“Viktoria? Are you still there?”
She summoned the strength and coldness back into her voice as she imagined Patti slashing his throat and the blood pooling at his knees. “I can’t talk right now. But as you say, we’ll meet. Take care, Pavel.”
Chopra was seated beside her, with Hussein next to him across the long bench. “Is everything okay?” asked the old man.
“Shut up.”
The boy asked, “Are you sad?”
“Not a word from either of you.”
“What about that?” Hussein added, pointing toward the windshield.
Hearing Pavel’s voice had taken her years and kilometers away, back to her work with him, back to their affair, to the moments lying in bed with him, moments so tender and so clear that she’d failed to see the roadblock looming ahead.
She radioed to Chen Yi, who in turn called back to the other drivers. Then she alerted Patti. “You didn’t tell me about a roadblock.”
“They must have observation posts. You’ve been tagged. We didn’t count on this.”
“Some old SUVs, maybe twenty armed soldiers.”
“We can’t afford any more delays,” said Patti. “The Euros are on their way. Haussler is moving toward his trap. You’ve got your own troops. Deal with it.”
The Snow Maiden cursed, then called to Chen Yi and told him to be ready. She mashed the accelerator pedal, and the truck lurched forward.
“They’re going to shoot us!” cried Hussein.
The kid’s appreciation of the obvious was not lost on her. As they barreled toward the roadblock, the soldiers lifted their rifles and took up defensive positions alongside the cars. She braced herself.
And not three heartbeats later, the hailstorm of fire began, incoming rounds pinging along the truck, sparks dancing over the hood and side panels as she throttled up even more and both Chopra and the boy hollered for her to pull over.
And then, resigning to the situation, she spun the wheel, pulling off the road, as the other three trucks roared by, now taking the brunt of all those rounds. Her truck bounced violently over ruts and through small dunes.
Not a second after the last truck blew by, she cut the wheel again, bringing them into the draft of the last vehicle and keeping tight on that driver’s wheels. They had a temporary shield, but they still had to pass those combatants.
The lead truck blasted through the SUVs blocking the road, knocking one onto its side, the other sideways. Steel and glass groaned and shattered while tires screeched across the pavement.
Then the next two trucks hammered through the gap, taking fire from both sides as though going through a car wash using bullets instead of water. At the same time, all that glass rained like diamonds glistening in the headlights.
She took in a long breath. Held it.
Now it was their turn.
They thundered into the opening, past the cars lying askew, gunfire riddling the side of their truck.
Just a second more… a second…
But in that second the window beside Hussein shattered and Chopra let out a scream.
She breathed, cursed again, turned, and the stench of gas immediately filled the cabin.
A glance to one of the side mirrors showed a string of winking lights — muzzle flashes to be sure — and the thumping continued, punching holes in the back of the truck.
Next came a crack and loud bang, then a steady hissing as the driver’s-side rear tire went flat.
Before she could clear the second truck, a dull thud came from beneath the hood, and flames licked up toward the windshield.
You didn’t need auto-mechanic training to conclude that the fuel line had been hit and had now ignited.
And you didn’t need a driver’s safety lesson to realize that if you didn’t abandon the truck, you’d die in the fire, the explosion, or both.
With Chopra and the kid still hollering, she swung once more to the side of the road, booted the brake pedal, and brought the truck to a rattling halt.
The gunfire continued, AKs popping, triplets of fire ricocheting off metal or stitching across the asphalt.
“Get out!” she ordered the kid. “I’ll get him!”
“I’ve been hit in the side,” said Chopra. “I can feel the blood. Terrible pain.”
“I don’t care. Come on!” she cried, wrenching open her door, seizing him by the arm, and dragging him out of the cab as he shrieked and shuddered.
They hit the sand, and, as more gunfire suddenly woke around the truck, Chen Yi’s vehicle stopped short just ahead. The rear door rolled open, and three of his men jumped out and began firing a barrage that suppressed the incoming fire. The Snow Maiden glanced out to the roadblock, where the soldiers there began shifting positions and returning fire.
“We need a doctor,” shouted Hussein.
The kid’s power of observation was astounding.
The Snow Maiden brought Chopra around the burning truck, using it as temporary shield while guiding him back and away, with more thick smoke pouring from beneath the hood.
They dropped into the deeper sand along the embankment. Chopra continued wincing.
“One of those men is a medic,” she told the boy. “In the back truck, in the cab. Go get him.”
Hussein remained a moment, his gaze torn between the incoming gunfire and the trucks up the road.
“I’m bleeding a lot,” said Chopra. “Please, Hussein. I need help…”
The Snow Maiden put pressure on Chopra’s wound. “Either you get the medic or he dies,” she told Hussein. “And if he dies, we don’t get into the vault. Then I’ll have no use for you, right?”
Hussein swallowed. His eyes welled up.
She could almost see the tug and pull of his thoughts.
With a start, he darted away, carrying his flabby little body toward the trucks.
It was about time the kid showed some courage. He’d obviously been raised by cowards and fools, and she was probably the best influence he’d ever had. Without her, he’d been stuck in his pathetic hole.
Two of Chen Yi’s men from the lead truck sprinted past them carrying shoulder-mounted weapons. The Snow Maiden did not recognize that ordnance, but she quipped that the weapons were no doubt Chinese knock-offs of something engineered by the Americans, Russians, or Euros.
The two soldiers got down on one knee, balanced the cylindrical launchers, and nearly in unison fired not one, not two, but three rockets in a single trigger pull.
It all happened in a gasp.
The road between Chen Yi’s men and the roadblock lit up in a surreal fireworks display of green-blue rocket engines. Smoke trails extended like powdery threads to sew up the air for a second before a cacophony of explosions rose from the SUVs being used for cover. Soldiers were hurled into the air by the massive detonations, and multiple fireballs swelled beneath them, casting a blinding glow that had the Snow Maiden shielding her eyes as the heat wave struck and pushed over them.
Chen Yi ran up behind the men, barking orders in Chinese. They retreated to the trucks as Hussein returned with the medic and Chen Yi approached with them.
“Please help him,” said Hussein.
The medic, a middle-aged man with a snake’s eyes, produced a pair of shears and got to work exposing Chopra’s wound.
“He has to work in the truck,” said Chen Yi. “We have to move him now.”
The medic yelled something in Chinese to Chen Yi.
“I don’t care,” Chen Yi answered.
“We have to move him,” the Snow Maiden echoed. She batted away the medic’s hand. “We’ll get him into the back and you work on him there.”
“Not good to move,” said the medic in broken Russian.
“No time!” snapped the Snow Maiden. “We’re moving him right now!”
“I can go,” said Chopra, glancing back to Hussein. “Thank you. Thank you for getting him.”