David Healey - Red Sniper

“Keep the guns and ammo,” Cole said. “We ain’t done with them yet.”

They made better time without being loaded down. The Russians were still in sight, but they weren’t gaining on them.

“Finland,” Vaska said, pointing at a line of forest ahead. It was that close. Literally within sight. The Russians wouldn’t pursue them into another country—especially one that was, nominally at least, an ally of the United States. With luck, there would also be a squad of U.S. troops just inside the boundary.

The problem was, they weren’t going to make it without falling into rifle range. They were moving too slowly, even without their packs. The pursuing Russians moved just a little faster. Simple math. One way or another, they were going to have to take on the Russians before they reached the relative safety of Finland.

Cole stopped. “This is where I leave you,” he said. “Me and Barkov have unfinished business.”

“Cole, have you gone crazy?” Vaccaro asked, staring at him. “You can’t take on those Russians by yourself.”

“I ain’t by myself.” He hefted his rifle. “I got this. Now go on. I’ll catch up if I can. I aim to trade lead with Barkov, so let’s see how that works out.”

Cole walked out into the empty plain, backtracking through the snow. He scanned the landscape for cover, but there wasn’t so much as a rock or a scrap of brush. Sunlight reflected off the snow. The brightness hurt his eyes. He squinted into the distance.

He had been half joking with Vaccaro about Western movies, but this is what it felt like. Like it was high noon on some dusty street. He’d be damned if he was the one wearing the white hat. Cole was black hat all the way.

Once he had put some distance between himself and the others, he stopped. Shooting from a standing position was never easy, so he looped his arm through the sling just to help balance the weight of the rifle and steady his aim. He put the smooth comb to his cheek, fitting it just under his high cheekbones. The butt fit into the socket just where his arm met his shoulder. Looking through the rifle scope now, everything sprang closer. He could see the Russians coming through the snow.

Finger on the trigger, he waited.

Barkov squinted into the distance. The Americans were hurrying now, which made sense. Finland was within sight. He could see the difference in the terrain that delineated a national boundary. He turned to the men behind him and snarled, “Faster!”

As the group moved away, he saw a lone object outlined against the snow. He was fairly certain that it had not been there before. Perhaps a tree trunk? A stone marker? That made no sense. Whatever the object was, it gave the impression of rigidity, like a fencepost. Odd, out here in the middle of nowhere.

With his naked eye, he could barely make out anything in the plain ahead. He paused and put his rifle to his shoulder so that he could study the object through the scope.

The optics shrank the distance, although it was still quite far. He could see that the anomaly in the landscape was not a tree, or a fencepost, or a standing stone. It was a man.

Barkov blinked. Pressed his eye closer to the optical lens.

The man held a rifle and stared back at him through his own telescopic sight, like a distant mirror image.

Barkov snatched the rifle from his own eye, as if that would stop the other man from seeing too much of him. They were both too far apart to see real detail about the other.

He knew who it was. The American sniper. The one whom Ramsey had promised would be waiting for him.

A promise kept.

The man stood like a tree, a stump, a stone.

The other Russians sensed that Barkov had stopped and they halted, awaiting his orders.

For once, Barkov had none. It was only him and this American that mattered now. They might have been alone on the taiga.

“He wants me to fight a duel,” Barkov said to no one in particular, although he half expected the Mink to answer. Then he remembered that his old companion was dead.

He put the rifle to his shoulder again, dimly aware of the remaining soldiers around him. Two stood, one behind the other, to his right, while Dmitri stood to his left. He knew Dmitri’s name, but not those of the two other men. It was enough to call them you … and you . That was a habit from the war, when men died so quickly there was no point in bothering to learn what they were called.

Barkov licked his lips and strained to see into the distance.

He considered his options. It was a difficult shot to make from that range using the standing or offhand position. A shooter wanted a gun anchored somehow—using anything from a window ledge to a fallen log was preferable to relying on the steadiness of one’s own arms. Lying down was good. Even sitting down, with the rifle propped across one’s knees. A marksman needed to connect himself and his rifle to the earth. Bone on stone.

Standing, it was hard to hold a rifle rock steady. At that range, the smallest motion meant that the bullet would miss.

Big and solid as he was, Barkov was more like a human boulder than a fencepost. He raised the rifle to his shoulder, acquired the target, let his breathing—

The sound of the American sniper’s rifle echoed across the distance, seconds after the bullet ripped through the two men on Barkov’s left.

He lowered his rifle to survey the damage.

Because they had been standing one behind the other, the bullet had punched through the head of the first one and then drilled into the throat of the second man.

The first man had died instantly, but the second was taking his time about it, clutching his throat as he lay in the snow, a big pool of blood spreading around him. Barkov observed the dead and dying man without any particular emotion.

You … and you .

It would have been an impressive shot if it had been intentional. However, Barkov was sure that the American had aimed for him, and missed.

Feeling more confident now, he put the rifle back to his shoulder. He settled the reticule a few inches above the American’s head—

This time, he actually heard the second shot whip past him on the left, just where Dmitri was standing. He thought that the shot must have killed Dmitri, but a fraction of a second previously, the boy had thrown himself face down in the snow, mittened hands covering his head as if that would offer some protection. That moment of cowardice—or good sense, call it what you will—had saved his life.

That left Barkov alone on the plain. He felt himself grow cold, although there also happened to be a tingling all through him that had nothing to do with the temperature. He recognized the feeling for what it was—fear.

Barkov felt afraid because it had occurred to him that the first shot had not been a miss. It had been very deliberate. Both shots had been fired quickly, at a great distance. The American was picking off Barkov’s men. Leaving Barkov for last.

Not if he could help it. He was Barkov the sniper! He put the rifle to his shoulder, lined up the reticule again. The American stood there, daring him. It was a long shot, and Barkov was shooting offhand, which was the most difficult position.

He squeezed the trigger.

The rifle fired.

Cole saw the distant muzzle flash but didn’t so much as flinch. He knew there was no way to dodge a bullet.

Instantaneously, Barkov’s bullet zipped past his ear like a supersonic bumblebee—the sensation made his whole body thrum like a bow string. That was close. Close enough to make his insides feel like jelly.

He pushed every thought and worry from his mind. It had come down to just him and Barkov. He let himself slip deeper into his shooter’s trance. His breathing became shallow, and his heart rate slowed. Shooting from the standing position was difficult, and normally his arms might tremble ever so slightly from the strain. Holding an eight-pound rifle steady enough to aim with any precision was harder than one might think. After a few minutes, your arms started to quiver no matter how strong you were. But now it was as if the cold had frozen him into place.