Clive Cussler - Fire Ice

Austin shielded the binocular lenses with his hands to prevent the sun from reflecting. The rider was dressed in the familiar mud-colored belted tunic, baggy black pants and boots and fur hat, although the day was warm. Cartridge belts crossed his chest. He rode a big dark gray horse with wide flanks and shoulders like a draft animal.

Austin studied the man's long, unkempt red beard and let out an evil chuckle. The last time he'd seen the giant Cossack was over the barrel of a flare gun. "Well, well, we meet again."

"Is that clean-cut chap a friend of yours?" Zavala said.

"More a passing acquaintance. We had a glancing encounter not too long ago."

Taking his time, the Cossack put his mount into a parade strut and circled the field, showing off for the other horsemen, who cheered him on. Then he drew his saber, raised it high and let out a hoarse yell. Digging his spurs into his mount, he charged toward the center of the field like a bowling ball rolling down on tenpins. At the last second, he brought the horse to a skidding stop and pulled back on the reins. The big horse reared up on its hind legs and pawed the air.

The people huddled in the field scrambled to avoid the flailing hooves and to escape the crushing weight of the giant animal. In the confusion, one man tripped and fell, and became separated from the others. He got up and tried to regain the relative safety of the pack, but the Cossack saw the opening and wedged his horse between. The man feinted to the right and made a dash to the left. The Cossack anticipated the move and herded the man like a cowpoke culling out a steer for branding. Seeing no alternative, the man sprinted for the unguarded side of the field.

The runner's face was set in a determined expression, even though he must have known his two legs were no match for the horse's four. The Cossack made no move to give chase and continued to put his strutting mount through its paces for the benefit of his comrades. Not until the runner was halfway to the edge of the field did the rider wheel his horse around. He spurred his horse into a trot, then into a ground-eating canter. Raising his sword again, he urged his mount into a full gallop.

Alerted by the pounding hoofbeats, the runner thrust his chest out like a sprinter at the finish line and pumped his arms to wring out the last ounce of speed. No use. As the horse thundered by him, the Cossack leaned over to one side and the sword swept down in a killing blow to the neck. The runner's legs crumbled and he slammed face-first into the ground. Austin swore with helpless anger. The cowardly attack had come too fast for him to react. The Cossack laughed at his own cleverness and wheeled his mount around, then rode leisurely back to the center of the field, daring someone else to make a run for it.

Austin brought the Bowen up and sighted on the Cossack's broad back. He was squeezing the trigger when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. To Austin's amazement, the figure slumped on the ground began to stir. The runner got onto his hands and knees and staggered to his feet. The Cossack had only toyed with his prey, using the flat of his sword so as to extend the game.

The Cossacks began shouting. Redbeard pretended that he didn't understand, then turned and went through a great show of being surprised. He waved his arms as if he were nonplussed at his victim rising from the dead – then once more he gave chase. The runner was almost to the edge of the field. Austin knew that the Cossack would never let his prey reach the buildings, where it would be difficult to get at him. The next sword blow would be lethal.

Zavala had lost his patience. "Game's over," he snarled. Bringing his Heckler and Koch up in the classic prone shooting position, he sighted on the Cossack's chest.

Austin put his hand on the barrel and said, "No." Then he stood up.

When the runner saw Austin spring from the earth, his sweat-streaked face fell in dismay. Seeing his escape route cut off, he jammed his heels in and came to a skidding stop.

Redbeard saw Austin at the same time. He reined in his horse, leaned forward on the pommel and stared at the broad-shouldered man with the strange pale hair. Austin could see the hate burning in the red-rimmed eyes. The horse snorted and nervously pawed the ground. Losing interest in the runner, the Cossack sat up in his saddle and put his horse into a pirouette. Then he made a false charge, only to retreat when Austin showed no sign of yielding ground.

Austin had been standing with his hands behind his back like a child hiding cookies. He brought his left hand out and beckoned. The horseman's puzzled frown turned into a gap-toothed grin. He liked this new game. He edged his mount closer, still wary.

Austin beckoned again with more animation. Emboldened, the horseman came nearer. Austin smiled like Davy Crockett grinning down a grizzly. The horseman let out a roar and goaded his mount forward.

Still smiling, Austin waited until he couldn't miss, then in a smooth fluid motion he brought the Bowen from behind his back. Holding the heavy revolver in both hands, he sighted on the X made by the Cossack's crossed cartridge belts.

"Here's one for Mehmet," he said, squeezing the trigger. The revolver barked once. The heavy bullet smashed into the rider's sternum and splintered his rib cage, sending fragments of bone into his heart. The Cossack was dead even before his hands lost their grip on the reins. The horse continued toward Austin like a runaway cement mixer, its eyes rolling in panic. Austin cursed himself for not getting down to business and firing sooner.

Spooked by the human standing in its way, and with no signal coming from the slack reins, the animal veered off. Its rock-hard haunch swung around, slammed into Austin with the force of a battering ram and knocked him off his feet. He flew through the air, and crashed to the turf with a teeth- rattling shock, landing on his left side. When he stopped rolling, he tried to stand but only made it up onto one knee. He was covered with dust and wet on one side from horse sweat. Zavala was by Austin's side, helping him to his feet.

As Austin's blurred vision cleared, he expected to see the Cossacks bearing down on them.

Instead, the world seemed frozen in time and place. Stunned by their leader's fall, the horsemen sat in their saddles like statues in a park. The people on the field were equally immobilized. Austin spat out a mouthful of dirt. Slowly and deliberately, he walked over to where his gun had landed and picked it up. He yelled at the runner and told him to go for the warehouse. The order shocked the man into action. He started to run.

It was if a power switch had been thrown.

Seeing their friend break for safety, the men in the field bolted after him in a disorganized mob. Austin and Zavala yelled encouragement and pointed to the warehouse. With their leader dead and their prey escaping, the Cossacks yelled as one, poured into the soccer field and advanced at a gallop, sabers held high, toward Austin and Zavala. The two men stood there in awe at the fearful beauty of a Cossack charge.

"Wow!" Zavala shouted over the thunder of hooves. "It's like being in an old Western."

"Let's hope it isn't a remake of Custer's Last Stand," Austin said, with a thin smile.

Austin brought his Bowen up and fired. The lead rider pitched from his saddle. Zavala's H and K stuttered, and another horseman crashed to the ground. The riders advanced without slackening their pace, well aware they held the ad- vantage in numbers and momentum. The guns fired simultaneously and two more men flew from their saddles.

The Cossacks were bold but not suicidal. First one, then another, leaned out of his saddle and hung from his horse's neck so he no longer offered an easy target. As Austin and Zavala adjusted to the new strategy, one horse came to a sudden stop, dropped to the ground and rolled onto its side.