Текст книги "The Kill Switch"
Автор книги: James Rollins
Соавторы: Grant Blackwood
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
“She was sleeping in the cadet quarters!” Tucker called out in Russian, repeating a preset phrase taught to him by Utkin for this very situation.
Anya began her performance, jabbering in Russian and generally making a fuss. Though Tucker understood none of it, he hoped the gist of her obscenity-laced tirade was what he had instructed her to say: this guard was a thug . . . his dog stunk . . . there were no laws against sleeping in the Kremlin, let alone drinking . . . the visiting hours were much too short . . . and that her father was the vengeful editor of the Kazan Herald.
Tucker manhandled her roughly toward the gates and yelled to the guard in another of his memorized stock phrases. “Hurry up! The police are on their way! Let’s be rid of her!”
Behind them, farther down the boulevard, a voice called out to them. A glance over his shoulder revealed another K9 unit hurrying toward the commotion.
Biting back his own litany of curses, he turned and gave the approaching guard a quick wave that was meant to convey, I’ve got it under control.
Under his breath, he whispered to Kane, “NOISE.”
The shepherd began barking loudly, adding to the frantic confusion.
All the while, Anya never slowed her tirade.
Still, the other K9 unit closed toward them.
Improvising, Anya went red-faced and bent over double, hanging on to Tucker’s arm and covering her mouth with her other hand. Her body clenched in the universal posture of someone about to toss their cookies all over the ancient cobblestones.
“Hurry up!” Tucker yelled, repeating the little Russian he knew.
Finally, turning away from the young woman about to vomit, the guard fumbled with the keys on his belt and crossed to the gate. He unlocked it and swung it open—then he waved his arm, swearing brusquely, and yelled for him to get her out of there.
Tucker hurried to obey, dragging Anya behind him.
The gate clanged closed behind them. The Kremlin K9 unit reached the exit and joined the other guard, staring after them.
Tucker waved back to the pair in a dismissive and sarcastic manner, as if to say Thanks for leaving me to clean this mess up.
From the ribald laughter and what sounded like Russian catcalls, his message must have translated okay.
Twenty feet from the gate, Anya started to cease her performance.
Tucker whispered to her, “Keep it up until we’re out of sight.”
She nodded and began shouting and tried to pull free of Tucker’s grasp. He recognized the words nyet and politsiya.
No and police.
More laughter erupted behind him at her weak attempt at resisting arrest.
“Good job,” he mumbled under his breath.
He dragged her along, angling right, until they were out of the guards’ view.
Once clear, Anya stood straight and smoothed her clothes. “Should we run?”
“No. Keep walking. We don’t want to draw any attention.”
Still, they moved in tandem briskly and reached the forested lawn on the north side of the Church of Ascension. He pointed to the black Marussia SUV parked under a nearby tree.
They piled into the front, with Kane in the back.
Tucker started the engine, did a U-turn, and headed south. He dialed Utkin’s cell phone.
“We’re out. Be ready in five.”
As planned, Utkin and Bukolov were waiting in the alley behind their hotel. Tucker pulled up to them, they jumped into the back with Kane, and he immediately took off.
Bukolov leaned forward to hug Anya, to kiss her cheek, tears in his eyes.
Tucker let them have their brief family reunion—then ordered everyone to keep low, out of sight. Without a glance back, he fled Kazan and headed south.
Now to get the hell out of Russia.
16
March 13, 10:42 P.M.
South of Kazan, Russia
“I can’t believe you did it,” Bukolov said thirty minutes later. “You really did it.”
Tucker concentrated on the dark, icy road, steering the SUV south on the P240 with the heater on full blast.
“Do you think we’re safe now?” Utkin asked, leaning up from the backseat, looking shell-shocked. “Everything happened so fast.”
“Fast is good,” said Tucker. “Smooth is better.”
Truth be told, he was surprised his scheme had gone largely to plan. Still, he resisted the urge to let down his guard and relax.
The sign for a rest area flashed past his high beams.
That will do.
Two miles south of here, they would reach a major highway junction. Before that, he wanted to do a little housekeeping. He took the ramp to the rest area, which consisted of a small bathroom and a couple of snow-mounded park benches nestled among ice-encrusted birches.
“Stretch your legs,” Tucker said as he swung into a parking spot. He turned to face the others. “But first I need your cell phones, laptops, anything electronic that you’re carrying.”
“Why?” asked Bukolov.
Anya told him. “He thinks one of us will call someone.”
“Who?” Bukolov demanded. “Who would we call?”
“It’s not just that,” Tucker explained. “Electronics can be tracked, even if they’re not active. Hand them over.”
Slowly they all complied, passing over their cell phones.
“What if one of us needs to make a call?” Anya asked.
“Then I’ll arrange it,” Tucker replied.
Once we’re safely out of the country, and I’ve handed you over to Sigma.
Tucker took Kane out for a stroll and a bathroom break and let the others work some blood into their limbs after the rushed flight out of Kazan. While no one was looking, he threw all the electronic gear, including the laptops, into a creek that abutted the rest area. He kept only his own satellite phone buried in his pocket.
Ten minutes later, they were back on the road.
“What happens now?” Anya asked. “Where do we go? Are we looking for some airport?”
“We’ll see,” he replied cryptically, refusing to show his hand.
Tucker drove south for six hours, using the P240’s relatively good condition, and put as much distance between them and Kazan as possible. Throughout the night, he headed deeper into rural farmlands, eventually crossing from one Russian oblast to another. At least the borders between the Russian provinces didn’t have checkpoints. It would have made things much harder.
A couple of hours before dawn, Tucker reached the small town of Dimitrovgrad, a place that had never strayed far from its Soviet-era roots. He circled the major thoroughfares, looking for a hotel with the right mix of anonymity and accommodations. Discovering a suitable location, he booked adjoining rooms on the second floor, one for Anya and her father, the second for Utkin and himself. He posted Kane at the pass-door between the two rooms.
Tucker didn’t want to stay in one place too long. So four hours later, he was already up and about again. He allowed the others a little more sleep and took a short stroll. He also wanted to be alone. As he drove into town last night, he had spotted an Internet café and headed over there. The place smelled of sausages and hot plastic, but at least it was empty at this hour. Five card tables bore nineties-era IBM computers, so old that the modems consisted of rubber cradles into which telephone handsets had been stuffed.
Thankfully, the proprietor, an older man who looked welded to his stool, wasn’t the talkative type. Tucker deciphered the rates from a handwritten sheet on the counter and handed the fellow a hundred rubles. The man waved his arm as if to say take your pick.
The connection was predictably slow. He surfed several Russian newspaper websites. Using the translate feature, he found what he had been looking for—or, more accurately, what he had hoped not to find.
He returned to the hotel to discover both Anya and Utkin had left. Kane was sitting on the bed, watching him expectantly. A moment of frustration fired through him, but it passed quickly. He should have given Kane instructions to keep everyone in their rooms.
He shook Bukolov awake. “Where’s Anya? And Utkin?”
“What?” Bukolov bolted upright in bed. “They’re gone? Have they come for me?”
“Relax.”
Tucker had begun to turn toward the door when it opened. Utkin and Anya stepped through. They were both carrying a cardboard tray filled with steaming Styrofoam cups.
“Where’d you go?” he snapped at them.
“To get tea,” Anya replied, lifting the tray. “For everyone.”
He pushed down his irritation. “Don’t do it again, not without telling me.”
Utkin mumbled an apology.
Anya looked embarrassed and set her tray down.
Bukolov defended his daughter, putting a protective arm around her. “Now see here, Tucker, I won’t have you—”
He pointed a finger at the doctor’s nose and swung it to include the others. “Once you’re out of the country, you can all do as you please. Until then, you’ll do as I say. Innocent blood has already been shed to get you this far, Doctor Bukolov. I won’t have it wasted by stupidity. Not on anyone’s part.”
He stormed into the next room to cool off. Kane followed, tail low, sensing his anger.
Tucker ruffled the shepherd’s fur. “It’s not you. You’re a good boy.”
Utkin joined him, closing the door between the rooms. “I’m sorry, Tucker. I wasn’t thinking.”
He accepted the young man’s apology, but he had another nagging question. “Were you two together the whole time?”
“Anya and I? No, not the entire time. I was up earlier than her. Went for a walk around the block. Sorry, I just needed to get out. All of this is . . . it’s nerve-racking. I couldn’t just sit in this quiet room while the others were sleeping.”
“When did you and Anya meet up?”
He scrunched his nose in thought. “I met her in the parking lot. She had just come from the coffeehouse down the block, carrying the two trays of tea.”
“Which direction was that?”
He pointed. “West.”
“Did you see anyone with her? Talking to her?”
“No. You seem upset. Has something happened—something other than this, I mean?”
He sized the young man up, trying to decide if he was fabricating his side of the story or not. A liar always gave away tells, if you knew where to look. In the end, he decided his opinion of Utkin hadn’t changed. He couldn’t read a shred of artifice in the man’s character.
Tucker explained, “I checked the Kazan news. They’re reporting that Anya Malinov was kidnapped.”
“Well, she was in a way.”
“The reports state that she was taken from an alley outside a nightclub, by a man who killed her male companion.”
Utkin sank to the bed. “Why the cover-up?”
“So they can shape events. But what strikes me as odd is that the fabricated story hit the newswires less than two hours after we left Kazan.”
“That seems very fast. But does it mean something?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Do the reports have your description?”
“No, but by now someone is surely connecting the dots: Anya and her father and me.”
“What about me?”
“They’ll connect that dot, too, eventually.”
Utkin paled. “That means they’ll come after me once you’re all gone.”
“No, they won’t.”
“Why?”
He put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Because you’re coming with us.”
“What? Really?” The relief on his face gave him a puppy-dog look.
Was I ever that simple and innocent?
Tucker knew the guy needed to toughen up. “But I’m going to need you to pull your weight. Have you ever fired a gun?”
“Of course not.”
“Then it’s time to learn.”
March 14, 9:12 A.M.
Tucker stood out on the balcony of their second-story room to get some air. He heard the pad of feet behind him and glanced over to find Anya leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
“May I speak with you?”
He shrugged.
“I’m sorry for what I did, for what my father said before . . . he was just being defensive. Protective.”
“Your father is . . .” He did his best to sound diplomatic. “He’s not an easy man to get along with.”
“Try being his daughter.”
Tucker matched her smile.
“He might not show it, but my father likes you. That’s rare.”
“How can you tell?”
“He doesn’t ignore you. Earlier, I was just feeling boxed in. I had to get out for a while. Claustrophobic, is that the word?”
“Maybe stir-crazy?” Tucker offered.
She smiled. “This is certainly crazy. But let me ask you, why are you helping us?”
“I was asked to.”
“By whom?” She immediately waved her hands. “Never mind. I should not have asked. Can you at least tell me where we are going?”
“South. With any luck, we’ll make Syzran by morning. My people will meet us there.”
Anya looked reassured.
“I’ll drop you off at a rendezvous point in town—the Chayka Hotel. Have you thought about what you’ll do once you’re in the States?”
“I don’t know really. I suppose that depends on what happens with my father. I have not had time to think much about it. Wherever he goes, I will go. He needs my help with his work. Where do you live?”
The question caught Tucker off guard. He had a P.O. box in Charlotte, North Carolina, but he hadn’t had a permanent place to lay his head for a long time. His way of life was tough to describe to most people. He’d tried it a few times but gave up. What could he say? I don’t much like people. I travel alone with my dog and do the occasional odd job. And I like it that way.
To shorthand the conversation now, Tucker simply lied. “Portland, Maine.”
“Is it nice there? Would I like it?”
“Do you like the ocean?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Then you’d like it.”
She stared wistfully across the parking lot. “I’m sure I would.”
Then you can send me a postcard and tell me about it.
He’d certainly never been there himself.
They chatted for a few more minutes, then Anya walked back inside.
Taking advantage of the privacy, Tucker dialed Harper. When the line clicked open, he spoke quickly.
“Tomorrow morning. Chayka Hotel in Syzran.”
7:05 P.M.
With the sun fully down, the group set out again, driving south in the darkness. Tucker took a highway that skirted alongside the Volga River, the longest river in Europe. Navigating from memory, he headed for Volgograd, a city named after the river. As a precaution, he followed a mixture of main and secondary roads.
At four in the morning, he pulled into a truck stop at the edge of the city of Balakovo. “Need a caffeine fix,” he said drowsily, rubbing his eyes. “Anyone else?”
The others were half asleep. He got dismissive tired waves and irritated grunts. He headed out and returned to the SUV with a boiling cup of black coffee.
As he climbed back inside, he noted his satellite phone remained in the cup holder, where he’d left it on purpose. It appeared untouched.
Satisfied, he kept driving, covering the last hundred miles in two hours. By the time he crossed into the town of Saratov, the sun was fully up.
From the backseat, Anya roused, stretched, and looked around. “This isn’t Syzran.”
“No.”
“I thought you said we were going to Syzran? The Chayka Hotel.”
“A last-minute change of plans,” he replied.
He pulled off the highway and headed to a hotel near the off-ramp.
“Won’t your friends be worried?” she asked.
“Not a problem. I called them.”
He turned into the parking lot and shut off the engine. Utkin stirred. Anya had to shake Bukolov awake.
Tucker climbed out. “I’ll be right back with our room keys.”
On his way to the lobby, his satellite phone chirped. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the screen:
No activity at the Chayka Hotel.
No activity on this phone for the past eight hours.
Satisfied, Tucker crossed through the lobby and headed toward the restroom. He relieved himself, washed his hands, finger-combed his hair, and took a breath mint from a jar near the sink. Only after five minutes did he exit the hotel and cross back to the SUV.
“No vacancies, I’m afraid,” he said. “Might as well push on to Volgograd.”
Utkin yawned and motioned to the new day. “I thought you told us it wasn’t safe to drive during the day.”
“No matter. We’re pushing through.”
Utkin was right. It was a risk, but with only a couple of hundred miles to go before Volgograd, it was a worthwhile gamble. And from his little test, it seemed none of his fellow travelers had taken his Chayka Hotel bait. Nor had they tried to use his phone.
So far, so good.
It seemed a safe bet to move on.
Besides, if the enemy had managed to track them, why hadn’t they closed the net?
Sensing the light at the end of the tunnel, he headed out, trying to enjoy the passing scenery of this sunny morning. They were almost home free and his suspicions about Anya and the others had proven unwarranted.
Out the driver’s-side window, the morning sun reflected brilliantly off the Volga River. On the other side spread rolling hills and farm tracts lying fallow under pristine blankets of snow. He rolled down the window to smell the river and fresh snow.
Everyone seemed in better spirits, talking among themselves, laughing.
“Time for a Russian history quiz,” Bukolov declared merrily. “Is everyone game?”
Tucker smiled. “It’s not my best subject.”
“Duly noted,” replied Utkin.
Anya chimed in. “Tucker, we could give you a point lead. To make it fair.”
Tucker opened his mouth to reply, but the words never came out. Crossing through an intersection, he caught a glimpse of chrome, a flash of sun off a windshield, accompanied by the roar of an engine—followed by the sickening crunch of metal on metal.
Then the world rolled.
17
March 15, 8:09 A.M.
South of Saratov, Russia
With his head ringing, Tucker forced open his eyelids and searched around. It took him several seconds to register that he was hanging upside down, suspended by his seat belt, a deflated airbag waving in front of his face.
The SUV had rolled and settled onto its roof. Water poured through the vents. Improbably, the wipers were sliding across the windshield.
Groaning, he looked right and found Utkin balled up below him on the overturned ceiling, not moving. He lay face-up in about six inches of rising water.
Tucker’s next worry.
Kane.
He was about to call out, to check on the others, then stopped, remembering the collision.
Someone had hit them—purposefully.
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think.
They’d ended up in the roadside ditch. He remembered seeing the wide drainage canal paralleling the road. The cut had looked deep—thirty feet or so—and steep sided. Though at this time of year, the bottom flowed with only a shallow creek of icy water.
He fought through gauzy thoughts to focus on two things.
First: Whoever hit them was coming.
Second: Survive.
He patted his jacket pocket. The Magnum was still there.
A splashing sounded behind him. He craned his neck and spotted a pair of furry front legs shifting through the water. He also saw Bukolov and Anya tangled and unconscious on the overturned roof. One of the woman’s legs was still caught in the seat belt above.
“Kane,” Tucker whispered. “Come here.”
The shepherd climbed over the inert forms of Bukolov and Anya.
Fumbling, Tucker released the latch on his belt and fell as quietly as possible into the cold water. Kane joined him, bumping his nose against Tucker’s cheek, giving a worried small lick.
That’s my boy.
Thankfully, except for an inch-long gash above his eye, Kane seemed uninjured.
“OUT,” he ordered and shoved Kane toward the open driver’s window. “HIDE AND COVER.”
Kane squeezed through and disappeared into the high grass covering the shadowy bank of the ditch. Tucker dove out after him. Staying low and using his elbows to propel him, Tucker dragged himself through the mud and weeds. He followed Kane’s trail for ten feet up the embankment before running into the shepherd’s backside.
Kane had stopped, crouched on his belly. He must have a good reason to stop. Taking a cue from the dog, he went still and listened.
Russian voices.
Two or three, farther down the canal to his left.
“STAY,” Tucker whispered breathlessly to Kane.
He rolled to the right—once, twice, then a third time. He then sidled backward to the canal, putting the SUV between him and the voices. Once behind the bumper, he crouched and peeked along the vehicle’s side.
Beyond the SUV, farther down the ditch, a trio of men in civilian clothes descended a shallow section of the embankment, aiming for the overturned vehicle. Each one carried a compact submachine gun—a PP-19 Bizon.
He hid away again, thinking quickly.
Something didn’t make sense, jangling him with warning.
Three men, he thought. They would be operating in pairs, which meant there had to be . . .
Tucker risked another glance—back up toward the road.
A fourth man suddenly stepped to the highway’s edge, training his Bizon down at the vehicle below.
Tucker slid back into hiding before being spotted. If the man had come a few seconds earlier, he would have caught the two exiting the SUV.
Damned lucky—but he couldn’t count on such good fortune to last.
It would take skill.
He lowered to the waterline at the corner of the SUV and stuck his hands back into view, hoping the shadows there hid his signal to Kane. He placed a palm over a fist, then stuck out one finger and swung it to the right.
Stay hidden . . . move right.
He hoped Kane was watching, knowing the shepherd’s sharp eyes would have no trouble discerning the movement in the darkness. It was the best he could do to communicate, especially since his partner wasn’t wearing the tactical vest.
Done, Tucker shifted to the opposite corner of the bumper, farthest from the man on the road. He lowered flat to the canal, sinking to the bottom. The depth was only a foot and a half. He did his best to drape himself fully underwater. His fingers clung to weeds to help hold his belly flat. He set off with the meager current away from the SUV, heading downstream. With the morning sun still low in the sky, the steep-sided ditch lay in deep shadows, hopefully hiding his efforts. He prayed the shooter kept his focus on the SUV. Still, Tucker expected to feel rounds slam into his back at any moment.
When nothing came, he angled across the canal, to the same side as Kane and the gunman. He glided up to the bank and rolled to his back in the water. He lifted his head and blinked away the muddy residue.
Due to a slight bend in the waterway and the precipitous slope of the canal’s side, the shooter on the road was out of direct view now. Closer at hand, he spotted a shifting through the grasses, coming his way, easy to miss unless looking for it.
His trick hadn’t fooled Kane.
Keeping to the tallest weeds and shadows, his partner had tracked and followed him.
Like a beaching seal, Tucker slid out of the water and into the icy mud and weeds. Kane joined him. Together, they worked straight up the side of the ditch, moving as silently as possible, sticking to the thickest grasses. He heard the other three gunmen reach the SUV and start talking loudly.
He was running out of time.
He finally reached the top, peered down the road, and spotted the shooter to the left, his attention still focused on the SUV.
Tucker sank back and whispered in Kane’s ear. “WAYPOINT, COVER, QUIET CLOSE, TAKE ALPHA.”
He repeated the complex chain of commands.
While Kane’s vocabulary was impressive, he also had an amazing ability to string together actions. In this case, Kane would need to cross the road, find cover, close the distance between himself and their target—then attack.
“Got it, buddy?” Tucker asked.
Kane bumped his nose against Tucker’s. His dark eyes twinkled with his answer: Of course I do, you stupid ass.
“Off you go then.”
Kane sweeps on silent paws across the cold pavement. On the far side, he squeezes into the deep brush, frosted brittle by the winter. He is cautious not to rattle the grasses and branches of scrub bushes. He finds the ground is a mix of ice and mud and keeps moving, slowly at first, testing the placement of each paw.
Growing confident, he moves faster.
A wind blows across the road, carrying to him the scent of his partner—as familiar as his own. It is warmth and heart and satisfaction.
He also catches a whiff of his prey ahead: the sour ripeness of unwashed flesh, the tang of gunmetal and oil, the rot of bad teeth. He fixes every slight movement with minute movements of his ears: the scuff of boot on pavement, the creak of a strap of leather, the wheeze of breath.
He moves along the edge of the road, staying hidden, weaving the darkest path.
At last, he draws even with his target. He drops low and shimmies to the road’s edge, watching. The other’s back is to him, but he turns every few fetid breaths to look around, even back toward where Kane hides.
Dangerous.
But the command burns behind his eyes.
He must attack.
He shifts his back legs to best advantage, firing his muscles for the charge to come. Waiting for his moment—
—then movement to the left.
His partner steps out of hiding, onto the road’s shoulder. He moves wrong, tilting, stumbling. Kane knows this is false, a feigned flailing. He picks out the glint of steel held at his partner’s hip, out of sight of the other.
Across the road, his target turns toward his partner and focuses fully upon him. Kane feels a surge of bone-deep approval and affection. The two are a pack, one tied to the other, working together.
With his target distracted, Kane bursts out of hiding.
Tucker stared down the barrel of the submachine gun, trying his best not to flick his gaze toward Kane, as his partner charged across the pavement.
This had been the dicey part. Much of it depended on the enemy not killing Tucker on sight. Once Kane had reached his vantage point across the road, Tucker had limped out of hiding, stumbling forward, weaving and dazed, looking like a disoriented crash victim. He held his Magnum against his thigh and kept that side turned away from the shooter.
As expected, the man had spun toward him, swinging his Bizon up.
Time slowed at that moment.
Tucker lunged forward, leading now with his Magnum.
He had to put his full faith in Kane. The pair had worked for so long together, the shepherd could read Tucker’s tone and body language to infer much more than could be communicated by word or hand signal. Additionally, Kane also took in environmental cues to make astute judgments on how best to execute any orders.
All that training came to a perfect fusion now.
Kane never slowed and closed the last ten feet with a leap. Seventy pounds of war dog slammed into the man’s side, and together they crashed into the dirt. Even as they landed, Kane’s jaws had found their mark, closing down on his target’s exposed throat with hundreds of pounds of force.
Still on the run, Tucker knee-skidded to a stop beside the man, pivoted, and fired an insurance round into the shooter’s hip.
He switched the Magnum to his left hand, snatched up the Bizon with his right, and leaped over Kane. He landed on his butt in the grass and began sliding down the ditch’s steep embankment.
He took in the situation below with a glance, fixing the position of the three remaining enemy combatants.
One to the left, twenty feet away . . .
One kneeling at the SUV window . . .
One standing at the bumper . . .
The grass whipped Tucker’s face, and rocks slammed into his buttocks and thighs. As he plummeted, he aimed the Magnum at the man beside the bumper and opened fire, squeezing the trigger over and over again. His first shot went wide, the second caught the man in the leg, and the third in the sternum.
One down.
Tucker turned his attention next to the kneeling man, who lay directly below him. He tried to bring the Bizon to bear, but he was sliding too quickly and hit the bottom of the embankment first.
At the last moment, he kicked out with his legs and flew, body-slamming the second man against the side of the SUV. Pain burst behind his eyes—but he had the other pinned, now underwater. A blind hand rose and slapped at him, fingers clawing. Then a mud-covered face pushed out, gasping, coughing. As the man tried to gulp air, Tucker shouldered his face back underwater.
He held him down, while he swung his Bizon and pointed it toward the far side of the SUV. The third enemy appeared, still about ten feet beyond the SUV, out in the open. Tucker fired a burst of rounds. His aim was wild, but it forced the other back out of sight.
By now, the man under him had stopped struggling, drowned.
Tucker crouched up, certain the last man would come charging at him.
Nothing came for a full five count.
He heard rustling in the grass and looked up to see Kane picking his way down the embankment.
With his partner coming, Tucker sidled along the edge of the SUV and took a fast look past its bumper.
The last man was stumbling away, his back to Tucker. The Bizon hung loosely from his right hand. His feet splashed heavily in the water. Out in the open, he knew he was defeated.
“Damn it,” Tucker muttered.
He couldn’t let the man go, but he refused to shoot a victim in the back.
“Stoj!” he hollered and fired a burst into the air. Stop!
The man obeyed, but he didn’t turn around. Instead, he dropped to his knees and threw his weapon to the side. He placed his hands on top of his head.
Kane reached him, but Tucker held him back.
“Stay, pal.”
Tucker walked down the ditch to where the man was kneeling. He realized the man was a boy of about nineteen or twenty.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
“I will tell no one,” the boy begged in heavily accented English.
Yes, you will. Even if you don’t want to, they’ll make you.
Tucker was suddenly tired, spent to his core. “Turn around.”
“Nyet.”
“Turn around.”
“NYET!”
Tucker swallowed hard and raised the Bizon. “I’m sorry.”
