Chris Kuzneski - The Hunters

In that regard, he was more cowboy than cop.

An old-school hero in a new world.

Standing on a rise while glancing through seventy-year-old binoculars — with superb optics, she had to confess — Anna had seen Borovsky ride toward the train, fire at the ground, then trot alongside the engine. The entire time he was smiling, like he was having a total blast.

From her vantage point, it had looked like a nest of insects swarming around a toy train. She had looked helplessly at the villagers around her. They were not fearful of the sharp reports of weapons or the danger faced by loved ones. They were completely silent while they watched, intently, as events unfolded.

A few had even seemed proud.

But that only made sense. It wasn’t every day that the local peace officers received a call from a colleague in Moscow — one who wanted them to join him and do what they were trained to do. And on a matter of international importance. Most of these people had never been more than twenty-five miles from their village.

To do something that affected the world was an honor.

But after ten minutes, the action was over.

That part of it, anyway.

She was about to get in a waiting hay cart — a hay cart! — for a ride back to the village when a crack had rolled ominously from somewhere behind her. In a panic, she quickly raised the binoculars and studied the scene before her.

Only one man had appeared to be hit.

Colonel Viktor Borovsky.

Cobb slammed onto the floor of the train cab, temporarily dazed by the blood and horse brains that had splattered the side of his face.

Jasmine ducked as she yanked up the shotgun like she was about to blow the roof off the train, riding the fear as she’d been taught. Her survival depended upon treating her emotion like an unwelcome friend, not the enemy itself.

‘Can I kill someone now?’ McNutt spat sarcastically as he spun in the direction of the shot. He saw the attackers a second after Garcia did.

‘ATVs, AK-47s — Black Robes!’ they all heard in their ears.

A dust cloud filled the horizon. Tearing up from the southern woods with the ear-slicing roar of a hundred dragons were dozens of dark, four-wheel, all-terrain vehicles, ridden by men cloaked in black robes and carrying AK assault rifles. They tore up the grass and shredded the flowers as their bulky, industrialized, heavy-tired machines buzz-sawed furiously up the slope, while the horsemen raced for the far side of the train where their leader still was.

Cobb’s head came up as McNutt dragged Jasmine and Dobrev down.

‘Full metal jackets!’ the sniper hissed as he grabbed the Benelli shotgun from Jasmine, twisted toward the southern side of the cab, then cursed.

‘What?’ Cobb said.

‘Too far, damn it!’ McNutt said. ‘Out of range!’

Then McNutt was gone, out the back of the cab, so fast that he practically left a puff of cartoon smoke.

Jasmine stared after him then spun her head back toward Cobb, who was still on the floor, his head raised. Half his face looked like it was slapped with red warpaint. He was trying to look out the window without losing the top of his head.

‘Jasmine, you stay back,’ Cobb said. ‘I can’t afford to lose my translator.’

The remark stung a little. His concern wasn’t for her , it was for what he had often referred to as the ‘mission assets’. Whenever she thought she might be starting to like him or one of the others, that reality always intruded.

As Jasmine stepped back, Sarah appeared in the cab door. She was fully dressed in her Type IV Modular Tactical Vest and Ops Core Ballistic helmet — the best bullet-resistant gear money could buy. The former looked like a tailor-made down vest, and the latter looked like a particularly aggressive bike-riding helmet. Even so, they were made to withstand everything up to, and including, thirty-zero-six armor-piercing bullets.

Sarah’s arms were full of additional gear for the rest of the team. She tossed vests and helmets to Cobb and Jasmine, along with a spare for Dobrev, then she swung a SIG 553 Commando assault rifle around from where it was strapped on her back. The seven-pound, twenty-eight-inch, five-point-six-millimeter, thirty-round weapon was also considered one of the best in the world.

‘Thanks,’ Cobb said as he pulled Jasmine lower and helped her suit up before putting his own equipment on.

‘No problem,’ Sarah said. ‘I gotta get back to McNutt. He’s setting up the armory for war.’ She smirked at the thought. ‘He said we have permission to kill them. True?’

In the pause that followed, they heard the slapping metallic noise of lead hail hitting the southern side of the train.

‘Yes,’ Cobb said.

‘Wait!’ Papineau shouted in their ears.

‘Sarah, go,’ Cobb said, ignoring the Frenchman. He looked at Sarah, pointed toward the armory, then pulled his finger across his throat.

Sarah gave a thumbs-up and disappeared. Better protected now, Cobb went to the door for a clearer view of the Black Robes. From this vantage point, he heard a scratching just beyond the lavatory door on the other side. He twisted around to see a stunned, winded Borovsky, his face covered in his horse’s brains, feebly trying to pull himself up the cab ladder.

‘Jack, are you there?’ Papineau said.

‘Shut him down, Garcia,’ Cobb shouted, clearly referring to the Frenchman, while reaching out to the Russian.

‘Just his broadcasts or-’ Garcia started.

‘Everything!’ Cobb bellowed as Jasmine and Dobrev, who had put on his own, slightly ill-fitting protective gear, rushed to help Borovsky. It didn’t matter that he was a Russian police officer or the leader of the villagers. Cobb sensed that Borovsky would be more of an asset than a threat, particularly after saving his life.

Garcia cut Papineau off as ordered.

‘Dobrev!’ Cobb shouted at the engineer. When he got his attention, he urgently jabbed one forefinger at the northern tree line. The old man nodded and scuttled to the controls.

As the engine throttled up, Cobb helped Jasmine drag the limp, groaning Borovsky inside.

‘ Spasiba ,’ he said breathlessly.

Cobb offered him his own protective helmet.

The colonel declined with a grateful wave of his hand.

‘Jasmine, tell Dobrev to get as close to the tree line as possible,’ Cobb said. ‘Garcia, how many?’

‘Two dozen, more coming,’ came the answer. ‘Now three … four! More coming!’

Cobb silently swore. ‘Everybody, retreat prep.’

‘No!’ McNutt shouted.

‘Dammit, I said prep , not execute!’

‘Roger,’ said Garcia and Sarah almost at the same time.

And then Sarah hissed, ‘Get with the freakin’ program, McNutt.’

As the train began to pick up speed, Cobb slid to the southern side of the cab. He hazarded a look at the field just in time to see the nearest Black Robe kill a horse and rider with his AK-47. A second after that, the Black Robe cartwheeled off the ATV, his head erupting into a wet, red plume of mist.

‘In range,’ McNutt reported gleefully.

‘We’ll be too, in a few seconds,’ Garcia said, comparing his map to the specs of the weaponry carried by the Black Robes.

Cobb heard another dull crack and saw a flying Black Robe.

McNutt cackled with delight. ‘They gotta get through the killing field first. Let’s see how many volunteer.’

He was right: the lead drivers who were trying to reach the train veered away to the east, moving out of range and rendering themselves ineffective. The Black Robes would have to wait and attack the passing train from the rear.

That bought Cobb’s team some time.

Chalk one up to McNutt , Cobb thought, picturing the gunman using an Accuracy International AX338 long-range sniper’s rifle, the one with the five-shot magazine.