He told her to stay where she was and concentrate on keeping warm. “Don’t be alarmed if you hear some loud noises.”
She was not reassured when he opened his weapons cabinet to select what he would carry outside. He wasn’t happy, but he was ready. He was always ready.
A short-barreled, suppressed M-4 fitted with night sights and his M&K .45 with extra magazines would serve, he decided. He pulled on fur-lined boots and a camo cover-all, shooting gloves, and shoved a cap with ear flaps onto his head before heading for the back door of the cabin.
If the men followed the woman’s tracks they would not necessarily cover the rear of the cabin, and they had no idea who lived there. There was nothing in their experience that could have prepared them to meet the old man.
He slipped out the door and moved to the cover of the trees before circling to a position where he could observe the approach. Selecting a large oak tree, he settled behind the trunk to wait, his eye to the reticule of the night sight. Not as limber as he once had been, he realized he would be unable to move quickly once the shooting started — if there was to be shooting.
There were two of them, just as the girl had said. They struggled up the slope through the snow following the tracks with a powerful flashlight. When they spotted the cabin both dropped to their knees and watched. There could be no doubt in their minds that this was the girl’s destination.
Their manner suggested that these were experienced fighters, and after studying the cabin for several minutes they did what experienced fighters would do. They split up, one covering the back while the other cautiously made his way toward the front door. Whether the route the first man took would bring him across the old man’s tracks was a crap shoot. He was approaching from a different direction than the old man had taken, and it was likely he would establish a position some distance from the house to guarantee a wide field of fire. The old man watched until he was out of sight. He automatically catalogued possible solutions to taking out the second man. Stalking a trained mountain fighter in the dark in the woods was a formidable task. Deception might be the better option.
The first man was now within a few steps of the front door moving stealthily. He held his weapon, the ubiquitous AK-47, at the ready. The Chechens were planning a down and dirty home invasion. Smash the front door, and if anyone tried to escape out the rear, the second guy would take them out. Simple.
The old man cherished his front door.
The Chechen mounted the front steps, his rifle at the ready. From inside Sadie’s furious barking was audible. The Chechen raised his leg to kick the door in.
His leg never completed the action. The old man’s hands did not tremble. His breathing was calm, his aim was true, his trigger pull smooth, born of a life-time of experience. A .223 round from the M-4 penetrated the Chechen’s skull and rattled around inside his brain pan, turning the contents to mush. The man dropped instantly, his AK dropping silently from dead hands into the snow.
The question now was whether the second man would become curious enough about the lack of action that he would come to the front of the house to check on his companion. That would suit the old man, and the sooner the better. His knees were on fire from holding the cramped position behind the trunk of the oak.
The M-4’s suppressor reduced the volume of its report to a sharp cough. The sound nonetheless would carry in the stillness of the forest, hopefully to be absorbed somewhat by the fallen snow. The old man decided not to move. He was not sure his knees would permit it in any case. He would wait it out. If the second man entered the house from the rear and found the girl, so be it. The Chechen would be faced with the decision of whether to kill her or try to return her to the turkey farm. Either eventuality was controllable. It was cold-blooded, but it was his only choice.
He cursed the girl for finding her way to his door.
The killing had only just begun. He waited as he scanned his field of fire through the night sight.
In the past adrenalin would be surging through his veins, energizing his body, bringing increased acuity to his vision and thought processes. The old man found it curious that on this occasion he experienced none of these things — only the cold and the desire to get it over with, one way or another. Had he become so jaded that killing no longer elicited the same responses? He was about as excited as a carpenter preparing to drive another nail. This was dangerous. What was the old adage among spies? When you no longer feel fear or trepidation going into a clandestine operation, it’s time to quit. There was no such thing as luck.
He got lucky.
The second man appeared around the side of the cabin, moving stealthily, rifle at the ready. When he saw his companion sprawled on the front stoop, he flattened himself to the ground and began to back pedal into the deeper shadow. The old man’s first shot caught him in the shoulder, driving down through his clavicle, and he screamed in pain and rage. With his good arm he pointed his weapon toward the woods and sprayed bullets through the trees on full auto, shattering the night with the AK’s distinctive chatter.
It’s hard to control a weapon like the AK with one hand. The shots will march skyward with each recoil. The old man was not worried. He knew the man was firing blind. There was plenty of time to aim and fire a second time with the M-4. The bullet found his mark and scrambled a second Chechen brain to jelly.
And still he did not move. There could be another one out there somewhere in the woods, waiting for his chance.
But after twenty minutes his aching body no longer could tolerate the cramped position. When he tried to stand he found that his knees were locked, and he had to grasp the tree trunk with both hands to pull himself painfully to a standing position. Long ago, someone had told him that age would catch up, that it was time to retire and enjoy life. Well, damn it, he had retired, and just see what it had brought him now.
He slogged toward the cabin with short, old man steps, struggling against the snow until his joints warmed and locomotion became easier. The Lab was still barking and apparently doing his best to tear the door down from inside, and the old man spoke a few words to calm him. He rolled the Chechen’s body down the steps from the stoop, cursing his diminished strength.
He found the girl huddled in the bathroom, her features distorted by fear and panic. She’d grabbed a kitchen knife which she held before her defensively, and it took her a moment to realize that he was not one of her pursuers. When she at last recognized him, she breathed “Slava Bogu” over and over as she grasped the old man around his aching knees.
He led her back to the living room and instructed her not to move. He had to go back outside for a while, but would be back shortly. The dog jumped onto the couch and settled herself against the visitor.
The first task was to hide the bodies. Fortunately, the snow made it easier to drag them behind the garage and heap some snow over them. The weather being what it was, the cadavers would freeze in short order.
Before covering them, he searched the Chechens but found no documents or other items that would identify them.
He thought they were safe for now. The girl assured him that no one other than the two dead men had been at the turkey farm.
After she had calmed down sufficiently, she was able to tell him her story. It had been a long time since he had heard anything that surprised him when it came to human depravity, but he needed a long drink when she finished.
He hoped the telephone lines were not down. He knew exactly who to call.