Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Rogue

Floyd didn’t respond, so the commander stepped forward. I seized my chance. I grabbed Khan’s pistol, popped it free of its holster restraint, drove my elbow into the shocked Major’s face and opened fire on the two Russians in the corridor. My aim was true and both men dropped like stones. Floyd moved quickly as Kolokov raised his submachine gun at me. He grabbed the Russian commander by the neck and drove his head into the whitewashed wall, stunning him. I fired twice, hitting Kolokov in the chest. He clutched at the wounds, which had started to bleed into his gray and white uniform. He dropped to his knees and his eyes went blank before he fell face forward onto the floor.

“Get his gun,” I said. Floyd took the Vityaz-SN submachine gun from the dead man.

I discarded the Major’s pistol and picked up a Vityaz and two magazines from one of the men I’d shot in the corridor. We moved toward an interior door that led to the open-plan office at the front of the building. The cheap pine door had no window, so we couldn’t see what was happening beyond it, but I could hear movement and someone shouted a command.

The door opened and the Russian who appeared looked more surprised to see us than we were to see him. Floyd fired a burst that hit the man in the stomach. He staggered back, mortally wounded. Beyond him, I saw half a dozen Pakistani border officers gathered against the wall of the office. I couldn’t see who was holding these men captive since they were concealed behind the door.

I heard shouts and signaled to Floyd to go low. He ran ahead of me in a crouch and I followed at head height. As we burst through the doorway, I saw three men in snow camouflage swinging their weapons toward us. Floyd picked off two and I shot the third before any of them had the chance to pull the trigger.

The Pakistani guards were relieved. One started talking hurriedly, but we didn’t have time to listen. We rushed through the office toward the front door.

There was a rattle of gunfire. Glass shattered and a hail of bullets thudded into the desk next to me. I looked to my right and saw a man shooting through the window. I fired back and he ducked out of sight.

Floyd and I ran to the front door, splitting to stand flush against the wall either side of it. A volley of bullets burst through the wood. Floyd indicated the window to the right and crept toward it as I grabbed the door handle. He stood beside the window and signaled he was ready. I opened the door. Gunfire started immediately. As bullets peppered the far wall, the border officers ducked for cover behind their desks. I waited for the gunfire to stop before I stepped out. A man who stood some twenty yards away was reloading. I opened fire and he went down. I stepped forward and sensed movement to my right as another camouflaged Russian rounded the corner of the building with his gun trained on me.

A shot rang out and the man aiming at me was suddenly spun round and fell face down into the snow. Floyd had shot him through the window, saving me from certain death. I heard yelling from the treeline. The rest of the Russian unit came running toward the building. I glanced to my right and saw some vehicles parked a short distance away. I ducked back inside.

“Who drives the truck?” I asked the border officers, miming turning a steering wheel.

The youngest of the group, a baby-faced guy in his early twenties, raised his hand.

“Let’s go,” I said, gesturing with the submachine gun.

He hesitated.

“Do you want to wait here until the Russians arrive?” I asked.

He shook his head and joined me by the door. Floyd led the way and we ran outside to be greeted by a hail of bullets. The Russians were aiming closer than they had been previously, perhaps because they were more desperate, or maybe because their commander wasn’t there to rein them in. My heart was pumping adrenalin at a furious rate as we ran from the building toward a small parking area where a trio of vehicles were parked: an old Volkswagen, a Lada, and a Mercedes truck that had been converted into a personnel carrier. Bullets chewed the snow at our heels, but we made it to the truck and took cover behind it.

Our driver used a fob to open the cab and we all climbed in. He started the engine and we sped away as the Russian paramilitaries reached the border patrol station. The tailgate rattled as it was hit by bullets, and the rear window of the cab shattered, sending glass everywhere. But the engine roared and we were soon out of range of the shooters.

Floyd slumped in his seat and gave a sigh of relief.

“Pull over,” I said to the driver, when I was sure a bend in the road concealed us from the paramilitaries.

“What the hell are you doing?” Floyd asked.

“We’ll never outrun them in this,” I replied. “We need to be smarter.”

Our driver stopped and I jumped out, Floyd following my lead.

“Keep going,” I told the frightened officer, who drove off down the road, eager to get away from men pointing guns at him.

I indicated to Floyd to move. He did so reluctantly. We ran into the forest, clutching our guns.

We tracked back, picking our way through the trees as fast as we dared. We were halfway to the border post when we saw the Volkswagen and the Lada speeding past along the road; almost certainly carrying the Russian paramilitaries who thought they were hot on our tails.

We ran on.

“You’re not crazy enough to suggest what I think you’re going to suggest, are you?” Floyd asked.

“So you’ve thought of it too?” I replied. “We’re a couple of pilots. Their commander said the bird was airworthy. Why drive when you can fly?”

Floyd scoffed.

We slowed as we neared the clearing. Our escape had thinned the personnel surrounding the chopper. There were now only three guards and the pilot, and all of them had their attention fixed on the border post expectantly. With the chopper now fixed, they were ready and waiting to take to the air whenever the rest of the unit returned.

I signaled Floyd to move to their rear and we crept between the trees. When we had the chopper between us and them, we broke cover and ran across the clearing. The side door of the Hind was open and I could see the pilot through the gap on the other side. He must have sensed movement because he turned and looked me square in the eye.

I raised my gun, but he shook his head fearfully. I recognized the look of an honest man who did not want to die.

He said something urgent in Russian and started running for the border post. The remaining paramilitaries followed, all four men racing away. I guess the pilot had told them they needed to help their comrades. If so, he wasn’t lying.

Floyd and I jumped through the side door, scrambled into the cockpit, slid into the pilot and co-pilot’s seats and fired up the engines.

I looked to my right and saw the paramilitaries turning around, but it was too late. They managed a couple futile shouts and pointless shots before I took to the air. Thirty seconds later, after we had climbed past three thousand feet and were speeding north through the valley, Floyd turned to me and smiled. I responded with a wide grin.

We were heading home.

The Mil Mi-24 Hind was fully fueled and packed with weapons and equipment. Floyd went through the gear bags while I flew north, tracking the contours of the valley. If the mountains had been beautiful when we’d been touching death near the summits, they were even more magnificent now viewed from the comfort of the chopper and in the knowledge that we had come through a situation where survival had seemed impossible. We were alive and on our way home, and that thought alone was all the warmth and rest I needed.