"No," said Ryan. "Look at this bastard's face. Whoever's comin' aren't friends of his. Must be Americans. We'll wait and..."
The words died in his throat as he watched the ridge a quarter mile to the west.
While they'd been in the redoubt, he'd seen a couple of old vids called westerns, involving savages that attacked villes and burned them down until sec men called cavalrycame to the rescue. Impressively, savages always seemed to appear in single file on the crest of a mile. "Well, I'll be..." whispered Finn.
Bizabraznia fell to her pale knees and buried her face in her hands. The other Russians looked scared.
"There's nearly a hundred," said Hennings with almost religious awe.
A hundred men, well mounted, all wearing a uniform, were approaching. Even at that distance, Ryan knew that these couldn't be friends or Americans. There wasn't a baron in Deathlands with the power to put a regular small army into the field like this.
The rising sun glanced off badges on some of their gray caps. Most had rifles slung across their backs.
"Any move and we're cold meat," said Ryan. "If it comes to it, take as many as you can. Play it soft."
They watched as the riders descended from the ridge, then cantered over the flat trail, reining in a wide semicircle at a signal from the man who seemed to be their leader. He was a pockmarked fellow with a bald head and a drooping moustache. He heeled his horse forward. Stopping a few paces from Ryan, he scrutinized them all, paying particular attention to their blasters.
Uchitel studied the officer, then barked a question at him in Russian. Zimyanin ignored him.
Ryan tried to flick through the phrase book while still keeping his gun ready. The bald man reached into his coat, pulling out a small red notebook, with some writing on the cover in a peculiar, angular script that Ryan couldn't read.
"I am Major Gregori Zimyanin, and I bring greetings from the party."
The accent was heavy, but Ryan found it easier to understand than Uchitel's garbled words. He bowed slightly to the Russian.
"I take prisoner this mans," he said, waving with the book at Uchitel and the other three.
"Let him," hissed Finnegan.
"No," said Ryan. "They're my prisoners."
Zimyanin glanced through his book as if he wasn't sure he believed what he said. "Nyet. Itake. He Russian. I take."
"No," repeated Ryan, conscious of the others spreading out behind him supportively.
The officer pored over his book, lips moving as he rehearsed what he wanted to say. "You are four. We are many. We kill."
"We kill many of you," answered Ryan, trying to show a confidence he didn't truly feel.
"He Russian," the major said, pointing at Uchitel again.
Ryan made his move. Taking care not to spark off a firefight, he stepped in and moved Uchitel and the woman to one side with the barrel of the Heckler & Koch. Then he pushed the other two prisoners toward the man on horseback.
"I'm a great believer in compromise," he said, knowing that the soldier would not understand; knowing as well that the gesture was obvious.
Zimyanin hesitated. He could see that these Americans were not helpless peasants. They could only be some sort of unofficial militia, roaming the land to repel invaders. There weren't many of them, but their guns looked more lethal than anything he'd ever seen before. And they'd blown that huge dam.
Ryan faced him, raising his eye questioningly. "Yes, my friend?"
"Da."
The smooth, gray rifle slipped inside the long coat. Ryan drew the SIG-Sauer P-226 9 mm pistol, relishing the familiar weight in his hand. Standing three paces from Uchitel and the blubbery bulk of the woman, he fired three spaced shots.
The first two entered the woman's chest between her sagging breasts. The impact sent Bizabraznia staggering backward, and Ryan put the third bullet carefully into the middle of her face.
The entrance hole of the final shot was lost in the pasty expanse of her round face with its layers of jowls. It hit the center of the upper lip and exited near the top of her head, removing a chunk of skull as large as a grown man's fist.
Instantly there was some talk among the watching horsemen, but Ryan couldn't tell whether it was from approval or anger. He stepped toward Uchitel, who faced him impassively.
"Nyet," Zimyanin called then rattled off a string of commands in Russian. He pointed toward Zmeya and Krisa, who fell to their knees and began to babble their pleas for mercy.
The Americans watched as six soldiers swung down from their horses. One man took Zmeya's left hand in both ofhis while a second cavalryman took the other hand. They tugged as hard as they could to get the kneeling guerrilla to rise. While they pulled him, a third soldier took a short length of waxed rawhide from his belt and looped it around Zmeya's neck.
The other trio of cavalrymen treated Krisa to the same, then looked toward the commanding officer for a signal. Zimyanin favored Ryan with a thin smile, then nodded to the troops.
The nooses of thin cord tightened, vanishing into the necks of both condemned men. Zmeya tried to cry out, but the sound was strangled, caught in his throat. The soldiers holding the prisoners struggled to retain a footing on the slippery pebbles. Krisa died first, his red eyes protruding so far from their sockets that it seemed they would burst. Blood came from his mouth and nose, then from the corners of his eyes. His body went suddenly slack.
Zmeya, the Snake, fought harder, and his passing took longer. Blood was jetting from a severed artery under his ear before he finally became limp, slumping in the arms of the two men gripping his wrists.
At a gesture from Zimyanin, the corpses were dragged by the ankles to the river. One of the soldiers drew a steel knife from his belt and sliced the ears off both bodies and tucked the ears into a pocket.
Then each carcass was heaved into the river. Rolling and turning in the swift current, they were carried away across the plain, toward where the rest of Uchitels band had found their last resting place.
"My turn, Major," said Ryan, ready to execute Uchitel. But the chief of the butchers was not quite done yet.
With a curse he pushed Ryan into Hennings and Finnegan, then produced a battered 9 mm Makarov PM pistol from inside his coat and levelled it at Zimyanin. Time held still, like a bubble of air in a frozen lake. The officer's face whitened, his hands rising in a futile gesture of protection.
The crack of the handgun was almost swallowed by the rushing noise of the river.
Uchitel's almond-shaped golden eyes opened wide in disbelief, and he looked over his shoulder at the flame-haired Krysty Wroth and at the small gleaming H & K pistol smoking in her right hand. Blood appeared on his chest as he dropped his own gun in the dirt, sank to his knees, then toppled, his silver headband with its great ruby clinking against the stones.
"Earth Mother forgive me," whispered the girl.
"She will, lover. She will," said Ryan.
The Americans did nothing to stop the soldiers from mutilating the corpses of the woman and Uchitel, though Hennings pushed them aside to retrieve the fallen piece of jewelry.
"Take it, girl," urged the tall black, handing the ruby to Krysty. "Better you than them. You fuckin' earned it."
The two corpses bobbed downriver, ending the short and bloody history of the Narodniki.
Zimyanin had been diligently studying his phrase book again. Ryan had thumbed through the brown paperback that had belonged to Uchitel. The Russian spoke first.
"I thank you for your assistance. Now we take all your country for party."
"What? No fuckin' way, friend." Ryan's gesture and tone needed no translation.
The officer indicated his overwhelmingly superior forces with a wave of his hand. "Your country is not strong. We take. You not veto us."
It was the moment that Ryan Cawdor had suspected was coming from the time the Russians first appeared over the ridge. They must have ridden across many miles of Alaska and seen no opposition. Now only three men and a girl seemed to stand between them and all of America.