“This looks so peaceful,” Beaudine said, opening her hand to catch the flakes. “Like a church.”
The clouds began to drop snow in earnest, large popcorn flakes. Ahead, on a low hill less than a half a mile up river, the roofline of Needle school came in and out of view. Quinn let off the throttle, slowing the boat and bringing the engine noise down to a quiet burble, barely staying ahead of the current.
“Khaki,” he said, wanting her full attention.
She glanced over her shoulder. Snowflakes covered her head and shoulders like feather down. There was something in her eyes he couldn’t quite make out. Not fear. This girl was fearless. It was a look of resignation. Quinn supposed it had been there all along. Life had simply been moving too fast for him to see it.
“This is going to be different than any raid you’ve ever been on,” he said. “You know that, right?”
“I do,” she said.
“I counted at least three in the plane when it overflew us at the fish camp,” he said. “But we don’t know how many there are or where they’ll be.”
Beaudine gave a somber nod.
Quinn continued. “I may have to do some things you’d normally arrest me for.”
A slow smile spread across her face. “I got your back, hon,” she said. “Us Texas girls can be bitches. But we’re bitches you want on your side in a fight.”
Quinn’s head snapped up at the flat crack of two rapid gunshots. Beaudine brought the rifle up toward the sound. Quinn began to count again. He passed the two-second mark before the double thumps of two successive reports reached his ears.
“Over six hundred meters away,” he said, scanning the bank up river through the myriad of flakes.
“Crack thump,” Beaudine hissed, obviously recognizing the distinctive sound of rounds coming downrange. “Are they shooting at us?”
“I don’t think so,” Quinn said. “The bullets sounded like they were going parallel to the river, up by the school. Our general direction, but if they knew we were here we’d probably not be having this conversation.”
The thunderous thump of another shot echoed through the still air, this one much louder and absent the preceding supersonic crack. Quinn knew it was just his imagination, but the abruptness of it seemed to shake loose more snow from above.
“Bigger gun,” Beaudine said.
“Yep.” Quinn kept the boat mid-river, taking it well past where he wanted to land before angling toward the bank and killing the engine.
Beaudine held the AR at low ready, glancing over her shoulder at Quinn. There was no sound but for the slap of water against the side of the boat. “This would be peaceful if I didn’t know they were out there.” Huge flakes fell around her in the gray silence of the river, clinging to her jacket. “I can’t help but feel like we’re trapped inside some big ol’ creepy snow globe with a bunch of killers.”
“You could look at it that way.” Quinn angled the skiff toward the steep gravel bank, well below the school. “But those killers are also trapped in here with us.”
Chapter 44
“Do not waste your shots,” Zolner said. Yakibov had seen the woman running toward the school first. She’d had a mobile phone to her ear, and the fool had thought to take her out with two snap shots from his Kalashnikov. He’d missed with both, but Zolner had taken care of her.
“There is not enough time to shoot everyone with a phone.” He let the reticle of his Valdada scope settle over the gray metal box, centering the laddered crosshairs over the thick electrical cables where they exited the housing. “Think strategically, my friend.”
The cell tower was a pitifully easy shot at a scant two hundred meters from where he stood. His shot cut the power line that fed the cellphone tower with a shower of sparks. The second would destroy the backup battery, rendering the tower nothing more than a hundred-and-fifty foot piece of useless sculpture.
Davydov cleared his throat after Zolner lowered the CheyTac — a signal that he wanted to speak but did not want to disturb his boss. The pilot had, no doubt, heard stories about what became of people who spoke while he was shooting.
Zolner breathed in the smoke that drifted up from the open bolt, savoring it like a drug. “What is it?”
“The plane,” Davydov said. “I can patch the fuel tanks but one of the bullets damaged the horizontal stabilizer. That will take me some time to fix.”
“Unfortunately,” Zolner said, “time is something I do not have.” He ordered Kravchuk to retrieve his pack from the airplane then began to walk briskly toward the ATV belonging to a man Yakibov had killed at the far end of the runway. Kravchuk and the others’ boots crunched in the gravel as they trotted along behind him, rifles up, watching for more gunmen as they came nearer to the village.
Zolner was cognizant of the danger, but didn’t let it worry him. In his experience people ran from the sound of gunfire, not toward it. He was careful and cunning, but he was also realistic and resigned himself to the sure knowledge that he would never hear the bullet that eventually killed him.
“These people are foolishly innocent,” he said as he walked. “They have taken our only clear path of escape.”
“How shall we deal with this, boss?” Kravchuk asked when they’d reached the nearest ATV. It was a red Honda, newer and still idling. The body of its former owner sagged to the side, one arm draped across a rifle that was wedged against the handlebars. A think trickle of blood ran down the other arm where it hung, fingers dragging against the snow.
“Check the other machine for fuel,” Zolner said, once Yakibov had pulled the dead rider to the ground and he could look at the gauges. “This is almost full but I must have some to spare.”
“We will go after them on the machines?” Kravchuk said.
“No,” Zolner said. “I will travel much faster alone.”
Davydov ran back from the other machine with a red plastic fuel tank. It was flat, held four gallons of extra gas, and fit perfectly on the rear rack of the Honda.
Zolner took a sling from his pack and attached it to his rifle. The CheyTac was big and heavy, not the sort of rifle that was carried with a sling, but this was a unique circumstance. He replaced the covers over his scope and threw the sling over a broad shoulder so the barrel was pointed upward.
“It is imperative that no one in this village be allowed to call out for help,” he said. “Their mobile phones will be of no use, but they are certain to have VHF radios with which they can communicate with passing aircraft.”
“It will be impossible to locate every radio in the village,” Davydov said.
Zolner cinched his pack down tight over the top of the plastic fuel canister, then glanced up at the pilot. “I only counted fourteen homes when we flew over this little shithole. Might I suggest it would be easier to deal with the handful of people here than to find all the radios.”
Each of the three men gave him a curt nod. If any of them were upset about being left behind, they had enough sense not to show it.
“Very well,” Zolner said, swinging a long leg over the four-wheeler. “But do not waste time. The men will be straggling back in from their hunts at any moment.”
“We’ll come for you once I repair the plane,” Davydov said.
“Fine,” Zolner said. “But the loose ends in the village are the priority. Help the others with that first. My gut tells me these agents of the FBI Ishogin told us about might still show up. Make certain they do not pose a problem for me.”
The men turned to go without another word, each, no doubt, going over the possibilities of being left alone in the middle of nowhere with a captive group of women and children. Zolner gunned the engine on the ATV, taking a shallow ditch off the gravel road and onto the rutted trail down which Volodin and the girl had escaped. He came upon their tracks half a minute later. They were clean and clear, crossing patches of melting snow and depressed berry bushes, easy to follow.