Chris Kuzneski - The Hunters

Don’t be defeatist , she warned herself. You have organizational experience. These people have the will. Rally them, arm them with whatever they have at hand .

Anna was sure that Borovsky would have a Russian proverb to match that sentiment, but she could think of none. For her, only one thing came to her mind. She directed her question to one of the Romanian elders, using hand gestures to make her point.

‘Where are your pitchforks?’

The man, who had been conversing urgently with a small group of older men and women, was pointing left, then right. He turned and shook his head.

‘No,’ he said, then he started off with the others.

Frustrated and confused, Anna followed.

Before leaving the train, Cobb thought Garcia and McNutt would give him the most trouble, with Dobrev a close third. Now that he had McNutt under control, he was pleased to see that Garcia was downright eager to leave the train.

Jasmine had followed Borovsky out of the cabin, and Sarah had gone next to take the hand-off of Garcia’s gear. His rider had just pulled alongside the crawling train when Cobb and McNutt entered the cabin.

‘Protect your jewels,’ Cobb advised.

‘How?’ Garcia asked, genuinely concerned.

McNutt stared at him. ‘If you have to ask, you don’t deserve to have nuts.’

Cobb rolled his eyes. ‘Hector, just go! Now!’

Garcia flung himself forward like he was jumping into a pool. He planted his hands on the rider’s broad shoulders, threw open his legs, and landed perfectly on the back of the horse as if he had been doing it all his life. At least until his computer-filled shoulder bag nearly pulled him over the back of the horse’s bobbing rump. Taking Sarah’s earlier advice, he quickly wrapped his arms around the rider’s waist in a bear hug.

McNutt watched in awe as the double-mounted riders galloped out of the way of the single riders. It took a while, but eventually his steed arrived next to the train. McNutt carried the heaviest load by far, and Borovsky had reserved the biggest, hardiest horse for him. McNutt made a perfect jump, but there was still a moment when everyone worried that the horse, the riders, and the duffel bag would all topple down the slight incline that led to the trackbed.

But the horse and his rider proved deserving of Borovsky’s faith. The big, beige Lippizaner with the black ‘freckles’ bent his legs as he absorbed the impact, shifted a step, then returned to full balance. McNutt immediately twisted around so he could call to Jasmine.

‘Tell them, no, ask them , if I can please bring up the rear.’

Jasmine relayed McNutt’s request, which was granted.

Before he would relent to Cobb’s insistence, Dobrev took a moment to say goodbye to his old friend, Ludmilla. He knew he had to go, but he wished to God he could stay with her. It was a profound emotional parting, a psychological wrench. Dobrev was saying goodbye to more than just a beloved, vintage engine; he was abandoning an old friend. He laid a weathered hand on the cold iron of the engine’s inner wall — a final ‘thank you’ for all she meant to him.

He did so with tears in his eyes.

Then, without hesitation, Dobrev jumped heavily and nearly slid off the back of his horse. But the rider threw his arms back to prevent it, spreading them like the wings of an eagle and turning his palms out and back to grab Dobrev’s reaching arms.

The old man beamed gratefully.

Cobb saw Sarah gesturing forcefully toward the back of the train. He heard the pop-pop-pop of McNutt’s weapon.

‘There are too many!’ she yelled. ‘They’re getting onboard!’

Cobb wasn’t surprised. Even though Dobrev had locked the throttle in place, the incline had increased and the engine was slowing. Cobb’s rider moved into position, and he jumped. He hadn’t even shifted properly on the horse’s croup when Decebal, Borovsky, and Jasmine trotted up beside him. The Russian cop was already speaking.

‘They said we should not make a stand,’ Jasmine translated.

‘What do they recommend?’

Borovsky was already explaining.

‘He says that we should concentrate on getting away,’ Jasmine said.

‘He wants us to run?’ Sarah snarled from the far side of the group.

‘The word he used was “ retreat “,’ she said. ‘A tactical retreat.’

‘The word I use is pussies ,’ McNutt grumbled in their ears.

Cobb considered the odds, the potential losses, and the fact that they were on Decebal’s home turf, which meant he would know the best hiding places and most defensible positions. But Cobb also remembered Jasmine’s story about the Argonauts. It was probably Decebal’s job to make sure the treasure stayed where it was, even if it meant that he, his riders, and the would-be thieves all perished. On the other hand, Borovsky and the riders had agreed to a temporary truce before the Black Robes had attacked. Furthermore, they had just saved Borovsky’s life.

‘Let’s do as he says,’ Cobb announced.

The flock of villagers turned slightly, as one, toward a densely wooded spot atop a small rise. Cobb glanced back and was sickened by the sight. To Dobrev, the train had been a thing of love and beauty. To the Black Robes, it was a husk to inhabit with some vile purpose.

And that purpose was yet to be revealed.

Cobb’s thoughts were interrupted by buzzing engines and gunfire from the rear of the group. The ATVs on the front line roared to newly invigorated life, and their big-treaded tires tore up the ground like a buffalo stampede. A thick fog of dust obscured the waves of Black Robes who charged after them, their AK-47s raised.

Cobb held on tight to the man in front of him as he turned sharply to watch. The weighed-down horses were losing ground to the motorized enemy, and Cobb realized that they might need to rethink their strategy. He didn’t relish the idea of a Custer-like stand, even with the trees affording some protection, but he liked the thought of McNutt and their rear guard being mowed down in ‘tactical retreat’ even less.

He could see that Borovsky was weighing that option as well.

From his half-turned vantage point, Cobb had a clear view of what happened next. Like an experienced trick rider, McNutt spun around, locked himself on top of the horse with just his legs, and brought up a Saiga 20K shotgun.

Cobb felt a flush of realization. When he wasn’t acting the fool, this man was a lethal professional. The Russian-made Saiga was only twenty-four inches long and could carry more rounds than any other semi-automatic shotgun — twelve, to be exact. Twelve hot, hurtling rounds that would spread amongst their pursuers like flying piranha. And, carefully employed, it could provide a bonus: the ATVs of fallen riders would then veer off into the rest of the pack.

McNutt went to work, covering their rear, leaving behind something that looked like a scene from a video game. Riders jerked, blood sprayed, ATVs careened, and wheels flipped skyward. In the wake of the chaos lay the victims of McNutt’s assault — all dead, or dying.

The remaining ATV leaders tried to get their rifles targeted, but their own jostling machines threw off their aim. Cobb heard the final two booms of McNutt’s gun just before his own rider shouted something in Romanian that contained the urgency of ‘Hold on!’

Cobb’s next breath was sucked in as the riders jerked to the left and headed right for the trees. Cobb looked ahead, over the rider’s shoulder, to see the shadows of the forest drawing closer. His instincts told him that something wasn’t right. He didn’t like not knowing what it was. Then they were up in the air, surging forward in a mighty leap as the horses vaulted over fallen trunks, bushes, and vines just as AK-47 bullets began biting chunks out of bark and branches all around them.