Cliff Ryder - Black Widow

"Yes sir."

The men in the vehicles behind him disembarked, as well. They carried weapons but didn't turn on the flashlights they'd brought. The moonlight was bright enough to see by, and the lights would only mark them as targets.

Taburova started forward, leaning into his approach, then stopped within ten paces. He waved his men to a halt behind him.

"What is it?" one of the men asked.

"They are up there." Taburova's eye scanned the dark ridges before them. "And they are watching us."

"They are expecting us," someone said.

"The council of elders is expecting us," Taburova corrected. He reached into his pocket for a flashlight. "The men up there behind those rifles might not even know what day of the week it is."

"Stupid goatherds," a coarse voice spat.

"I hope your voice does not carry into those hills," someone else said. "Otherwise, one of those men might decide to put a bullet between your eyes."

"You do not even know that someone is there."

"You are an idiot if you think that."

"I cannot believe you are afraid of these backward people."

"These backward people," Taburova said, "fought the mighty Russian army to a standstill out here. Outgunned, outmanned, these warriors brought single-shot rifles into battle and cut down proud Russian soldiers like they were wheat. If you do not keep that in mind, I will kill you myself."

No one else spoke.

Taburova turned on his flashlight. The beam tracked the hard-packed earth, showing the ruts left by two-wheeled carts and the heavy footprints of oxen. Then he flashed the beam up in his face and held it for all to see.

Footsteps shuffled behind him and he knew that the men closest to him retreated. He didn't blame them.

"I am Mayrbek Taburova," he declared in a loud voice. "Someone among you should know me. I have spoken with the council of elders. I am here answering their call."

Adrenaline flooded Taburova's senses. If they fired on him, he'd never hear the bullet that killed him.

A moment later a match flame between cupped palms plucked a hard-planed face from the darkness only briefly. The hollow eyes regarded Taburova.

"Come," the man called down. The cupped palms moved apart and the flame died.

* * *

"So, you still live to fight, my friend." Sixty hard years had made Bislan lean as a rake, and misfortune had bent him, yet the old man radiated a dangerous ferocity. His white beard danced in the light breeze. Though his eyes crinkled in laughter, nothing touched the cold chill permanently locked there. The battered catnous he wore fluttered under the long fur coat that draped him. He leaned on an aged sniper rifle that was wrapped in canvas to protect it from the elements.

"I still live," Taburova agreed. "And I still fight."

"It is our way." Bislan held out an arm.

Without hesitation, though he had seen the old man once slit a man's throat with the same gesture, Taburova stepped into Bislan's embrace. The arm still felt strong and able, though the old man had gone stringy with the hard times.

"It is good to see you, my friend." Taburova hugged the old man fiercely, then stepped away.

"I know you are taking the battle to those Russian pigs," Bislan said, "and I am proud of you for that. But every time you leave us, I have to wonder if it will be the last time I see you."

Taburova smiled. "I will bring you news of victory soon. You will not have to sing any songs over my death."

"I hope not. You should live to bury me. And I should die a very old man. That way I know we will have killed many Russians."

Small and remote, the settlement consisted of a collection of shacks built into the foothills. Much thought had gone into building the dwellings, but materials hadn't been readily available. Taburova had grown up in such a house, one with a dirt floor and heated by a fire made from dung. The mountains pressed hard on the men who lived among them.

The walls showed signs of repair. Ill-cut boards covered holes, and the holes were packed with mud. No windows broke the walls, but gun ports showed at regular intervals. The buildings wouldn't stand against much more than the wind and the winter, but no Russian forces could put a tank in those hills, and no Russian soldier had ever reached them.

"Come," Bislan said. "You will eat, then we will talk business."

Taburova followed the man. Bislan's limp had worsened. He didn't have many good years left. Taburova wondered if the Russians would take him or if the mountain might finally claim the old warrior.

A cold breeze climbed inside Taburova's coat and caused him to shiver.

Bislan noticed. "Oh, so you let a little gust of wind bother you?"

Taburova shrugged.

"Do you grow soft while you live down in those cities?" Bislan taunted.

"Not in my heart," Taburova replied.

The old man slapped Taburova on the shoulder and laughed. The sound echoed in the surrounding mountains and reminded Taburova of how far he'd come.

"Before we eat," Taburova said, "let me see the women." That was what he had come all this way for.

* * *

Panicked voices came from inside the small shed not far from the house Bislan had claimed. Taburova heard the fearful whispers from within as one of Bislan's men opened the locks on the door. Scars covered the wooden walls and the building canted drastically to one side.

A noxious stench filled Taburova's nostrils and he stepped back.

"It is a foul mess inside," Bislan warned. "Just last week one of them tried to escape."

"Did she escape?"

Bislan smiled grimly. "Not with my young wolves patrolling the mountain."

Several of the young warriors laughed at that.

"But they were told what the punishment would be if one of them tried something like that. They have been locked in this room for three weeks and not allowed to bathe or care for themselves." Bislan shrugged. "It would have been better if we had eaten before visiting them."

Taburova took out his flashlight and waited as the door swung open on creaking hinges. More scuttling came from within.

One of the young men stepped into the building. He carried a baton in one hand. "You will stay back if you know what's good for you." He shone the flashlight he held in his other hand around the room.

Taburova breathed through his mouth to avoid some of the stench. Waste buckets occupied corners of the room, but they obviously weren't emptied on a regular basis.

The women huddled in the back of the building. They held each other. In the darkness it was hard to make out any details.

"How many?" Taburova asked.

"Eleven," Bislan replied.

Eleven was less than Taburova was hoping for. Still, it was enough to make a difference. That was all he had to do.

He stepped forward and shone the light on his face. "My name is Mayrbek Taburova. I'm here to offer you a chance to save your doomed souls. Listen to me and I will give you a way to enter the gates of heaven."

Leicester

Ajza stood still and silent in the darkness a short distance from the MINI Cooper. Heat from an open thermos briefly fogged the driver's-side window. The smell of tea tainted the night air. She could hear the two men talking.

"I don't know where you're putting all that tea, mate," the man who'd introduced himself as Jason said.

"Keeps me awake and alert," the other man replied.

"Yeah, I could bloody well tell that from all the snoring you were doing a few minutes ago."

"Is it really bad?"

"Look at my ears. Am I bleeding from them."

The other man waved Jason away. "Piss off."

"I should be bleeding from the ears, I tell you." Jason kept his eyes on the shop. "Why do you think we're supposed to keep an eye on this woman?"