The SUV kept hurtling back toward the far end of the yard, dragging the bratok along the ground until the driver executed a wild 180-degree turn that jettisoned the poor bastard’s body from the vehicle entirely and sent it rolling along the ground. I saw it recede from view, then saw its brake lights flare up as the Russians encountered fire from the SWAT guys who’d been covering that side of the perimeter. White lights took their place as the SUV screamed backward, pulled another 180, and then barreled straight back toward me.
The guy riding shotgun had his window down and was indiscriminately sweeping arcs of automatic fire in the direction of the office hut and the gate-my direction. As I ducked for cover, I glimpsed what must have been a sniper’s round punch through the windshield and take out the passenger, but from what I could see, the sniper had no angle on the driver, nor did anyone else.
We needed to grab one of these dirtbags alive. And so far, three of them were toast.
Which is why I stepped right into the path of the SUV.
JONNY’S EYES HADN’T LEFT the bearded Russian for a second. And as he saw him make his move on Sokolov, he muttered one solitary word into the tiny, LED-free Bluetooth headset that was squatting under his mop of hair.
“Go.”
An instant later, he saw the shaved-headed man pull out a weapon and take aim-then a shot ripped through the night and the man’s head just exploded like it had no skull in it, like it was nothing more than a blood-and-brain-matter-filled balloon that had just been pricked, just as some kind of round blew out of his weapon and exploded against a container to Jonny’s left.
Jonny pushed Daphne’s head down as debris rained around them. He looked out and caught a glimpse of the shooter, who had slumped to the ground as more shots echoed across the yard.
“Quickly,” he told Daphne as he hustled her into the van, “and put one of these on,” he added, pointing at the ear protectors.
KOSCHEY SWUNG AROUND JUST as the shooter next to him collapsed to the ground, the back half of his head missing. His eyes raked the landscape across the clearing from him as he yanked the gun out of his belt and spun Sokolov so he was in front of him, facing the van and shielding him from where the bullet had come from.
“Ukryvat’sya. Sna˘iper,” he barked at the surviving bratok. Take cover. Sniper.
More bullets rained down around him, punching holes into the Escalade’s front wing and grille before shredding one of its tires. The bratok responded with several bursts from his MP-5, pummeling the area facing them with bullets.
Sokolov screamed, “No! Daphne!”
“What, you brought an army with you, you sooka?” Koschey rasped at Sokolov in Russian. “Well, let’s just see how good they are, shall we?”
He shoved Sokolov closer to the car, then with one hand tight around Sokolov’s neck, he reached in and pulled out another MP-5 machine pistol. Then he yelled out, “My dolzhny ikh avtomobil’, speshite ikh”-We need their car, rush them-to the heavy on the other side of the crippled Escalade.
And using Sokolov as a human shield, he started to advance toward the van, firing at Daphne and Jonny while scanning the surroundings for the sniper’s likely position.
JONNY WAS PUSHING DAPHNE into the van when a few rounds raked the windshield, punching spiderwebbed holes through it and blowing the headrest into smithereens inches from her head.
Daphne screamed out and Jonny pulled her right back as he pivoted his head and raised his gun.
The sight sent a bolt of terror through him. The Russians were advancing across the empty lot toward them, with the one on the left, the bearded man, pushing Sokolov in front of him.
“What are you doing?” he rasped into his headset. “Take them out.”
Three shots snapped out from his right, and he saw the Russian heavy drop to the ground. But the other one was still coming, moving fast and unloading his weapon their way, shielded by Sokolov.
Jonny pushed Daphne into the van and clambered in behind her. Another round punched through the windshield as he struggled to get into the driver’s seat. In the manic frenzy of the moment, he lost sight of the ear protectors, and just then, his only thought was to get them both the hell out of there.
“Stay down,” he told her, breathless, aiming his gun out the window at the approaching Russians but not daring to fire so as not to hit Sokolov.
“What about Leo?” Daphne protested. “We can’t leave him.”
“We don’t have a choice. They’ll kill us. They’ll kill us all,” he blurted back as the engine groaned to life.
“If you can’t get the shot, pull out,” he yelled into his headset as he swung his gaze up to the top of the oil tank. He knew that his buddy Jachin, up in his vantage point, was having trouble getting a clear shot at the Russian. He also knew that if he pulled out of there, he’d be abandoning Jachin, leaving him to fend off the Russian who was still moving in, unimpeded, firing away, like a cybernetic creature from a sci-fi movie with only one directive.
He had no choice. Sokolov had been clear.
You do whatever you have to do to keep her safe.
He threw the van into reverse and hit the gas.
THE BIG SUV WAS screaming straight at me.
I anchored my feet, took aim, and emptied a clip into the front wheel well before throwing myself to the ground and rolling out of its way.
I must have shredded the tire because the car veered off its path and rammed the securing stanchion of one of the huge cranes. I watched as it flipped up onto two wheels before slamming into the base of a second crane. There was no fireball, just the smell of cordite and burnt rubber and that strange, intangible heaviness to the air that only death can bring.
The echoes quickly died away and everything fell silent.
I saw a couple of SWAT guys moving toward the crashed Escalade, their guns leveled at what was left of it. I stood up and brushed myself off, then set off to join them. They reached it before I did, and a moment later, one of them turned to me and said, “He’s alive.”
I nodded, then looked across the yard. Kubert was still on the ground but sitting up, one hand pulling on his belt, which Kanigher had already tightened just above his knee. Other SWAT guys were at the body of the shooter Kanigher had taken down. The guy didn’t look like he was getting up again. Neither did the mangled body of the bratki who’d been dragged a hundred yards by the big car. His limbs were sticking out of his torso like someone had given up halfway through drawing a spider.
Aparo was walking toward me shaking his head. I was going to get yet another lecture on the dangers of my impulsive nature.
Didn’t matter. My mind was elsewhere.
It was with Leo Sokolov and his wife, wondering where they were at this moment and what was happening to them.
It was also with the bastard who was pulling the strings with such ease that we had no idea who he was, what he wanted, or what his next move would be.
KOSCHEY PUSHED SOKOLOV HARDER as he saw the van pulling away, but he knew it was a losing gambit. He had a sniper to deal with and couldn’t waste bullets on trying to disable the van. Besides, he had what he had come for. Sokolov wasn’t going anywhere.
With the science teacher still in front of him and shielding him from the sniper, Koschey took cover behind a stack of containers and caught his breath. He was in the shade, away from any light. It would make the sniper’s job harder, unless the shooter had a night-vision scope. He pushed Sokolov to the ground, gave him a stern, warning finger wag, then threw himself down into a crawl position himself. He set down the MP-5 and pulled out his handgun. He snapped in a round, then gave himself no more than two seconds to steady his mind before rolling out into the open, the gun locked in a two-handed grip.