Bezhmel finally managed to get the door open and tumble to the road as the fire died down. But the first thing he saw was one of the shooters from the back seat sprawled on the road, his legs still in the backseat of the SUV.
There was only one of the former Spetznaz left alive, and he was clutching at one arm where a bullet had passed through the meat of the bicep.
“Move,” Bezhmel said, waving him forward and plucking the AK from the hands of the dead fighter sprawled out the door. “I’ll cover you.”
“Right,” the Russian grunted, hefting his SK-74. “I thought we were after a girl. Who are these guys?”
“I don’t know,” Bezhmel said, shrugging. “Probably the Keldara.”
“Fucking Georgians,” the former Spetznaz said, spitting and lifting up to stride forward. “Time for them to—”
Bezhmel was never to be sure what the former soldier thought it was time for. He had been watching the back seat but as the fighter lifted up Yarok saw a flash of movement through the back window and there was a tremendous report, as if someone had snuck along a .50 caliber sniper rifle.
The former Spetznaz trooper had just lifted up, also watching the back seat, and was tossed backwards as if pulled by a wire. He hit on his back and slumped to the side, revealing a fist-sized exit wound from a round through the upper chest.
“Holy Fuck,” Bezhmel shouted, aware that one, he was now entirely alone in this fight and, two, there was one big fucking gun on the other side.
One down, at least one to go.
Calthrop had never been in a gunfight. He’d been in one barroom brawl that he got out of as quickly as possible, and once had a mugger threaten him with a knife. But this was the first time he’d been in a gun battle and he wasn’t sure of the rules. Well, the one thing he was sure of was that there were no rules.
But he’d watched quite a bit of the telly and movies. Actually, he blamed this whole thing on an addiction to James Bond movies, especially the early ones with Sean Connery. And while most of what he’d picked up from those, and other movies, was surely bogus, there was one trick he’d seen that might save his ass.
So he got down on his stomach, mentally working up the expense report for his clothes, and scanned under the car for targets.
There was one man apparently still standing on the other side. Calthrop could just see a knee past the left front tire of the Rover. He sighted on it carefully, pulled back the heavy hammer of the beastly weapon and pulled back on the trigger.
“Bolgemoi!” Bezhmel shouted at the tire by his side exploded. Something hit him heavily on the hip, throwing him to the ground, but by the same token the Rover settled nearly to the ground, giving him more cover.
The round, however, was quickly followed by three more, each of which punched through not only the far doors but both sides of the Rover, sending spalling and ricochets off into the night.
“Fuck this,” Bezhmel muttered, crawling to the dead fighter in the door. He patted at pockets until he came up with what he was looking for.
“Take this you goat-fucker,” he muttered, pulling the pin on the grenade and tossing it as hard as he could in the direction of the fire.
Calthrop leaned against the tire and opened up the cylinder of the revolver, pushing out the spent rounds and quickly thumbing more in. Reload whenever possible. That bit was coming back from very distant classes in tactics.
As he closed the cylinder he heard a thump in the darkness beyond and looked carefully. When he saw the rolling sphere he remembered the other injunction that had been right up there with “reload.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, trying to get to the other side of the wheel as fast as possible. “I was supposed to move.”
On top of the crack of the grenade was a scream and at that Bezhmel leapt to his feet, running around the side of the Rover and sprinting towards the Mercedes while firing a stream of bullets from the AK held at his hip.
When he rounded the Mercedes he found that he needn’t have bothered. By the front tire was a sprawled body, a very large handgun not far from his outflung hand. In the backseat was another body, face down, one hand still on an SPR, the other slumped down into a floorboard awash in blood.
However, there were no women. Just the two dead men.
“Where oh where have my little lambs gone,” Bezhmel whispered, setting the empty AK up against the side of the truck and drawing a Sig Sauer from his shoulder holster. “Oh, where oh where can they be?”
Chapter Forty-Six
“Hurry,” Katya said, pushing the girl ahead of her down the twisting goat path. She’d heard one explosion and one more burst of firing and now all was quiet. She took that for a bad sign.
“I can barely walk,” Natalya said, sobbing. “My feet are bloody.”
“Your whole body will be bloody if you don’t run,” Katya whispered fiercely. She’d ordered the girl to take off her high-heeled shoes; they would be impossible on the narrow, steep, trails. But the ridge they were on was covered in rocks that had torn the feet of both of them to ribbons.
“Katya,” Lydia said, calmly. “Situation report. It looks like Mikhail and the MI-6 man have both been taken down. The good news, such as it is, is that only one of the Russians is still alive. He’s looking for you, but isn’t directly on your track yet.”
“How long until…” Katya panted, wincing as the rocks cut further into her abused feet. It was like the time that one pimp bastard had whipped her on her soles. But she was doing it to herself, which almost made up for it.
“At least seven more minutes,” Lydia said. “I’ve made it clear that you’re badly in need of support.”
“Tell them to hurry,” Katya replied.
“I have,” Lydia said. “Let me remind you, the mission is to recover the primary.”
“Yeah, I know,” Katya snapped. “But I can’t get my money if I’m dead.”
They’d reached the second level below the switchback that the firefight occurred on and Katya stopped, winded, when they did. Natalya slumped to the ground, clearly willing to die rather than run anymore.
“This is no good,” she muttered, looking up the hill.
“Katya,” Lydia said. “He’s found something. He’s headed down the trail. The Americans say that he’s following you, somehow.”
“Tell them it’s probably the blood from our feet!” Katya whispered fiercely. Looking up the hill she could see the flashlight, clearly. “We can’t run anymore!”
“Then I suggest you figure something out,” Lydia said with maddening calm.
“Easy for you to say,” Katya said, looking around. There was a culvert, but since they were both trailing blood…
“Natalya,” Katya snapped. “Get down on your hands and knees.”
“Yes,” the girl said in total resignation, doing as she was told. “I will die now.”