Chapter Four

  He mustn't lose. He was gambling everything on a final throw of the dice. He walked forward, ignoring the pain in his side, ignoring the sheets of bullets that whistled past him to disappear into the forest. Some embedded themselves into the trunks of trees. Another gun opened fire, a handgun, and more bullets spat chunks of snow from the ground a couple of yards in front of him. The bullet-strikes were nearer as the shooter tracked into him. He sidestepped and squeezed the trigger again. The Bizon spewed out a storm of bullets, and this time the Russian went down, his body ripped apart by the burst.

  Cris sidestepped away again and zigzagged his way through the trees, searching for the sole remaining hostile. He became suspicious after the first few seconds. The guy wasn't there, wasn't where he should have been. Then he saw movement a few yards to his left. He was clever, and he’d also come forward, but at a tangent, intending to ambush him. The man fired, another gunshot tore into his flesh, and ripped a slice of skin from his neck.

  He ignored it, ignored the blood trickling down into his clothing, and kept moving. Until ten yards before him, he saw the Russian again. With no idea how many bullets he had remaining in the Bizon magazine, he squeezed the trigger and kept it held down. The first bullets missed, and the man attempted to shoot back. But the storm of bullets from the Bizon bracketed him. Several slugs ripped into his belly, and with a scream of agony he fell. Cris ran forward and knelt beside him. His eyes were wide with shock, and part of his entrails had uncoiled from the huge gash the bullets had torn in his belly.

  "The dacha, is she still there?"

  "Please, I need a hospital."

  "Tell me where it is. Then I'll help you."

  He resisted for two minutes, his face greasy with sweat and terror. Already the light was fading from his eyes when he confirmed they’d taken her there. Seconds later, the man died. He climbed to his feet, reloaded the Bizon with his sole remaining magazine, and raced back to the road. Found the vehicles, climbed into the Mercedes, and started the engine. He put the reloaded Bizon on the passenger seat. There’d be more men on the way, and he had to be ready. Then he headed toward the dacha.

  He couldn’t shake a single thought.

  Will she still be alive?

  He dismissed it from his mind; there was nothing he could do until he got there. He estimated he was about five miles away from the dacha when they caught up with him. The headlights came up fast behind him. At first, he assumed it was just another traveler on the same road. Until the SUV came so close the headlamps blinded him. He’d assumed he had more time before the reinforcements caught up, and he’d been wrong. The fender of the heavy SUV smashed into the rear of the Mercedes, and he almost lost control.

  He'd no idea how many men were in the car. All he knew was he had to deal with them; no matter what it took. Handle a gun while he was driving, and work out a strategy to put them into a position where he could get in a shot. Time was short, Maria was facing death, and when he looked down, blood was leaking onto the seat and the carpet from his wounds. No time to put on any dressings, no time to spare for anything, although the loss of blood had begun to make him feel faint. He needed to keep moving. Every second would count, the difference between life and death.

  He checked the distance that remained to travel, and it was down to seven miles. Another rending crash on the rear of the Mercedes, and he gripped the wheel hard, fighting to regain control as the heavy German vehicle almost left the track. The pursuing headlights lit up the road and came alongside him, and then the vehicle was coming past. A Porsche Cayenne, powerful and heavy. Through the window he saw the gun barrels poking out toward him.

  Like an old-fashioned broadside, they were about to rake him with gunfire, and he picked the machine gun off the seat, pointed it at the place where the driver of the Porsche would be, and squeezed the trigger. His sole remaining magazines, an entire sixty-four rounds, and he held the trigger down until it clicked on empty. The hurricane of bullets tore into the Porsche, shredding everything in its path.

  At least some of the bullets must have hit the driver, for the vehicle suddenly swerved, the wheels locked hard to the left, and it slid on a patch of snow. Skidded forward for several yards, and then tumbled over and over. It wasn't the end. Something flammable inside caused flames to lick out, and then a huge explosion tore the SUV apart. He was already heading away, speculating they must have had a hand grenade about to lob at his Mercedes.

  That backfired on you, shitheads. That'll teach you not to play games with military ordnance.

  He drove for another two miles. Three miles left to go, and with a groan, the rear of the Mercedes collapsed. The damage from the collision had broken a suspension leg, and the wheel arch was scraping on the tire. He continued to fight the wheel, but this time there was no going back. The car had taken too much damage, and all it would do was drive around in wide circles, with the rear wheel almost locked against the wheel arch. He abandoned the vehicle at the side of the road, grabbed his weapons, and ran.

  Three miles left to go, and every footstep he took was agonizing. He began to feel lightheaded and very thirsty. Knowing he must do something about the blood loss, he had no choice but to halt for a few minutes. He ripped off his shirt, tore into strips, and fastened it as best he could around his neck and side. The leg wound had congealed, and he figured it wouldn't give him too much trouble, but he still had the thirst.

  With no water, he scooped up clumps of snow and sucked them in greedily, swallowing them to taking the moisture. It satisfied some of his thirst, but he'd lost almost ten minutes. He began to jog again, and the tiredness from loss of blood was like a lead weight holding him back. He was weak, too weak, and yet it had a positive side. The agony ripped through him in waves. But he was certain without it he'd have flopped over in the snow and fallen unconscious.

  At last, when he was on the point of collapse, the dacha came into sight, a clearing in the trees, and a long driveway to the wooden building about fifty yards from the road. He sidestepped into the trees and stayed out of sight. The guard standing at the gate was smoking a cigarette, and unlikely to see very much coming. He had on a thick, padded coat with the hood pulled over his head, and he wasn't even bothering to look either side. Doubtless considered it wasn't worth it, no one would come to this place in the back of beyond, and he would be thinking about getting into the warm, with some hot food and vodka inside his belly.

  He wasn't about to put anything in his belly ever again. Cris gripped the PSM, maneuvered himself close behind him, and put a single bullet into his head. He had to chance the noise of the shot. Balancing the risk against the greater risk of knocking the man unconscious, and leaving him to recover and come in behind him while he was trying to free Maria. He dragged the body behind the fence, and started walking along the drive toward the dacha. Still, his mind still tortured him with the same questions.

  Is she in there? Is she still alive?

  He crept forward, watching for any more guards, but he saw none. Several cars were parked in front of the dacha. One was a Porsche Cayenne, like the vehicle he'd left burning a few miles back. Parked nearby was an Italian-built Lamborghini Espada. A testament to the Russian predilection for exotic machinery, paid for with their ill-gotten gains from a variety of criminal activities and official corruption. The low-slung, classic Italian supercar was finished in the iconic bright factory yellow. Not the best car to drive on snow-covered roads, although on a clear road, it would fly. At least, it would feel like flying. He surveyed the dacha. Lights were on inside the wooden building, and he crept around back.

  No one was guarding the door, and he tried the handle. It turned. They’d left it unlocked. He stepped inside a dark lobby and walked along slowly, careful not to make any noise. The door opened almost next to him, a man stepped out, saw him, and his mouth dropped open to shout a warning. Cris slammed the barrel of the Grach into his neck. A blow so hard it choked off the cry of alarm before he could make it.

  He dropped to one knee, gasping and choking. He hit him again with a blow so hard he thought he’d almost killed him. He slumped unconscious, and Rhodes knelt to listen to his breathing. Still alive, but he'd be out for some enough time to do what he had to do. He kept moving, further into the wooden building. Outside, the wind had picked up, and the creaking of the ancient timbers masked the tiny sounds he made. Went through into the kitchen, and it was empty. He worked out he looked through a tiny serving hatch, and the rest of the first floor consisted of a single, huge room. Men were inside, talking to each other in loud, drunken voices. The low table was littered with vodka bottles and half empty glasses.

  He drew back quickly, just as someone said something that made them all laugh uproariously, and they looked around the room. Six men were in there, and he carried two pistols to deal with them. Not enough, but it would have to suffice. He returned to the hallway, reached the door, pushed it open, and stepped inside. Someone was saying something in Russian, and it sounded like he was telling a joke. But the words came to a stop, and there was just a charged silence. They stared at him, unafraid, as he pointed the guns at them. Pavel Stolypin, the boss, the man he'd seen at the Red Square Club, was the first to break the silence. He sounded confident, almost jovial.

  “I wondered if you'd get here. You’re a resourceful man, Mr. Rhodes, but you should have gone home. Now you will never leave Russia alive." He ignored the guns pointed at him.

  "Where is she?"

  "Maria Tereshkova?" He raised his eyes to the ceiling, "Upstairs, waiting for one of my men to go up there and screw her." He grinned. "We decided to take advantage of that luscious body before we kill her. Why would we waste such a fine-looking woman? Put down the gun, Mr. Rhodes."

  "Take me to her."

  "I don't think so."

  He nodded at a man standing behind Cris. He hadn’t seen him. Something hard and heavy crashed into his head, and everything went black. When he came to, they were dragging him out through the back door of the house. They put him into a tiny room, but it was less than a room, more of a pit, a hole in the ground that no doubt would once have been used to store food. When the place was first built, refrigerators were yet to be invented. The pit was six feet deep, and six feet on each side, the walls lined with thick, split-pine logs.

  The roof was a heavy, double trapdoor, and they threw him down to the frozen earth floor and dragged the ladder up. The trapdoor swung shout, and he was alone in the darkness. They'd taken his guns and searched him thoroughly at the same time. He had nothing, no weapons, and no means of going on. They’d put him down there ready for his coming death. He sat on the frozen earth and waited. After about an hour, the trapdoor opened, and Stolypin was staring down at him.

  "What happened to my men, the ones who came after you?"

  "They won't be bothering anyone ever again."

  He nodded. "I thought not. As I said, you are a very resourceful man, Mr. Rhodes. A pity you have to die, I could use men like you in my organization." He chuckled, "Except you are an American, and what Russian would ever trust an American? I wanted you to know I've decided to kill you today. The girl as well, she is proving to be more trouble than she's worth. Would you believe she tried to kill herself by using the metal edge of her handcuffs to cut open her wrists?"

  “Yes, I would. I’d say that was better than the alternative.”

  I’d believe anything of her. She's the most resourceful lady I've ever known. And the girl I fell in love with. At least they'll kill us together, so I won't have to live with my failure.

  He frowned. "Whatever, but a pity. My men have taken her to the place of her execution. You may be interested to know the location, a frozen lake outside Borodino. I will dispose of you both together.” A wintry smile, “More efficient that way. The place is very remote, useful for ridding oneself of those who have made themselves a nuisance. Break a hole in the ice, throw them in, and they are gone forever. The ice rarely melts, and even when it does, if you weight the body sufficiently well, they never float to the surface."

  "Fuck you," he snarled.

  There was no way out, but he wouldn't give the motherfucker the satisfaction of knowing he was about to show fear. His work with DEA had entailed frequent brushes with death during several hairy operations, and since he'd met Maria, he'd had more close shaves. All in all, he'd had a good run, and at least he could die knowing he'd done these Russian bastards some damage.

  Stolypin shrugged off the insult. "I see you are a brave man, such a pity. Before my men take you to Borodino to die, I've decided to give you one last meal. Call me sentimental," he laughed, a loud, grating noise, "My men say I’m soft, but when possible, I like to observe the niceties of death. Do you have any last requests, anything you'd like to eat before you die?"

  "Your heart, followed by your liver."

  Another grating chuckle, "Yes, I'd expect nothing yet less. Cabbage soup and boiled potatoes is all you’ll get, I'm afraid. Good, Russian peasant fare. Enjoy it while you can. Goodbye, Mr. Rhodes."

  The hatch slammed shut, and he waited again in the darkness, conserving his energy, resting and checking the rough bandages on his wounds. When they'd opened the hatch, some snow had blown in and formed small pile on one corner of the floor, and he scooped it up to take in more moisture. The end was about to come, and all that remained was the faint hope of a miracle. For one of them to drop their guard, and he’d take advantage of even the tiniest break. But when it happened, he had to be ready for it. He finished gulping down every last grain of snow and sat back on the floor. Collected his thoughts, rested, waited, and prepared. Just in case he found a tiny chink in their defenses.

  After about a half-hour, the hatch opened again, and a man peered down at him. The rank smell of boiled cabbage assaulted his nostrils. Cris didn't look up. He was lying on the floor; face down, arms and legs outstretched, freezing cold and close to getting frostbite. Not that frostbite would be a problem if they dumped him in the lake. But he’d prepared the best way he could, hoping for the slightest chance to fight.

  "Get up, American. This is the condemned man’s last meal." He laughed, "If you don't get up and take it, I’ll toss it onto the floor. You can die hungry."

  He didn't move and stayed immobile. Waited, and the guard raved and shouted more insults. Then he heard the thump and scrape as the ladder dropped to the floor next to where he lay. The wood creaked as the man started down, but he was wary. When he reached the last rung of the ladder, he stepped away from Cris, who knew there'd be a gun pointing at him.

  "Get up. Get up and eat your meal.”

  The stench of cabbage was even worse, and he almost retched, but managed to stay still. After a few moments, the man came nearer, and a heavy boot slammed into his side. The side where he'd taken a bullet, and the pain was like bolts of lightning shooting through him. He remained still, using every ounce of his willpower not to cry out. At last the man came closer. He felt a hand reach down and grab his shoulder.

  The left hand, and the right would be holding a gun pointed at his head. His left arm flashed up, and his hand gripped the wrist. He pulled, and at the same time, rolled toward the Russian, colliding with his legs. The man cursed, and they were sprawling on the floor. The man could have shouted, fired a warning shot, but he'd assumed he was dealing with a prisoner who was weak to the point of death. He tried to wrestle, and Cris had learned unarmed combat from the best during his service with the DEA special operations squad.

  The priority was to get that gun, and he rolled on his back for a split-second, and then kept rolling. The hand that held the pistol had moved to the side, and back towards him. With an enormous effort of will, he jack-knifed his right leg up and collided with the wrist. The man dropped his gun, a Makarov 9mm, shouting more curses; but now the fight was more even. Cris reached for his neck, found it, formed a fist, and slammed it into the larynx.

  The blow used every ounce of strength he possessed, and the man was choking and gasping for air. They rolled again, and he came off the floor hammering at his belly. The Russian's hands didn't know which way to go. Whether to favor the awful pain in his throat, or stop the fist pounding into his belly. He made a decision and moved his hands down to grab for Cris' arms. He'd been waiting for it, and he switched tactics. Hammered a hard punch into his chest over the heart, the pain would have been awful.

  The Russian knew he was losing, knew he was dying, and he fought with a savage fury. He was a big man and tried to use his weight to his advantage. Reached out with his hands again and grabbed a handful of Rhodes’ clothes, followed up with a punch to the kidneys. Just below the wound, and once again the spears of agony knifed through him, but he kept fighting. Brought a knee up into the man's groin, and his eyes widened and the face went white. Cris threw him off him with a huge effort. Dove to the ground, scooped up the gun, and pointed it at his head.

  "You make a sound and you're a dead man. You understand me?"

  "Da, I understand."

  "That's good. How many people are up there?"

  “Just one. The rest have gone to the lake."

  "He left you and another man to bring me along, is that right?"

  "Is right, yes."

  “What about Maria Tereshkova?"

  “They took her. She is gone."

  "Alive or dead?"

  "Alive. You do not understand the way it works, American. When they put weights on your body and throw it beneath the ice, you will still be alive. Why waste a bullet, when a person is dead anyway?"

  He imagined the horrifying, slow and choking death beneath the surface of the icy lake. No escape, just a cold descent, and then to remain entombed forever beneath the water and the thick layer of ice on the surface. His anger surged, and he slammed the butt of the pistol over the man's head. He was still semi-conscious, and Cris hit him again to make sure he was out. Then he climbed up the ladder. It was daylight, and he swept his eyes over the area, looking for the other man, but saw nothing. He closed the hatch and slid the bolts across. Then he went into the dacha.