David Healey - Red Sniper

“Goddamn,” Cole said, feeling that he had been outvoted. He needed someone to take his side against this damn fool idea. He looked at Whitlock and Inna. “You two all right with this?”

Ramsey interrupted. “It’s not up to them. I’ve already decided. Harry, give me all the extra bullets you have for that Browning of yours.”

Whitlock fished in his pockets, came out with a handful of shells. “Along with what’s in the magazine, that gives you maybe twenty rounds.” He knelt down beside Ramsey and pressed the bullets into his hand, then held it for several moments. “I hate for it to end like this.”

Ramsey pushed himself up higher and grinned. “Are you kidding me? Harry, this is like the Alamo. I get to go out in a blaze of glory. Just like Davy Crockett.”

Inna spoke up. “But—”

Ramsey cut her off with a wave of his hand and his best effort at a happy-go-lucky smile. “Take care of yourself, Inna. Watch out for this one here.”

Whitlock was getting choked up. “I don’t know what to say.”

A shadow passed across Ramsey’s face. “The only thing that bothers me is never getting home again. When you get back, will you at least put up a headstone for me? I doubt the Russians will give me a proper burial.”

Whitlock nodded, and the two men shook hands.

“Hold on a minute,” Cole said. We walked over to Inna and handed her his penknife and one of the brass shell casings for the Springfield. “I want you to scratch Barkov’s name on that shell. In Russian letters. Let’s send Barkov a message.”

Inna was done in a couple of minutes. Cole took the shell and pressed it into Ramsey’s hand, then gave Ramsey and Samson a nod. His pale eyes were hard to read.

Then they walked off into the taiga, leaving Samson and Ramsey to their fates.

Barkov was so intent on looking for tracks in the snow that he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings. It was a mistake that nearly cost him his life. He was just passing a boulder, with one of the soldiers from the garrison a few feet behind him, when a shape that was alien to the natural landscape caught his eye. It took him a split second to recognize the fat black muzzle of a shotgun, thrust out from behind the rock.

Barkov reacted without thinking, throwing himself into the snow. An instant later came the shotgun blast. He heard screaming. The soldier at Barkov’s elbow had picked up some buckshot. A second blast clawed the air overhead, followed by several shots from a pistol.

“Ambush!” Barkov managed to shout. “Take cover!”

His men did not need to be told twice. But it was too late for the soldier nearest Barkov. The second shotgun blast nearly cut him in two. More shots followed in rapid succession. Just two guns, he thought, but it sounded more like twenty.

Barkov and his men were on the receiving end of a military issue trench warfare shotgun. The Winchester Model 12 pump action shotgun could be slam fired—that is, as long as the trigger was depressed, the gun fired each time the action was pumped.

The fire slackened. Then a pause. Time to reload? Barkov sprang to his feet, remarkably agile for a big man, and bulled ahead, rifle at the ready.

He found a big man behind a rock, hurrying to feed shotgun shells into the gun. He got it loaded and leveled it at Barkov, who threw himself flat as the man fired twice. Just two shots—either the man hadn’t had time to fully reload, or he must be out of shells.

Barkov got to his feet, taking his time.

The man shouted something at Barkov in English— American , Barkov thought—then threw the shotgun at him in frustration, and pulled a knife.

Barkov almost sneered as he leveled his rifle at the big American’s chest. A knife? He was about to pull the trigger when he caught movement just beyond the big man. Another man crouched there with a pistol at his side. Why didn’t he shoot? Because the gun was empty, Barkov thought.

His eyes locked on the man, whom he recognized immediately as one of the escaped prisoners. The one called Ramsey. Barkov took his finger off the trigger and shouted at the others not to shoot. It would be so much more satisfying to take them both alive.

Alive for now, anyhow.

Barkov knew about six words of English, one of which he spoke now: “American?”

The big man said something that started with Yeah , which was another one of the words Barkov knew. The others were no , booze , gun , and sonofabitch . He couldn’t understand the rest. He was trying to get his head around the fact that there was an American out here who was not an escapee from the Gulag compound. What was going on?

Then the prisoner named Ramsey shouted something at the big man. What Barkov heard was Samson . That sounded like a name to him.

He handed his rifle to the Mink and took out his whip. His eyes met those of the big American. Barkov didn’t see any fear there, just a challenge. Smiling, he advanced toward the American in a wary crouch.

The two men were almost equally matched, both of them well over six feet tall and heavy through the shoulders. Hands out, heads down, they resembled two bears about to rumble. Samson was maybe a little bigger, but he was limping, favoring a leg that was wrapped in bloody rags. Barkov took note of that.

They circled each other, looking for an advantage, knife against whip. It wasn’t just any knife. The American had one of those wickedly sharp combat knives that resembled a medieval dagger. When the Americans and Russians had met outside Berlin, those knives had been freely traded for vodka and even Russian pistols. If the American managed to stick that thing into him, the fight would be over.

Barkov did not plan on letting him get in that close. The whip was an ideal defense against a knife attack. When Samson lunged, Barkov stung his hand with the whip and pulled back. The whip was made of braided leather, thick as a broomstick near the base and taping slightly down its two-foot length. It had some weight behind it.

Samson feinted left, then lunged from the right. Barkov slapped him away again.

Cautious now of the whip, the American circled just out of reach. Barkov held the whip cocked back by his ear, and gestured with his left hand for the American to come on. The American really had no choice but to attack. His shotgun blast had killed one of the Russians, but there were still four of them with their guns trained on him. It was attack, or die.

He steamed forward like a bull.

Barkov was ready with the whip, but as it hissed down, the American instantly tossed the knife from his right hand to his left and caught the whip in his open right hand. It must have been painful, but he did not let go. Instead, he dragged the whip down and pulled Barkov off balance, then stabbed down with his left hand.

Barkov felt the blade slice his shoulder. Fortunately for him, the American was not accurate with his left hand. Most of the damage was done to his winter coat.

The American wasn’t finished. He drew back his left hand for another go at Barkov.

The Russian saw it coming. He turned sideways and kicked the American’s injured leg out from under him.

Samson went down to his hands and knees like a bull felled by a matador, but one hand still grasped the whip. He was using it to pull himself back up.

Barkov let go, and the American went toppling backwards. Barkov did not give him a chance to recover. As the American got to his knees, Barkov punched him in the back of the head so hard that his knuckles screamed in pain. The American went down again. Then Barkov kicked him. The American rolled onto his back.

Barkov got down and straddled him, pulled back a fist to punch the man, but was surprised when the American’s hands shot out and locked around Barkov’s throat. Instantly, he felt his airflow cut off as the American’s hands clenched around his windpipe. His opponent’s grip felt like a vise.