. At the same time, an open-top UAZ surged out of the same side avenue and up onto the road in front of us, blocking the way.
As if that wasn't enough, a pair of Lada 4x4s came roaring down the road behind the sedan. I caught a glimpse of what might have been an AK in one of the open windows.
I tensed and flipped the jacket off my shorty AK. We were boxed, and it looked like things were about to get loud.
“Yub tvoyu maht,” Ivan muttered, reaching down to drag his own Suchka out from under his seat, even as he wrenched the wheel to the left. We were just past the Y, but Ivan was going for it anyway.
There were three shooters in the open-top SUV in front of us, dressed in civilian clothes but wearing Russian plate carriers over them. Three black AK variants were leveled at us, even as I finished rolling down the window, stuck my Suchka out, and opened fire.
It was a fifty-yard shot, so it was entirely doable with the stubby little AK subgun, but we were bouncing over dirt and rocks, and I'd just yanked the selector down to the first slot, auto, and mashed the trigger.
The Suchka only has an eight-inch barrel, so the muzzle blast is an impressive blossom of flame. It strobed in front of my face as I did my best to riddle the other UAZ with bullets, though I'm pretty sure out of the forty-five round mag, only about ten actually hit anything.
It was enough to get their heads down, at least, and I thought I saw one drop into the back, hopefully shot. I pulled the weapon back inside just in time to avoid having it smashed out of my hands by a low-hanging tree branch, as Ivan got us onto the other road, heading back up the hill.
The Lada was right behind us, the passenger leaning out of the window and firing what looked like a Dirty Harry revolver of all things at the 4x4s behind them. One of the 4x4s looked like it had swerved off the road and smacked into the ruin of a house; there was a pile of rubble on the smoking hood. The other one was still coming after us, with the occasional muzzle flash of an automatic weapon coming from the passenger side. Rounds snapped and hissed past, audible even over the roar of the UAZ's engine. One hit my rear-view mirror with a bang, sending bits of glass and metal flying.
“Chyort!” Ivan yelled, even as another round ripped through the canvas top just over our heads, tearing a long slit through it. We'd come around the long curve in the road, only to see that it dead-ended at a bombed-out house surrounded by low stone fences about four hundred yards away.
I rocked the next mag into my Suchka and turned to hang out the window again. Ivan could find us an escape route; I needed to suppress our pursuit. The UAZ was moving, though I could only see two guys in it now, and it was right behind the other 4x4. I didn't have a shot at either, however, without hitting the asshole who was hanging out of the Lada's window with that big wheelgun.
“Who the fuck is that?” I wondered. At that point in time I really couldn't give less of a damn about Forsyth's Request For Information; they were shooting at the same people we were. Of course, it looked like they sucked at not being followed, had probably blown t
his whole op, and what kind of amateur brings a revolver to a gunfight anymore? But then the guy put a bullet through the windshield of the 4x4 behind them, and the sporadic AK fire from the passenger side window suddenly ceased, so maybe he wasn't that much of an amateur after all.
Ivan, rather than slowing down as we rapidly approached the end of the road, floored the gas and sent us hurtling alongside the low stone fence around the ruined farmhouse ahead. He spun the wheel as we came abreast of what had once been a gate leading off the road to the left, almost flipped the vehicle, and then we were bouncing and roaring across the overgrown remains of some Azeri farmer's barnyard, heading uphill and toward the trees.
Unfortunately, I now had no shot at all, as our pursuers were now on the wrong side of the vehicle, and eclipsed by another crumbling farmhouse. I did get a glimpse behind us of the Lada continuing the way we'd been driving, heading for a gap in the trees. That dude was still shooting that enormous hand cannon, and it seemed to have dissuaded the pursuit somewhat, even though the sedan was now rocking way too much for him to actually be able to hit anything. Then the Lada disappeared into the trees, even as the UAZ tried to make the turn to follow us.
I braced the Suchka as tightly as I could against the door column, and squeezed off a burst at the driver. At least, I tried to aim at the driver; Ivan wasn't slowing down to give me a good shooting platform, so I sprayed the general area with about ten rounds. Then Ivan gunned it over the low remains of a gap in the stone fence, I damn near bit my tongue off as we hit the ground on the far side, and by the time I'd un-rattled my brains enough to try and shoot again, he'd taken another turn, and there were trees and a ruined wall between us and our pursuers. I couldn't see shit, so I hauled myself back inside and slumped in the seat.
“You good?” I asked, already starting to check him for bleeds even before he could answer. I'd seen a teammate bleed out before he'd even realized he'd been shot. Considering that Ivan was driving, and we were hurtling along a rocky hillside at what I would not consider entirely safe speeds, having him pass out from blood loss would not be a good way to live to get paid, much less to old age.
Once I was confident that Ivan wasn't going to keel over from blood loss, I slumped back in my seat and started checking myself, wondering what the hell we were going to do now.
#
“Wait, wait, wait. Stop,” J.D. said. “Go back. He was carrying what?”
“A big-ass, Dirty Harry Magnum revolver,” I repeated. “I thought it was weird, too.”
J.D. had a frown on his face, though, rather an odd expression for Mr. Always Obnoxiously Cheerful himself. “No,” he said, shaking his head, thinking so hard I could hear the hamster about to have a heart attack. “It's not just that. Something about a revolver . . . ”
I looked over at Ivan as I lit up. He just shrugged. He didn't know, either.
J.D. suddenly snapped his fingers. “There was a BOLO, came out about a year ago,” he said. “I bet I can find it somewhere, still. Something about an HVT who uses a Magnum revolver.”
“A signature weapon, particularly one like that, doesn't seem terribly smart for somebody playing the HVT game,” I commented, taking a deep drag on the cig.
J.D. wasn't listening, but was poring over the “sensitive” laptop, that we used for comms and such things as mission files. “Here it is!” he said excitedly. “I knew I remembered it.” He turned the screen so that we could see.
The picture was remarkably good quality for an HVT shot. It looked like a mugshot, except there was no prisoner number under the young man's face. His head had been shaved, and he had a couple of nasty scars, one across his forehead, another that looked like it had barely missed taking out his left eye. For all that, he still looked like a kid. Just a kid who'd seen some shit.
He was also pretty high up on the Organizations “Capture” list. Strangely enough, there didn't seem to be a “Kill” portion to it. Whatever Constantine Michael Valentine was wanted for, it had to have been something he was carrying around in his head. The Organization wasn't usually all that eager to go for “Capture Only.”
“Fuck me,” I muttered, taking another deep drag on the Black Russian and trying to let the nicotine keep the headache at bay. That was all we needed. Another snatch-and-grab on top of the time-sensitive one that had already gone south.
After a moment, staring at the kid's picture, I snorted. “Constantine Michael Valentine, huh?” I said. “Damn, his parents must have hated him. Well, it's lover-boy's lucky day. Because we're sure in no position to do anything about him.”
“We could send the sighting up the chain,” J.D. said.
“And then what?” I retorted. “You know damned good and well that as soon as Forsyth hears that there's another HVT here, he's going to task us with both. We're already down a man, and we were undermanned for the Anders mission to begin with. Fuck Valentine and fuck telling Forsyth about him. Let somebody else worry about that one. We've got enough on our plate. Now, can we get back to the mission at hand? This is twice we've clashed with what I can only assume are Anders' people, with no sign of the big bastard himself. This isn't that big a city. He's got to be somewhere.”
J.D. looked uncertain. Ivan just looked grim. But without any further complaint, we got back to planning. The clock was ticking, Forsyth was probably going to be calling about the dustup in Kerkicahan any minute now, and I was now fairly certain that Anders' people were actively hunting us.
We needed to hurry up and get this job over with before it killed the rest of us.
#
“Why am I getting impression that this is waste of time?” Ivan muttered.
I just grunted an irritated monosyllable that might or might not have been a word. I was driving, Ivan was riding shotgun, and we were following one of the 4x4s that had shot at us in Kerkicahan a couple days before.
“We have seen all of these brodyagi several times,” he continued. “Still no sign of Anders. He is not type to stay inside and hide when there is killing to be done.”
I had to agree. We had gotten to the point over the last couple of days where we could recognize most of the Russian shooters. And the man in charge was definitely not Anders. Short, stocky, scarred, with a shaved head, no appreciable neck, and a nose that looked like it had been broken at least a half-dozen times, the guy I was mentally thinking of as The Bulldog was pretty obviously the team leader for the shooters, most of whom were hanging out in paramilitary uniforms and kit, openly armed.
The reason they were getting away with being so blatant was pretty evident from what we were seeing. The 4x4 ahead slowed and stopped at an NKDA checkpoint, and the Russians got out leisurely. Two of them hung out by the vehicle, while the other two walked up to the ancient BTR-52 and started handing out cigarettes and shooting the shit with the Nagorno-Karabakh soldiers.
As I watched, I decided that this wasn't just the Russians trying to win over the locals. There was a certain camaraderie in evidence that wasn't explicable by the Russians paying the Armenians off to look the other way. These guys had seen action together.
Ivan was watching the byplay going on next to the old BTR as well. “Russian 'volunteers,'” he said. “Russians have been supporting Armenians here for decades. Naturally is corruption and mafiya involved. Probably some 'volunteers' also brodyagi. Makes sense that Anders paid brodyagi already here for fighting against Azeris.”
I had slowed and pulled over to the side of the road as the 4x4 had stopped at the checkpoint. I didn't want to drive into the middle of that, and even as we sat there, a block and a half away, watching, I was looking for an escape route. One of the difficulties of our situation was that we didn't have multiple teams with multiple vehicles to do our surveillance with. That meant that sooner or later, we were going to get burned, assuming we hadn't already. Ivan and I had carjacked a creaky, wheezing GAZ-24 to replace the UAZ that had gotten shot up, but the same vehicle with the same two mopes in it was going to start to stand out after a
while.
I was about to say something more about Anders' presence or lack thereof, when The Russian turned, looking around, and looked right at me. At least, he seemed to. He paused for a moment, puffing on his cigarette, looking at us.
“I think we might be burned,” I said.
“I think so, too,” Ivan replied. “Just play it cool.”
“Do I look like I'm panicking?” I asked, as I took my hands off the wheel to light another cigarette. Let The Russian think that I had just pulled over to light up. Plus, the initial cloud of smoke would help conceal my features.
Of course, of the few people who drove around here, most wouldn't actually stop to light up, but I was making do with what I had.
The Russian was still looking toward us as he leaned over to his buddy and said something. It was definitely time to go. I still kept it casual as I put the GAZ in gear and started us rolling, taking the first turn before the checkpoint.
The Russian and his cronies watched us the entire way.
“Fuuuuuuck,” I said, as I started on a long, meandering route back to the safe house. We'd been burned, all right. And for what? If Anders really wasn't there, we were about to get killed for a fucking red herring. Carlos already had been.
Neither of us spoke much on the way back. We managed to avoid most of the checkpoints, though at least one had been unavoidable. We'd been careful that all the weapons and gear were carefully hidden before driving up and handing the NKDA soldier our fake documents, which had been hastily turned out by the Organization. They were shit copies, and wouldn't stand up against any serious scrutiny, but the kid just looked bored and disinterested as he checked the documents, gave the inside of the car a cursory glance, and waved us by. He probably had some serious drinking and porn watching to do, and having to check vehicles was cutting into his “me” time.