Kyra touched the firing trigger on the Taser and raised her right arm the instant before they hit, both moving fast, left shoulders colliding. The soldier was solid muscle, granite in motion. He’d started to turn his shoulder into her. She felt him hit, her lighter body giving way to his solid mass—
— Kyra felt her right shoulder almost dislocate when she slammed into the bulky soldier and the impact sent her spinning, her right arm coming around as she spun left. She saw the dark outline of the soldier through her blurred vision, and she pulled the trigger.
The Taser fired less than a foot from the man’s neck, two metal probes exploding from the plastic panel covering the barrel, both trailing thin wires. Kyra’s aim was high. She’d meant to shoot him in the back. Instead, the barbs punched through the skin below the base of his skull, digging into the muscle underneath and completing the electrical circuit with the gun.
Five thousand volts arced through the soldier’s nervous system, pulsing down his spine, and his body seized up in an instant. The man wanted to howl in pain, but what emerged from his paralyzed vocal cords sounded more like a long, loud grunt as every muscle contracted, his face contorting in agony.
The world blurred and Kyra hit the asphalt hard on the same arm that the man had nearly knocked out of its socket, the same one that a bullet had torn open three years before. She gritted her teeth against the pain, managed not to cry out, but the wind coming out of her forced a grunt from her anyway.
The soldier’s inertia carried him forward at full speed but his legs had locked up and he pitched forward, his face slamming against the concrete, shattering his nose. His head bounced up from the hard surface, then gravity pulled him down again, his face connecting with the ground a second time.
His finger was already on his pistol’s trigger. The muscles in his right hand contracted and the Makarov fired into the ground. The bullet ricocheted on the asphalt, flying off in some odd direction. It struck a tire, punching a hold in the rubber, and the sound of rushing air sounded in his ears.
The Spetsnaz team had the traitor on the ground. The rope was in her mouth and two men were holding her arms behind her back and stripping off her coat.
The team leader hadn’t expected Puchkov to show. He’d thought for certain the primary team would detain her at her home, where Colonel Sokolov was commanding the detail. The other four teams, including his, were covering sites Sokolov had said were communication points used by the turncoat, but with all of the CIA officers in Moscow expelled, he hadn’t expected any of the secondary units to act. But here she was, and the glory of Puchkov’s capture belonged to his team.
Colonel Sokolov’s information, whatever the source, had been accurate—
Somewhere, a Makarov fired.
The team leader’s head jerked around. Puchkov was lying helpless on the cold dirt in front of him, so whichever of his men had fired had not been shooting at her. Where? Who fired?
Kyra heard the gunshot. Pain erupted in her right shoulder again as she tried to push herself up. She ignored it and rolled over, trying to get her bearings. Her vision started to focus again.
The soldier was on the ground, still unable to control himself. The Taser was five seconds into a thirty-second cycle, and it was holding the Spetsnaz officer down, his body as hard as the ground it was lying on. His nose was gushing blood.
Kyra pushed herself to her knees and grabbed the Taser off the ground. She didn’t know how long the man would need to recover once the weapon stopped disrupting his nervous system, but he was still able to grunt one unbroken, guttural cry of pain.
Kyra let the electrical current flow into him as she searched for the rest of the soldiers. She found them when she heard another shout in Russian. Several of the soldiers surrounding Puchkov were now pointing in her direction.
In a flash of anger, Kyra tried to rip the barbs out of the man’s neck. One came out, tearing flesh and drawing more blood for the pavement, but the other probe was stubborn. Kyra ejected the cartridge connecting the probes to the pistol. The circuit broken, the man’s body sagged like his bones had melted, muscles still twitching from the residual current firing through his nerves. Then he was still and silent.
Kyra picked up his Makarov. She shoved the Taser back into her pocket, then looked back toward the market where Puchkov had gone down.
More soldiers were now running her way, guns drawn. She heard one fire, then another, bullets hitting cars, the sound of metal punching through metal. They’d seen her.
Kyra pushed off, keeping her head low, running for the Tiguan fifty yards away. The men running toward her position were fast, but they were too far away to catch her now.
She heard more shots, hitting closer to her now. One round missed her by less than a foot, hitting a car as she ran by, a deeper sound than the Makarov rounds, a higher-caliber bullet. Someone had resorted to a rifle now.
Kyra skidded to a stop behind a car, a tiny red Lada Riva that was older than she was. She raised the Makarov and, for the first time on Russian soil, fired a weapon in anger. She sent five rounds downrange, shattering two cars windows and forcing the soldiers to move to cover. Kyra didn’t stop. She couldn’t spring now. She could only scramble low for the next car, five yards closer to her Tiguan, turn, and send three more rounds back to their original owners.
The Spetsnaz returned fire almost immediately, half shooting while the forward element moved up, then the lead group giving cover fire for the rear unit to catch up. Kyra saw it, and the rounds coming in on her position began to hit the cars around her in a constant rattle. She fired again, keeping low.
Just like Venezuela, Jon. Remember? Kyra thought. I was trapped against the fence, two hundred soldiers coming in. Then you showed up, on the hill with that big Barrett of yours, like a god with a gun, killing jeeps and lights.
Kyra was surprised at her own calm. Panic should have set in by now. Jon wasn’t here to lay down cover fire for her this time.
The Tiguan was twenty yards away now, the soldiers almost a hundred in the other direction. Kyra fired the Makarov again. She couldn’t have more than a few shots left now.
She was almost on her hands and knees, working her way around the last parked cars between her and the SUV. The Spetsnaz had lost track of her for the moment. They knew she was directly ahead, but she hadn’t put her head up for almost thirty seconds.
Their target hadn’t fired on them for just as long, and their firing grew sporadic as they saved their ammunition for a target they could see. They began to move forward in a low crouch, weapons raised to eye level.
Kyra finally reached her vehicle. She inhaled deep, filling her lungs, then aimed the Makarov and emptied the rest of the clip at the Russians. The soldiers ducked down, scrambling for cover again as their target reappeared.
Kyra pulled the Tiguan’s door open, threw herself inside, and closed it up again, putting a layer of metal between her and the enemy. She slammed the keys into the ignition, ordered the truck to life, and it obeyed with a roar. She put it in gear, put the accelerator to the floor, and the wheels began spinning fast, trying to grab the asphalt. White smoke erupted from under the truck.
The soldiers heard the Tiguan come to life, then saw the smoke rising from the ground. They stood and began firing almost in unison.