David Healey - Red Sniper

He grabbed the American’s wrists and pulled. The grip around his throat did not loosen. Starbursts and spots swam in front of his eyes. Letting go with his right hand, he groped on the snowy ground for any kind of weapons. A rock. A stick. Instead, his fingers closed around the knife that the American had dropped.

Barkov had it in his grip in an instant, and plunged it down at the American.

For a big man, the American was quick as a viper. He let go of Barkov’s throat and grabbed his wrist instead before the knife could strike home.

They went back and forth, both of them straining as if the knife weighed a thousand pounds, when in reality it was the sheer muscular resistance of them struggling against one another. Barkov had the advantage of gravity and pressed the tip down, down, toward the American’s throat. Then the American rallied and pushed the knife up, up, turning it with bone-cracking strength until it was pointed at Barkov’s eye.

In spite of himself, Barkov was impressed. The American was incredibly strong. Strong as a bear. Strong as Barkov.

Dimly, he was aware of a pair of legs beside him. Then a rifle barrel reached down and touched the American’s temple. The American’s eyes widened, but he shoved the tip of the knife toward Barkov’s eye with one final wave of strength.

That’s when the rifle went off. Loud as a thunderclap in Barkov’s ear. The American’s grip went slack instantly.

Barkov rolled to his feet, so angry that he was shaking. The Mink stood nearby, nonchalantly working the bolt of the rifle.

“What have you done?” Barkov demanded. “He was mine to kill!”

“You were taking too long. We need to get moving,” the Mink said. He lowered his voice. “Besides, he almost had you.”

Barkov looked down at the dead man. Unlike most bodies, it did not look any smaller in death. Then he look around for the American prisoner, Ramsey, who was still slumped against the rock. His eyes went from his comrade’s dead body to Barkov’s eyes. Barkov tried to read something there—fear or defeat—but saw only defiance.

Well, he would fix that. “Dmitri,” he called. “Bring me my whip.”

“Let’s just shoot him and be done with it,” the Mink said.

“Look at him. He’s already half dead. This won’t take long.”

The boy scurried to do as he was told, pressing the cruelly braided leather grip into Barkov’s hand. The boy eyed the whip nervously, having been on the receiving end of it.

Barkov made the whip sing. He struck the American prisoner across the face hard enough to draw blood.

He pulled back his hand for another swing and froze.

Ramsey now had a pistol in his hand. Nobody had seen it before. He leveled it at Barkov, but then seemed to reconsider. Instead, he put the gun to his own head and closed his eyes. An instant later, it was done. Barkov felt cheated for a second time.

The Mink bent over and pried the gun out of the dead man’s hand.

“He must have had just one bullet left,” the Mink said. He seemed to find the situation amusing because he gave one of his rare smiles. “I think I would have saved that last bullet for you.”

Barkov grunted, unhappy that both Americans were dead. There were many questions he would have liked them to answer.

They searched the pockets of the dead men. One soldier took the big man’s wristwatch. He had a wallet with a few American dollars in it. What did he plan to buy out here on the taiga? There was some identification that one of them could read. The Mink kept the wallet and let the paper money flutter away on the wind.

Ramsey’s limp hand had opened in death. It turned out that he did have one more bullet, but this one was for a rifle. Something was etched into the brass casing. The Mink picked it up and squinted at it, then shook his head and held it up for Barkov to see.

The etching read: “Barkov.”

“The dead one here was not the sniper,” the Mink said.

“How do you know?”

“What would a sniper be doing with a shotgun? No, this isn’t him. If I did not know better, I would say that the American sniper is sending you a message.”

“It’s just nonsense,” Barkov said. He tossed the bullet away. Then he looked across the expanse of taiga ahead and all the open places they would have to cross. He felt a chill, imagining the American sniper’s crosshairs on him.

“What are other Americans doing out here?” the Mink wondered.

Barkov coiled the whip and tucked it into his belt. “We need to get moving,” he said. “Let’s catch up to them and find out. Then we will kill them just like we killed these two.”

It wasn’t long after they had been ambushed by the two Americans that Barkov found the signs in the snow of where the others had started out that morning. He counted six sets of tracks. He knew that two of those sets of tracks belonged to Inna Mikhaylovna and the escaped American pilot. But who else? He felt a twinge of apprehension, not knowing exactly whom he was chasing.

“Not so far ahead of us now,” he said.

Even so, they might have missed the campsite if Dmitri had not stopped to relieve himself, and being shy, had moved into the woods away from the others.

“Over here!” the boy called, frantically buttoning himself up. “There is blood all over the snow!”

Barkov could see that Dmitri had found where the Americans had set up a rough camp and built shelters. Barkov was more astonished to discover that the camp had been the scene of a battle—or so it seemed. It was just as bloody as any skirmish site he had seen during the war, but he quickly saw that this had been a battle between man and beast. The snow was trampled. Blood flecked the drifts. He saw a dead wolf, and a dead dog. He was sure that not all the blood belonged to the animals.

The Mink walked up next to dead wolf. It looked nearly as big as him. The beast’s eyes stared sightlessly, and its jaws gaped open, revealing sharp white teeth.

“When we return, we need to organize a wolf hunt,” the Mink said. “These wolves need to be taught fear.”

Barkov grunted in agreement. He did not like wolves.

It was disturbing that the wolves had attacked, and yet it was not terribly unusual. The war had all but eliminated hunting because there simply had not been any hunters in Russia—they had all been off fighting in Finland or on the Eastern Front. Sure, there were a few old men around like that village hunter, Vaska, armed with ancient rifles, but someone like Vaska did not actively hunt wolves. You could not eat a wolf, and the pelts had little value.

Stalin had seen to it that few people had weapons of any kind. An unarmed people were more easily controlled by a dictator. He had left his own people defenseless. As a consequence, the wolf packs had grown larger and bolder. It wasn’t unusual to hear of a child being snatched from the edges of a village. Some of the bigger, and hungrier, wolves even attacked adults.

Which was just what had happened here.

“May the devil take them,” he said, and spat.

The men spread out to explore the campsite. There was not much to see. He did have to allow some grudging admiration for the work the Americans had done. Their shelters looked snug.

Except for one. He could see the damage where a wolf had dug into a shelter, then forced its way between the branches of the roof. Someone had been sleeping in there, and the wolf had gone after him. Or her.

In spite of himself, Barkov shivered.

One of the men gave a shout, and Barkov saw that he was waving. He had found something. A cigarette pack was speared on a stick.

The soldier reached out to pull the pack free, perhaps hoping that a cigarette had somehow been overlooked inside.