Chris Kuzneski - The Hunters

McNutt groaned when the cycle’s front tire exploded. Anna flew over the handlebars and rolled across the hillside, while the sidecar toppled over sideways — smashing, twisting, and bouncing. At some point, Borovsky was viciously tossed aside like a broken marionette.

Cobb saw it all from his elevated position, and with just a push on the handlebars, he sent the H-4 swooping toward the BRDM.

At first, the combatants were too shocked by the appearance of the strange, skeletal helicopter to shoot it down, and Cobb took full advantage of the surprise. He sped in and hovered over the Black Robes, directly in front of the BRDM. Cobb remained stationary for only a moment — just long enough to threaten the destruction of Rasputin’s grave — before he accelerated over them and headed toward an imaginary spot in the forest.

Sidorov gestured broadly, looking left and right as he pointed at the train before disappearing into the BRDM. A moment later the big vehicle stopped and pivoted on its central axis until it was facing in the direction Cobb had flown.

Then it set off in pursuit.

Of the remaining Black Robes, a dozen headed toward the slowing train and a half-dozen joined the BRDM to track down Cobb before he could harm their master.

Garcia stared at the camera footage on his video screen. ‘You’re nearly there, Jasmine. About ten feet … eight … five …’

She braked, hoping that the last expenditure of momentum would do the trick.

It did. There was a squeal, a thump, and then a clang as the couplings hooked.

‘Beautiful!’ Garcia yelled. ‘Way to go!’

Half a flatbed away, McNutt swore. A dozen Cossack cycles were tearing back toward the train, and he was the main line of defense. McNutt slammed his palm on the flatbed fence in frustration. He vaulted over the side of the flatbed car.

‘Josh!’ Garcia cried, seeing him land and sprint toward the nearest Black Robe.

McNutt fired two rounds at the ground, each one closer to the front tire than the one before. He was out of range, but hopefully the rider wouldn’t know that. The Black Robe with the empty sidecar swerved a little too quickly and nearly tipped over. He skidded toward McNutt just enough. The gunman was already running at him, right arm stretched ahead, left hand supporting it at the wrist. The Glock spat twice, though the second ‘insurance’ shot wasn’t necessary. The first had made a raw, red hole in the rider’s forehead.

McNutt ducked and hurried over to snatch the AK-47.

He kicked off the dead driver and hopped on.

‘Okay, you bastards,’ he said. ‘If it’s killing you want …’

He gunned the engine and tore off across the field at the oncoming Black Robes.

The remaining eleven Black Robes bore down on him. McNutt grinned in ferocious anticipation at the sight of the arrogant driver who pulled away from the group, the occupant of his sidecar sneering as he carefully aimed his own AK-47.

McNutt watched the man’s shoulder. Just as it rose, McNutt pulled back the throttle and quickly decelerated. He felt the bullet go by his right ear an instant before he heard the sound of its firing.

Stupid headhunter , he thought. You should have gone for the chest .

With leisurely grace, McNutt placed a nine-millimeter slug into the man’s heart. The Cossack driver reacted in surprise as the sidecar occupant’s head snapped back, his chest opening like a broken window. McNutt punctuated the driver’s surprise by putting a Glock round in his ear as he passed.

The driver flew off the bike as if in slow motion, and the cycle just kept going. So did McNutt — ignoring the driver as he crashed into the ground in an ugly heap.

There are more where he came from.

McNutt swung wide and passed to the right of the group, doing what he used to do in the rodeo: he ducked low and far to the side, giving the Black Robes nothing to shoot at but the bike. They were surprised to see him vanish and held their fire just long enough for him to speed into a protective thicket. When they recovered and turned to pursue, McNutt was upright again. He swung the motorcycle to its side, aimed through an opening, and took down a pair of Black Robes.

Sidorov had heard the gunfire coming closer — not toward the train, where it was supposed to be going. He looked back through the slotted window of the BRDM and saw the enemy, who was obviously an experienced warrior and sharpshooter, pick off three more cyclists.

Sidorov sensed it was time to make a stand. Cursing the incompetence of his men, Sidorov stared angrily at his two Black Robe assistants — one behind the wheel and one beside the driver. He knew what lay ahead. He knew what had to be done.

‘The grenade launcher,’ Sidorov said. ‘Give it to me.’

McNutt pulled up to where Anna was cradling Borovsky’s body. McNutt only had a few rounds left in the automatic. He would have to get a weapon from the Russians.

Anna looked at him with certainty, her face unmarked by tears.

‘There’s no blood on his teeth,’ she said in Russian. ‘I don’t think he has any major internal injuries.’

McNutt shrugged helplessly. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t speak Russian.’

‘He …’ Anna said in halting, heavily accented English. ‘No dead.’

McNutt could see that Borovsky was breathing, albeit raggedly. The gunman looked back to where the train had stopped in front of their old compartment car and where the villagers were swarming over the crashed and toppled Black Robe motorcycles he had dealt with. The horsemen had dismounted and had effectively circled their wagons using abandoned bikes. McNutt turned back to Anna and started talking rapidly.

She looked confused, but then a hand touched her cheek. She looked down to see Borovsky gazing up at her.

‘The forest does not grieve for the loss of a single tree,’ he said.

‘Quiet,’ she laughed in relief. ‘You’re not going to die. Not yet.’

McNutt did a somewhat elaborate mime to convey what he wanted to tell her.

‘Leave him,’ he said, pressing both palms toward the ground. Then he pointed at the train, made a cradling gesture. ‘The villagers will take care of him.’ He pointed at himself and Anna. ‘We have to take out that bastard.’ He indicated the armored car, crashed his fists together, then threw open his fingers, trying to convey that the vehicle must be destroyed.

‘He makes a good point,’ the colonel grinned, grimacing. ‘Go. I will be fine.’

Her face cleared, and she nodded at McNutt. She laid Borovsky’s head down tenderly, then grabbed an AK-47 and approached McNutt’s motorcycle.

‘Let us go,’ she said in English.

He nodded, unholstered the only specialized weapon he still possessed, and took the AK-47 from her.

‘You drive,’ McNutt said.

Cobb laughed. Not at the Black Robes. The Black Robes were deadly, dedicated, and unafraid. But as soon as he crossed the grove, he had them at a very distinct disadvantage. In order to give chase, the Black Robes would have to follow a winding trail through the dense forest or trample through the thick underbrush. The gaps in the trees would give them only brief opportunities to take clear shots.

That is, if Cobb could navigate the H-4 through those same narrow gaps.

If the rotors clipped the nearby branches, the Black Robes would be the least of his worries.

Shots popped. Even over the hum of the engines, Cobb heard them whiz by. The air was buzzing with projectiles. And up here, an accidental hit would kill him as surely as a purposeful one. Any loss of control would surely send him careening into the trees. He rose above the canopy, but the fierce wind made it virtually impossible to control the light H-4 at that altitude. Cobb wasn’t susceptible to vertigo or motion sickness, but the rush of air against his face made him wish he had goggles.