The only blot on his good mood was the absence of the Mink. Stopping these Americans was a matter of personal pride. The sniper among them had killed his old friend.
He missed the Mink, who had been the closest thing he had to a friend. But in war, he had learned not to mourn for too long. Some people lived, some people died, some sooner than others.
When he caught up with that American sniper, Barkov planned to flay the skin off him with his whip. It was the least he could do for the Mink.
Although the sun was out, it offered far less warmth than a 40-watt light bulb. Ahead of Cole stretched the vast Russian plain, flat as a parade ground and wide as the sea. Sometime in the ancient past, glaciers had scraped this plain clean as neatly as a bowling alley built for giants. The few scattered boulders could have been the gutter balls. Now covered in snow, the plain would have made the perfect place to land a B-17 bomber — a whole squadron of them, in fact, and all at once.
There was absolutely no cover, and nowhere to hide. It was one hell of a place to be caught out in the open when a Russian sniper had you in his sights. Just the thought of it made Cole’s spine tingle.
Cole saw how it would play out. Their group would still be laboring to get clear of this open place, when the Russians would arrive at the other end. Barkov was a deadly shot. In a place such as this, he could simply pick them off, one at a time.
A lot of what happened next depended on logistics. It was now a game of covering the maximum distance in the shortest amount of time. How far could they get before the Russians started shooting?
"Come on," he said. "We have got to haul ass. Whatever you got left in the tank, now is the time to pour it on."
"This is pointless," Honaker said. "We ought to get into those woods to the east of us. We are sitting ducks out here."
"Then what do you want to do?" Cole asked. “Hide all you want. All the Russians have to do is follow our tracks. No sir, I aim to end this, one way or another."
"What should we do?" Whitlock wanted to know. “Stand and fight?”
"Run," Cole said. "Or as close to running as you can get."
It was easier said than done. The snow tugged at their feet. They were exhausted and hungry. Inna had a painful twisted ankle. Whitlock put her arm across his shoulders and helped her along, just as he had done with Ramsey.
They hurried, gasping with the effort.
At the far end of the glacial bowling alley, the Russians came into sight.
"There they are!" Vaccaro said.
"Leave the packs," Cole said. "If that's Finland up ahead like Vaska says, we'll make the border before dark. No need for blankets or any extra gear."
Honaker opened his mouth as if to argue, but Whitlock was already shrugging off his pack. "What about the weapons?" he asked.
"Keep the guns and ammo," Cole said. "We ain't done with them yet."
They made better time without being loaded down. The Russians were still in sight, but they weren't gaining on them.
"Finland," Vaska said, pointing at a line of forest ahead. It was that close. Literally within sight. The Russians wouldn't pursue them into another country — especially one that was, nominally at least, an ally of the United States. With luck, there would also be a squad of U.S. troops just inside the boundary.
The problem was, they weren't going to make it without falling into rifle range. They were moving too slowly, even without their packs. The pursuing Russians moved just a little faster. Simple math. One way or another, they were going to have to take on the Russians before they reached the relative safety of Finland.
Cole stopped. "This is where I leave you," he said. "Me and Barkov have unfinished business."
"Cole, have you gone crazy?" Vaccaro asked, staring at him. "You can't take on those Russians by yourself."
"I ain't by myself." He hefted his rifle. "I got this. Now go on. I'll catch up if I can. I aim to trade lead with Barkov, so let’s see how that works out.”
CHAPTER 32
Cole walked out into the empty plain, backtracking through the snow. He scanned the landscape for cover, but there wasn’t so much as a rock or a scrap of brush. Sunlight reflected off the snow. The brightness hurt his eyes. He squinted into the distance.
He had been half joking with Vaccaro about Western movies, but this is what it felt like. Like it was high noon on some dusty street. He’d be damned if he was the one wearing the white hat. Cole was black hat all the way.
Once he had put some distance between himself and the others, he stopped. Shooting from a standing position was never easy, so he looped his arm through the sling just to help balance the weight of the rifle and steady his aim. He put the smooth comb to his cheek, fitting it just under his high cheekbones. The butt fit into the socket just where his arm met his shoulder. Looking through the rifle scope now, everything sprang closer. He could see the Russians coming through the snow.
Finger on the trigger, he waited.
Barkov squinted into the distance. The Americans were hurrying now, which made sense. Finland was within sight. He could see the difference in the terrain that delineated a national boundary. He turned to the men behind him and snarled, "Faster!"
As the group moved away, he saw a lone object outlined against the snow. He was fairly certain that it had not been there before. Perhaps a tree trunk? A stone marker? That made no sense. Whatever the object was, it gave the impression of rigidity, like a fencepost. Odd, out here in the middle of nowhere.
With his naked eye, he could barely make out anything in the plain ahead. He paused and put his rifle to his shoulder so that he could study the object through the scope.
The optics shrank the distance, although it was still quite far. He could see that the anomaly in the landscape was not a tree, or a fencepost, or a standing stone. It was a man.
Barkov blinked. Pressed his eye closer to the optical lens.
The man held a rifle and stared back at him through his own telescopic sight, like a distant mirror image.
Barkov snatched the rifle from his own eye, as if that would stop the other man from seeing too much of him. They were both too far apart to see real detail about the other.
He knew who it was. The American sniper. The one whom Ramsey had promised would be waiting for him.
A promise kept.
The man stood like a tree, a stump, a stone.
The other Russians sensed that Barkov had stopped and they halted, awaiting his orders.
For once, Barkov had none. It was only him and this American that mattered now. They might have been alone on the taiga.
"He wants me to fight a duel," Barkov said to no one in particular, although he half expected the Mink to answer. Then he remembered that his old companion was dead.
He put the rifle to his shoulder again, dimly aware of the remaining soldiers around him. Two stood, one behind the other, to his right, while Dmitri stood to his left. He knew Dmitri’s name, but not those of the two other men. It was enough to call them you… and you. That was a habit from the war, when men died so quickly there was no point in bothering to learn what they were called.
Barkov licked his lips and strained to see into the distance.
He considered his options. It was a difficult shot to make from that range using the standing or offhand position. A shooter wanted a gun anchored somehow — using anything from a window ledge to a fallen log was preferable to relying on the steadiness of one’s own arms. Lying down was good. Even sitting down, with the rifle propped across one's knees. A marksman needed to connect himself and his rifle to the earth. Bone on stone.