Chris Kuzneski - The Hunters

Dumb oversight , he told himself.

He dropped back into the forest, the Black Robes still in pursuit.

The first casualty was the lead motorcycle. Determined to be the ones responsible for taking out the aircraft, the driver took the motorcycle off of the beaten path and plowed through the forest in a beeline toward Cobb. Gnarled roots and exposed rocks nearly bounced the rider from the sidecar as low branches and saplings sliced into the driver’s cheeks and forehead.

As the gunman took aim, the front wheel of the IMZ-Ural found an unseen tree stump, causing the motorcycle to jerk erratically. The jolt tossed the gunman violently toward the outside of the car, spinning his body wildly at the driver. In a split-second of panic, the gunman accidentally squeezed the trigger on his Uzi submachine gun, decapitating the driver with several close-range shots to his face.

Like the Headless Horseman, the driver’s body refused to release the accelerator. Unfortunately for the gunman in the sidecar, the effect turned the motorcycle into an unguided missile. Overwhelmed with shock, the gunman simply watched in horror as the corpse rammed the sidecar into an oncoming tree at full speed. The impact crushed the sidecar and its occupant as the bike ripped in two.

Cobb watched the action from above and was dumbstruck by the sight of a headless Black Robe careening through the wilderness on what was left of his IMZ-Ural.

That leaves two more bikes , he thought.

Cobb spun the H-4 back around and charged forward. Suddenly, the ground dropped out from beneath him, and he found himself hovering nearly one hundred feet above a wide creek. The ravine had caught him by surprise, and he hoped it would do the same to the Black Robes. Cobb kept the H-4 over the edge of the chasm just long enough to make a show for the second motorcycle.

Sensing that they had closed the gap between themselves and their target, the second driver eagerly sped down the straightaway toward Cobb. As the second gunman took aim, Cobb fought the whirling updrafts and down-currents that raged over the stream.

It only bought him a few seconds, but it was all he needed.

Only yards from the cliff, the Black Robe driver realized his mistake. He slammed the brakes while cranking the wheel as hard as he could. The sidecar rose as the bike tilted on two wheels. As it dropped to the ground only inches from the edge, the engine stalled. Both the driver and the sidecar gunman breathed a quick sigh of relief.

But their reprieve wouldn’t last long.

They turned at the sound of the H-4, which Cobb was now advancing toward them as fast as the craft could carry him. His gun drawn, Cobb fired two shots, yet neither of the Black Robes was hit. It took them a moment to realize why, and by then it was too late.

Cobb hadn’t aimed at them; he had fired at the third motorcycle behind them. As the Black Robes on the stalled bike turned back, they saw the third driver slumped over the handlebars. And the gunman’s head was lolled back, a gaping hole where his throat should have been.

Meanwhile, the bike was heading right at them.

Before they could start the motorcycle again or even jump clear of the path, the last Black Robes were pushed over the cliff by the third IMZ-Ural. Cobb watched as four bodies — two dead, two screaming — tumbled down the rocky embankment.

The eventual explosion was music to his ears.

As the BRDM rounded the last bend before the straightaway, Sidorov opened the hatch. The heavy metal door clanked back, and Sidorov rose to his feet in the vehicle’s roof opening. Ahead of him was the American in his skeletal flying machine. The man held a pitiful firearm in his hand — something from the American West, which suited this mad cowboy.

The American would pay for his transgression.

Sidorov brought up the six-foot-long tube to his shoulder, using the optical sight to home in on Cobb. His target was making a lazy curve in the sky, coming lower to align with his team. No matter. The TGB-29V’s three-foot-long, thermobaric, anti-personnel warhead would blow him out of the sky even if it only detonated near him. The Russian pulled the shoulder brace tight against his body. He wrapped his hand around the pistol grip trigger mechanism.

The rocket engine would start, and the missile would leave the barrel at almost a thousand feet per second. The eight fins on the rear of the projectile would deploy, stabilizing the warhead. It would reach its effective range of sixteen hundred feet without delay or obstruction. The sixty-five-millimeter explosive would detonate, killing any living thing in its vicinity.

Sidorov had Cobb dead to rights in his optical sight.

He smiled and gripped the trigger.

With Anna driving, McNutt reached into the sidecar seat, pulled up his last remaining weapon, and shot it point blank at the leader of the Black Robes. There was a pop and a whooshing sound as Sidorov was enveloped in a net.

McNutt’s timing couldn’t have been better. Sidorov was knocked back against the edge of the hatch. On impact, he instinctively pulled the trigger even though the launcher was pointed aimlessly to the right. A moment later, the rocket engine of the missile ignited.

From his elevated perspective, Cobb saw it all. The warhead, designed to penetrate the armored hulls of tanks, flashed out in what looked like a thick line of yellowish smoke, then it smashed into the edge of the hill. The ground erupted in a billowing circle of red, gray, and brown debris that knocked the massive BRDM on its side. Rock and dirt cascaded onto it — some of it actually molten from the heat of the grenade. Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over — save for the loud echo, which rolled through the distant hills like a roar of the gods.

When the dust settled, the BRDM was left dangling precariously from the edge of the hillside. The slightest shift in its center of gravity, and the entire thing would tumble to the bottom of the ravine, hundreds of feet below.

Cobb swung down above the armored vehicle. He edged toward the hatch where Sidorov lay half inside the truck and half outside, covered with net and earth and blood and wriggling like an earthworm. The leader of the Black Robes looked up. A curious expression came over his face as he realized he had been bested. He knew he would die today.

Cobb moved the handlebar controls and descended. He landed, unbuckled himself, and hurried over to the armored vehicle. The ground was brittle. He didn’t have much time.

‘Do you speak English?’ Cobb asked as he squatted beside Sidorov.

The Russian coughed, then smiled with bloodstained teeth.

‘I’ll make a deal with you,’ Cobb said. ‘A trade before you meet your maker. I’ll tell you what you want to know, and you do the same for me. Sound good?’

Sidorov laughed. ‘What … do … I … want … to … know?’ His English was heavily accented, and his breathing was increasingly labored.

Cobb reached into his pocket. He grasped the tiny object between his thumb and forefinger and stretched out his arm, giving Sidorov a closer view. ‘This.’

Sidorov’s eyes brightened at the sight of Rasputin’s ring. He closed his eyes and smiled, content in the knowledge that his master’s body had been found after all these years.

‘Hey!’ Cobb yelled. ‘Don’t you die on me! Not yet!’

Cobb, who had borrowed the ring while the train was moving, returned it to his pocket, then quickly pulled out his cell phone. Using the touchscreen, he scrolled through his photos. Finding the one he wanted, he held the screen toward Sidorov so he could see it. ‘Is this the man you dealt with? The man in charge of this mission?’

Sidorov laughed at the question, blood spewing from his mouth. ‘ Him? … In charge?’ He laughed at the notion. ‘He is not the boss.’