David Healey - Red Sniper

“Maybe the Russians gave up,” Vaccaro said.

“Barkov does not give up,” Inna said.

“Then what happened to their dogs?”

“The same thing that happened to our dog. Wolves.”

Although it was some relief not to hear the dogs on their trail, it was also disconcerting. In a way, the dogs had helped them keep tabs on their pursuers. The Russians could be miles away—or else creeping up on them.

“Better get a move on,” Cole said. His belly clenched in hunger, but there was no choice but to ignore it. He had a sudden recollection of the many hungry nights he had spent as a boy in Gashey’s Creek, where he had learned to ignore the rumblings of an empty belly.

Food was more than mere comfort; out here, it was fuel. They still had many miles to go. If there was time later, he might try to circle back and check Vaska’s snares.

“Maybe there’s a diner up ahead,” Vaccaro said.

”Short of that, the best we can hope for now is to get across that border as fast as possible,” Cole said.

Not more than a mile away, Barkov was up at first light, kicking his men awake. They were down to one bottle of vodka, so he let them all have a swig along with their hunk of cold black bread that served as breakfast. It was just below zero degrees celsius. Typical autumn weather. In a few weeks, it would be so cold that a cup of water froze instantly when poured onto the ground.

“No sign of the dogs?” he asked the Mink.

The Mink shrugged.

Last night, a she wolf had come to the edge of camp and lured the dogs away. Barkov suspected that she had been in heat. How could a wolf be so clever? It almost went beyond animal cunning.

Since they had seen no sign of the dogs since then, Barkov assumed that the wolves had gotten them. There had been two dogs, but a dozen or more wolves in the pack that they been roaming around them. Not good odds.

He liked to think that the dogs had escaped the wolves and run back home. Maybe they had run all the way to Moscow. Barkov wished them luck.

Without the dogs to do their tracking, he was worried about losing the prisoners’ trail. The snow was deep enough that it had buried any trace of their footsteps. All that Barkov could do was head west from the last point where the trail had left off. The good news was that if they found the trail this morning, it would be a simple matter of following the prisoners’ tracks through the snow.

As usual, the Mink seemed to sense what Barkov was thinking. He nodded, as if in agreement to Barkov’s thoughts.

“If we find their tracks, we won’t need the dogs,” the Mink said. “A child could follow their trail.”

“Even Dmitri could follow their trail in the snow!” Barkov said, and laughed. The clear, bright weather, and the promise of another day of hunting, had put him in a good mood.

First, they had to find the trail.

Barkov ordered them to fan out, each man about twenty meters apart, so that they could cover the most ground in hopes of picking up the prisoners’ tracks. All around them, the taiga was covered in a blanket of unbroken white.

Barkov did not mind the cold or the snow. He did not mind having to find the escapees’ trail. It was much better to be the hunter than the hunted. And the day was young.

It was clear by now that Ramsey wouldn’t last long. There was something wrong with his lungs. His breath dragged in and out, rattling like chain being dragged down a gravel road. Ramsey had seemed to rally after the wolf attack, but that had sapped all his energy. Now he was wrapped in a blanket. Inna had put his head in her lap, in the way that one might comfort a child. Every now and then his eyes fluttered open.

You didn’t need to be a doctor to know he had pneumonia, or something just as bad. Whatever was wrong with Ramsey, it wasn’t something they could cure a hundred miles from nowhere.

None of them was in great shape. They were a cold and miserable bunch. Samson nursed the leg where the wolf had ripped a chunk from his calf. Vaccaro nervously scanned the horizon, clutching his rifle. The wolf attack had left him more shaken than an artillery barrage. Honaker was even more jumpy and irritable than usual. Whitlock huddled beside Inna and Ramsey, shivering.

Only Vaska and Cole seemed calm, both men sitting apart from the others. Vaska scraped out his pipe and tamped it full of tobacco again, making a ritual out of lighting it. Cole had an unlit cigarette clenched in his teeth. He was convinced that cigarettes were leaving him too winded, so he was giving them up. Both men kept rifles across their knees.

Honaker walked over and joined them.

“He’s not gonna make it,” Honaker said in a low voice, nodding at Ramsey. He acted as if he didn’t want the others to hear, but that was futile—they were only a few feet away. “We are just carrying a dead man.”

“What would you suggest?” Cole asked, making no effort to rein in his contempt for the man. He knew damn well what Honaker was going to suggest, and he didn’t like it. Honaker was someone who always took the easy way, but not necessarily the right way. The mountain folk back home would have said that he lacked sand.

Thinking about it now, Cole realized he hadn’t seen Honaker during the wolf attack. He puzzled it out until he realized that Honaker had likely stayed in his shelter, out of harm’s way until the wolves scattered.

“He’s not going to make it.”

Cole didn’t even bother to keep the contempt out of his voice. ”What do you want to do, Honaker? Leave him for the wolves? Shoot him?”

“I’m just saying, is all.”

“Say it to somebody else,” Cole said. “Nobody gets left behind. Now, you had best tell everyone to get on their feet. We need to keep a move on.”

Honaker glared at Cole, but after a minute he gave the order. Everyone was too cold and tired and hungry to protest. They knew that the only way out was to keep moving.

Ramsey’s eyelids fluttered open again. He struggled to get himself propped up on an elbow. “I’m staying right here,” he announced.

“The hell you are,” said Cole. “Come on. I’ll help you up. I’ll carry you if I have to.”

Ramsey shook his head. “Look at me. We are still days away from Finland. No, give me a gun and I can buy you some time. I can take out a few of those Russian bastards before they get me.”

Cole shook his head. “You ain’t in no shape to fight.”

Samson spoke up. He had not said much since last night. “I’ll stay with him. You’ve seen my leg. How far do you think I’d get? It looks like hamburger.”

“You two can’t stay here.” Cole pronounced it cain’t , as if it rhymed with ain’t .

“Sure we can stay. It’s the easiest thing in the world,” Samson said. He grinned. Injured leg or not, he remained a force to be reckoned with. “Besides, you and whose army are gonna stop me?”

“Hate to say it,” Honaker said. He didn’t look at Ramsey or Samson, but spoke as it they weren’t there. “That gives the rest of us a fighting chance.”

“Shut up, Honaker,” Cole said sharply. “Nobody asked you.”

Honaker wouldn’t be put off that easily. He snapped, “Listen up, Cole—”

“No, you two listen to me ,” Samson said. “I’ve already told you how it’s gonna be.”

Cole didn’t like it. Deep in his bones, he downright hated the idea. However, he wondered how much of his opposition had to do with the fact that he didn’t like any idea that Honaker supported. He looked over at Vaska’s grave, stoic face. The old Russian sucked on his pipe and nodded. Vaccaro wouldn’t meet his eyes, which meant he also favored the idea.