“But first you’re going to beg,” Kobelev said softly. He calmly moved the Thompson a little lower, and squeezed off one shot.
The bullet tore into Carter’s left thigh, just below his groin, the force of the impact nearly pulling his hip out of joint, the pain so intense it boiled up into his gut, and constricted his chest, making it difficult to breathe.
“You’re going to know real pain,” Kobelev shouted. He squeezed off another shot, this one smashing into Carter’s right foot, breaking his ankle.
“What do you want?” Carter screamed. His only chance now was his stiletto.
Kobelev laughed again, spittle drooling down the sides of his mouth. “You’re going to beg, Carter,” he cried. “You’re going to beg me to kill you. To put a sweet bullet into your brain.”
He fired a third time, this bullet grazing Carter’s left side, breaking at least one rib.
“No,” Carter shouted. “Please!”
Kobelev’s eyes were wide; his madness was like a huge electrical charge energizing him. He danced backward a foot or so. “Crawl to me, Carter! I want you to crawl to me! I demand it. You will kiss my boots, and then I will end it, mercifully, with a bullet in the back of your head. Now! Crawl!”
He fired off a short burst inches from Carter’s head.
“Crawl!”
It was all the opening Carter needed.
“I don’t know if I can move,” he cried.
Kobelev fired another short burst very close to Carter’s head. “Move! Now!”
With all of his strength Carter managed to roll over, his hands outstretched, clutching the snow as if he were trying to pull himself forward. He found the stiletto, the blade slicing into his left hand, but then Kobelev was directly over him, the barrel of the Thompson pressed against the base of Carter’s skull.
“Beg me for death, and I will kill you now,” Kobelev shouted.
Carter had the handle of the stiletto. “No,” he cried weakly, pushing himself half up, and then he slumped facedown in the snow as if he had fainted, but every muscle in his body was bunched up, ready to strike like a coiled spring.
“Beg it of me!” Kobelev screamed. “Beg!”
The barrel of the Thompson moved away, and Kobelev bent down, grabbed Carter’s shoulder and pulled him over.
At that moment, Carter rose up and drove the stiletto to its hilt in Kobelev’s groin.
The Russian reared back, bellowing in rage and pain. Carter scrambled after him, his left leg useless.
Kobelev could not bring the Thompson around to fire at Carter, but he used the heavy weapon as a club, smashing at Carter’s back and head, fighting like the totally insane monster he had become, screaming at the top of his lungs in Russian.
Carter’s fingers sought and found Kobelev’s throat, and he squeezed with everything he had left, the Russian’s eyes bulging as he thrashed around.
It could not last much longer, Carter knew. His own wounds were too extensive. He didn’t have much strength now. Once again his world was starting to go gray and his concentration was reduced to his grip on the Russian’s throat. Again a vision of Sigourney’s body in the ashes of the cabin swam into his mind’s eye. All of it, all of the pain and suffering and killing had been simply to flush out Carter. Nothing more than a vendetta.
There would be others after Kobelev and Ganin. But never could there be such a combination of evil genius and dark purpose.
Kobelev’s body gave a mighty shudder, and then lay still. But for a long time afterwards Carter kept squeezing. This time he must make sure. This time there would be no doubts...