Standing, it was hard to hold a rifle rock steady. At that range, the smallest motion meant that the bullet would miss.
Big and solid as he was, Barkov was more like a human boulder than a fencepost. He raised the rifle to his shoulder, acquired the target, let his breathing—
The sound of the American sniper's rifle echoed across the distance, seconds after the bullet ripped through the two men on Barkov's left.
He lowered his rifle to survey the damage.
Because they had been standing one behind the other, the bullet had punched through the head of the first one and then drilled into the throat of the second man.
The first man had died instantly, but the second was taking his time about it, clutching his throat as he lay in the snow, a big pool of blood spreading around him. Barkov observed the dead and dying man without any particular emotion.
You… and you.
It would have been an impressive shot if it had been intentional. However, Barkov was sure that the American had aimed for him, and missed.
Feeling more confident now, he put the rifle back to his shoulder. He settled the reticule a few inches above the American's head—
This time, he actually heard the second shot whip past him on the left, just where Dmitri was standing. He thought that the shot must have killed Dmitri, but a fraction of a second previously, the boy had thrown himself face down in the snow, mittened hands covering his head as if that would offer some protection. That moment of cowardice — or good sense, call it what you will — had saved his life.
That left Barkov alone on the plain. He felt himself grow cold, although there also happened to be a tingling all through him that had nothing to do with the temperature. He recognized the feeling for what it was — fear.
Barkov felt afraid because it had occurred to him that the first shot had not been a miss. It had been very deliberate. Both shots had been fired quickly, at a great distance. The American was picking off Barkov’s men. Leaving Barkov for last.
Not if he could help it. He was Barkov the sniper! He put the rifle to his shoulder, lined up the reticule again. The American stood there, daring him. It was a long shot, and Barkov was shooting offhand, which was the most difficult position.
He squeezed the trigger.
The rifle fired.
Cole saw the distant muzzle flash but didn’t so much as flinch. He knew there was no way to dodge a bullet.
Instantaneously, Barkov’s bullet zipped past his ear like a supersonic bumblebee — the sensation made his whole body thrum like a bow string. That was close. Close enough to make his insides feel like jelly.
He pushed every thought and worry from his mind. It had come down to just him and Barkov. He let himself slip deeper into his shooter's trance. His breathing became shallow, and his heart rate slowed. Shooting from the standing position was difficult, and normally his arms might tremble ever so slightly from the strain. Holding an eight-pound rifle steady enough to aim with any precision was harder than one might think. After a few minutes, your arms started to quiver no matter how strong you were. But now it was as if the cold had frozen him into place.
He kept the rifle steady and settled the crosshairs on Barkov. It was a long way off, but he had been lucky in the first two shots. He felt good about three out of three.
There was almost no wind, so Cole placed the crosshairs directly above Barkov's head to account for the drop of the bullet.
Hitting the head was too much to hope for — instead, he was trying for a body shot.
Everything launched into the air eventually fell back to earth, after all — baseballs, footballs, even bullets. They all fell at the same rate, thanks to gravity, but the speed of the object determined how far it traveled before falling to earth. To compensate for the pull of gravity, a marksman aimed above his target when taking a shot. The farther the target was, the higher you aimed.
Given time, Cole could have walked his bullets in. He did not have that option. He had one shot.
He had almost forgotten that his finger was on the trigger. It nearly surprised him when the rifle fired.
There was a stab of flame, and the cool, still air actually rippled as the hot gases caused by the rapid burning of gunpowder geysered from the muzzle. Traveling at nearly 3,000 feet per second as it left the muzzle, the 152-grain bullet exited the barrel spinning like a drill bit. The still, clear air welcomed the bullet and wrapped itself around it, guiding the projectile like it was on rails. A full second later, the bullet completed its arc and punched through Barkov's rib cage.
One rib attempted to deflect the more than two thousand foot pounds of energy and was snapped in half for its trouble, resulting in splinters of bone joining the bullet as it churned through Barkov's liver. Barkov's body cavity was massive, big as a steamer trunk tipped on its side, and the bullet lost its way and wandered downward, nicking his stomach here, tearing out chunks of bladder and prostate there, before exiting just above the hipbone opposite where it had entered. Having lost its momentum, the bullet tumbled to rest in a snow drift just a few feet away.
Barkov was such a big man that the energy of the bullet did not knock him down, although it would have knocked down most men. He felt no pain at first. Just an odd sensation as if his insides were being stirred with a large metal spoon. He looked down to see where the bullet had gone in, and then reached down to feel for the hole where it had come out.
He even looked behind him and saw the gouge in the snow that the spent bullet had made. Some detached part of his mind thought, "Ah, so that it where it went."
His body was not so detached as his mind, however. The interior of his torso was now a raw stew of torn tissue, blood, bone, bile, and urine. Barkov's knees buckled. He dropped his rifle. He went down.
Through the scope, Cole watched the Russian collapse.
The impact put Barkov down. He knew too well that a bullet was a small thing, and yet despite its small mass the slug was moving at supersonic speed that increased its energy exponentially.
How many times had he watched a bullet wreak havoc on someone else?
Now, his own turn had come.
He got to one elbow and coughed up some blood. There was little pain, but only a numbness. Barkov tried to get up, but somehow could not will himself off his hands and knees. His body simply would not obey.
He heard footsteps on the snow behind him, and looked up to see Dmitri trotting past him. The boy paused long enough to snatch the nagyka whip from where it was tucked into Barkov’s belt. The young fool was running straight for the American.
"Wait! You must help me!" Barkov shouted, but the youth did not stop. Barkov cursed him. "Traitor! Coward!"
Barkov thought that he had shouted the words, but then realized they had only been in his head. His lungs no longer had the volume for shouting.
He looked into the distance, but the American sniper had vanished, like a ghost.
Barkov's body, strong as it was, drifted into shock. He thought he heard shooting far away, but couldn't be sure. Mercifully, he lost consciousness.
Toward nightfall, Barkov came to his senses again. As he regained consciousness, he was surprised by the simple fact that he was still breathing. In Stalingrad, he had seen men miraculously survive terrible wounds. Maybe he would be one of those lucky ones. He ate some snow and felt better.
The day stretched on toward dusk. In the gathering gloom on the taiga, he caught a glimpse of something moving. Maybe it was that ingrate Dmitri returning to help him, after all. Barkov felt a glimmer of hope. Another shape flicked past in the gloom. Maybe it was another group of soldiers, coming to find him.