Rick's voice chimed in feebly. "Then we stop and pick you guys up and head for the dacha? That the master plan?"
The silence from the other three slapped him in the face. It was Ryan who put it into words.
"No, Rick. If you get through, you keep going. We'll try and give you a good head on them. That way, there's a chance — just a chance — that you and Jak could make it. We'll try and follow you when we can. But you don't stop. Jak knows that. If we make it, we'll make it. Watch for us."
"You play mean pool, Ryan," the freezie said, pulling his head back inside.
"First shot, Jak, you lay the metal flat. Aim for the middle and keep your head down. See you later." Ryan and J.B. slipped away into the streaming darkness.
The pounding rain drowned out any possibility of the sec men hearing the cautious approach of the two men. Conversely it meant that they might not hear any sec men moving their way.
Ryan took the lead, his reloaded SIG-Sauer drawn and ready. Water streamed down his face, seeping behind the patch covering his left eye and flooding the socket. His coat was sodden and heavy, trailing around his knees.
J.B. trudged along at his heels, head down, cursing the rain for covering his glasses, making it hard for him to see where he was going.
Ryan picked a route that took them around the rear of the nearest house, then along an alley that paralleled the road. When he judged they were close to the sec block, he cut through into the overgrown, dank front garden.
"There," he said.
"Rad-blast this dark-dusted weather! Couldn't see a stickie at five paces! Wait, Ryan. Gotta clean my glasses or we're chilled meat."
The battered and much-traveled fedora that J.B. always wore had reappeared from under the furs that he'd been wearing, and now clung to his head like a wet sponge.
Ryan waited, peering out through the dripping yew bushes that stood between them and the group of sec men.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Sure. Now that I've cleaned my glasses, we'd better start shooting fast before I go blind again."
A vivid claw of purple lightning tore the sky apart a mile or so to the north of them, followed by a stunning peal of thunder, the sound rolling on and on. Ryan chewed at his lip, realizing that an electrical storm would make it difficult for Jak to see when they started blasting.
But the single flash wasn't repeated, though the rain pelted them with a redoubled ferocity. The air seemed full of water, and Ryan had the illusion that if he tipped his head back he might drown.
Both men were soaked through to the skin, and cold water had trickled down their legs to fill their boots. Ryan had read some books about old-time battles, when they had flintlocks and matchlocks. Rain like this could wash out two entire armies. Despite the streaming weather, he had every confidence that his blaster wouldn't let him down.
A wooden gate, hanging by a single rusted hinge, opened onto the leaf-covered, rain-slick sidewalk. The lights of the wags used to form the roadblock glittered through the spangling rain, and they could see the sec men now, all wearing bright yellow oilskins. Somehow the slickers made them less menacing, more human.
Ryan shook his head to try to clear his hair from his eye, then glanced at J.B. to check that his friend was ready to start the party.
J.B. nodded his agreement. And the shooting began.
Zimyanin spit on the ground near one of the corpses. The rain had washed away the blood that had gushed from their slit throats, leaving the wounds like bulging white mouths in the bleached skin.
"Too late," he muttered, fighting to maintain his calm in front of nearly a hundred sec men, several of whom were senior officers.
"They took a wag," his corporal informed him.
"Ah, I hadn't considered that possibility," he replied with a ferocious quiet. "I had believed that the American eagle had flown in from Newyork and picked them up in its beak."
Nobody else offered the major-commissar any helpful suggestions.
Aliev stood waiting, panting slightly from his exertions, waiting for further orders. Normally he would have been able to follow the wag without any difficulty. But the cloudburst had washed away the tire tracks and swilled the air free of any scent. It was a cruel blow.
"A stolen truck can't be that difficult to trace," Zimyanin said. "Contact every roadblock we have out and tell them to watch out for..." The Captain Third Class who he was speaking to suddenly held up a hand and bent his head to listen to the faint crackling of the talkie clipped to the lapel of his oilskin.
Everyone watched intently, looking for some clue that the news might relate to the fleeing Americans — and maybe get them off the barbed hook of the major-commissar's wrath.
The junior officer nodded, muttered something then listened. He asked for clarification, listened to the response and signed off.
Zimyanin had managed to contain his impatience by turning his mind to different and happier thoughts, like the contents of the garbage bags that he'd seen off the premises of his apartment. And his dear wife, Anya, and her sudden decision to go on vacation. A vacation that Gregori guessed might be somewhat extended.
"Well, Comrade Captain?" he finally asked.
The young man smiled, revealing a mouth of the most rotten teeth Zimyanin had ever seen. "Yes, Comrade Major-Commissar. The main roadblock southwest at Nikulino reports being under attack. They say they are returning fire."
"The stolen wag?"
"They said..." His transceiver began to squawk and hiss again and he listened to it, head cocked to one side.
When he turned back to Zimyanin the smile had disappeared as though struck from his face by lightning. "Bad news, Comrade Major-Commissar."
"Like taking jack from a blind mutie," J.B. said as he and Ryan ran through the deserted gardens, keeping the swollen river on their right side. The thunderous rain had abated to a steady, gentle drizzle.
The plan had worked perfectly.
The sec men had no idea what was hitting them. All they knew was that they were being picked off, one after another. Two or three made a halfhearted attempt to defend themselves, kneeling by the parked wags and firing a few hesitant rounds into the blackness.
Ryan didn't want to waste too much ammo on a pointless blood-letting. That wasn't the idea. All they needed to do was deter the sec patrol from stopping Jak and Rick in their own armored wag.
Four hundred paces up the street, Jak could make out the sudden confusion and panic among the sec men as the bullets began to cut them down. He engaged a low gear, raced the engine and pushed down on the gas, feeling the heavy wag shudder as it built up power and speed. It roared through the streams of rainwater toward the gap at the center of the sec block.
"Holy sheeet!" Rick screamed, squinting through the reinforced windshield.
Jak's hair streamed behind him like a crazed magnesium flare, his red eyes fixed on the two wags dead ahead. As they closed within a hundred yards he realized that the space wasn't quite as wide as it had appeared from down the road — it was barely the width of their wag.
Only one of the sec men braced his legs and tried to shoot at them, managing to get off three or four ill-aimed rounds from his Kalashnikov before he was hit simultaneously through the chest by bullets from Ryan and J.B.
There was a grinding sound and a burst of sparks as the wing of the thundering wag caught one of the sec vehicles, slewing it sideways in a tangle of torn metal. But the armored truck's greater weight and speed carried it clear through and away, on down the road into the southwest, away from Moscow and toward the dacha and safety. Leaving Ryan and J.B. behind to make their own way out.
"Hold it, Ryan," J.B. said.
"What's up?"