Then the prisoner named Ramsey shouted something at the big man. What Barkov heard was Samson. That sounded like a name to him.
He handed his rifle to the Mink and took out his whip. His eyes met those of the big American. Barkov didn't see any fear there, just a challenge. Smiling, he advanced toward the American in a wary crouch.
The two men were almost equally matched, both of them well over six feet tall and heavy through the shoulders. Hands out, heads down, they resembled two bears about to rumble. Samson was maybe a little bigger, but he was limping, favoring a leg that was wrapped in bloody rags. Barkov took note of that.
They circled each other, looking for an advantage, knife against whip. It wasn't just any knife. The American had one of those wickedly sharp combat knives that resembled a medieval dagger. When the Americans and Russians had met outside Berlin, those knives had been freely traded for vodka and even Russian pistols. If the American managed to stick that thing into him, the fight would be over.
Barkov did not plan on letting him get in that close. The whip was an ideal defense against a knife attack. When Samson lunged, Barkov stung his hand with the whip and pulled back. The whip was made of braided leather, thick as a broomstick near the base and taping slightly down its two-foot length. It had some weight behind it.
Samson feinted left, then lunged from the right. Barkov slapped him away again.
Cautious now of the whip, the American circled just out of reach. Barkov held the whip cocked back by his ear, and gestured with his left hand for the American to come on. The American really had no choice but to attack. His shotgun blast had killed one of the Russians, but there were still four of them with their guns trained on him. It was attack, or die.
He steamed forward like a bull.
Barkov was ready with the whip, but as it hissed down, the American instantly tossed the knife from his right hand to his left and caught the whip in his open right hand. It must have been painful, but he did not let go. Instead, he dragged the whip down and pulled Barkov off balance, then stabbed down with his left hand.
Barkov felt the blade slice his shoulder. Fortunately for him, the American was not accurate with his left hand. Most of the damage was done to his winter coat.
The American wasn't finished. He drew back his left hand for another go at Barkov.
The Russian saw it coming. He turned sideways and kicked the American's injured leg out from under him.
Samson went down to his hands and knees like a bull felled by a matador, but one hand still grasped the whip. He was using it to pull himself back up.
Barkov let go, and the American went toppling backwards. Barkov did not give him a chance to recover. As the American got to his knees, Barkov punched him in the back of the head so hard that his knuckles screamed in pain. The American went down again. Then Barkov kicked him. The American rolled onto his back.
Barkov got down and straddled him, pulled back a fist to punch the man, but was surprised when the American's hands shot out and locked around Barkov's throat. Instantly, he felt his airflow cut off as the American's hands clenched around his windpipe. His opponent’s grip felt like a vise.
He grabbed the American's wrists and pulled. The grip around his throat did not loosen. Starbursts and spots swam in front of his eyes. Letting go with his right hand, he groped on the snowy ground for any kind of weapons. A rock. A stick. Instead, his fingers closed around the knife that the American had dropped.
Barkov had it in his grip in an instant, and plunged it down at the American.
For a big man, the American was quick as a viper. He let go of Barkov's throat and grabbed his wrist instead before the knife could strike home.
They went back and forth, both of them straining as if the knife weighed a thousand pounds, when in reality it was the sheer muscular resistance of them struggling against one another. Barkov had the advantage of gravity and pressed the tip down, down, toward the American's throat. Then the American rallied and pushed the knife up, up, turning it with bone-cracking strength until it was pointed at Barkov's eye.
In spite of himself, Barkov was impressed. The American was incredibly strong. Strong as a bear. Strong as Barkov.
Dimly, he was aware of a pair of legs beside him. Then a rifle barrel reached down and touched the American's temple. The American's eyes widened, but he shoved the tip of the knife toward Barkov's eye with one final wave of strength.
That's when the rifle went off. Loud as a thunderclap in Barkov’s ear. The American's grip went slack instantly.
Barkov rolled to his feet, so angry that he was shaking. The Mink stood nearby, nonchalantly working the bolt of the rifle.
"What have you done?" Barkov demanded. "He was mine to kill!"
"You were taking too long. We need to get moving," the Mink said. He lowered his voice. "Besides, he almost had you."
Barkov looked down at the dead man. Unlike most bodies, it did not look any smaller in death. Then he look around for the American prisoner, Ramsey, who was still slumped against the rock. His eyes went from his comrade's dead body to Barkov's eyes. Barkov tried to read something there — fear or defeat — but saw only defiance.
Well, he would fix that. "Dmitri," he called. "Bring me my whip."
"Let's just shoot him and be done with it," the Mink said.
"Look at him. He’s already half dead. This won't take long."
The boy scurried to do as he was told, pressing the cruelly braided leather grip into Barkov's hand. The boy eyed the whip nervously, having been on the receiving end of it.
Barkov made the whip sing. He struck the American prisoner across the face hard enough to draw blood.
He pulled back his hand for another swing and froze.
Ramsey now had a pistol in his hand. Nobody had seen it before. He leveled it at Barkov, but then seemed to reconsider. Instead, he put the gun to his own head and closed his eyes. An instant later, it was done. Barkov felt cheated for a second time.
The Mink bent over and pried the gun out of the dead man’s hand.
"He must have had just one bullet left," the Mink said. He seemed to find the situation amusing because he gave one of his rare smiles. “I think I would have saved that last bullet for you."
Barkov grunted, unhappy that both Americans were dead. There were many questions he would have liked them to answer.
They searched the pockets of the dead men. One soldier took the big man's wristwatch. He had a wallet with a few American dollars in it. What did he plan to buy out here on the taiga? There was some identification that one of them could read. The Mink kept the wallet and let the paper money flutter away on the wind.
Ramsey's limp hand had opened in death. It turned out that he did have one more bullet, but this one was for a rifle. Something was etched into the brass casing. The Mink picked it up and squinted at it, then shook his head and held it up for Barkov to see.
The etching read: "Barkov."
“The dead one here was not the sniper,” the Mink said.
“How do you know?”
“What would a sniper be doing with a shotgun? No, this isn’t him. If I did not know better, I would say that the American sniper is sending you a message.”
“It’s just nonsense," Barkov said. He tossed the bullet away. Then he looked across the expanse of taiga ahead and all the open places they would have to cross. He felt a chill, imagining the American sniper’s crosshairs on him.
“What are other Americans doing out here?” the Mink wondered.
Barkov coiled the whip and tucked it into his belt. “We need to get moving," he said. “Let’s catch up to them and find out. Then we will kill them just like we killed these two.”