He knows where his first stop will be.
Chapter 42
A loud clank kicks Carson out of her restless sleep.
She pries open her eyes. The sky’s brightening, but the sun’s not quite up. She’s on a concrete slab, propped against the opening for a roll-up door. No idea how she got this way. Every part of her body hurts.
She’s at the entrance to a vehicle maintenance bay at the Byryuky farm. The Octavia’s a meter from her, its nose resting on a wheeled floor jack. A booted foot sticks out behind the left-front tire.
Carson tries to say something, but nothing comes out. Her mouth and throat are deserts. Looking around, she discovers a half-full water bottle near her knees. Draining it revives her voice, sort of. She rasps in Ukrainian, “Why are you under the car?”
“Something was loose.” Galina sounds like she’s talking into a bucket.
Okay. The top edge of the sun crests the horizon, flooding the area with golden light. Carson lets herself drift. She should get up and walk around, but she knows how that’ll feel. She’d rather ache in place. Some Pepsi or lemonade would be nice to cut through the funk Dunya’s Ukrainian rotgut left in her mouth. Then again, that rotgut and the pain meds made for pretty good anesthetic last night.
Galina squirms out from under the car, a sour look on her face, wiping her hands on a rag that’s seen a lot of that lately. She gives Carson a once-over. “How do you feel?”
“Shitty.”
“Need more water?”
“Yeah.”
Galina hands her a bottle, then carefully kneels facing the sun, closing her eyes to bask for a few moments.
Carson watches Galina’s shoulders wilt with every breath. “Get any sleep?”
“No.”
“Sorry.”
Galina shrugs her face. “It’s like harvest time. I work eighteen or twenty hours a day to bring in the crops, then more hours to get them to the market.”
Carson had seen that at home. It made her glad she isn’t a farmer. “Have I thanked you yet for getting me out of that place?” No response. “Thank you.”
This time, Galina shrugs her shoulders.
“Why did you come back for me? You had your money.”
“You gave me too much.” Her voice is flat. “I had to earn it.”
“I’m glad you did.” Say it now. Carson thought a lot about this in that cell. “I want to help you get Bohdan back. Whatever you need.”
Galina studies her lap. After a few moments, she holds out her left hand open and flat. Carson glances between Galina’s face and hand. Then she slowly wraps the fingers of her right hand around Galina’s left.
“I have been alone for twenty months.” Galina’s voice is so low, it barely carries to Carson’s ears. “I haven’t spent so much time with a person since…” Her eyes blink open. “I am sorry if I am not very good at it anymore.”
Carson wishes she knew what to say.
They quietly sit holding hands, watching the sun climb into the sky until they both sigh and squeeze at the same time.
Galina labors to her feet, then shakes out her legs. “Now what do we do?”
“Eat, then pack up.” The pain’s put her off her feed to some extent, but she’ll need breakfast sometime soon. “Mashkov thinks Rogozhkin will try to find us.”
Galina’s lip curls. “How? Why?”
“Not sure on either. Mashkov thinks Rogozhkin’s got a way to track me. Why? Maybe to give me the icon or get intel on the militia. Not so sure about that, but whatever. I need to get that icon back to the museum. But if Rogozhkin’s got it and doesn’t want to be found…” It’s too depressing to think about. She wants this whole mess to mean something. It keeps resisting.
Galina folds her arms grumpily. “I don’t want to wait long. As soon as you are in the West, I need to free Bohdan. I do not want him in that camp one day more than he has to be. He’s been there too long.”
“Yes, he has. Remember, I’m coming with you. Let’s give Rogozhkin an hour to find us, then we’ll go.”
Carson drags herself off the slab and clumps around outside until she can move most of her joints again. She pulls up the hem of her tee to reveal a nearly solid field of black and blue across her abs, and the green blob where Stepaniak’s bullet hit her about an eon ago.
Once she’s ambulatory, she shuffles down the building’s central corridor until she reaches the room where she killed Stepaniak. It looks smaller in daylight. Dried blood is splattered across the concrete floor and on the walls. She stares at the rusty stain in the corner where Stepaniak leaned against the workbench leg. “You stupid bastard. Why’d you do it?”
Nobody answers. Carson shakes her head, then drifts back to the maintenance bay.
They burn off the rest of the next hour with housekeeping—nibbling on road food, emptying trash from the car, cleaning the windshield. Carson brushes her teeth and hair. Galina changes clothes, including her underwear (so jealous…Carson would kill for clean underwear). She also tosses Carson another well-washed flannel shirt. “You need something to cover your chest.”
As they repack the car, Carson gets a glimpse of what might be the knapsack. She’s about to ask Galina if she has the lost money but hesitates. What if she says no? Do I check? So much for trusting each other…
But she needs to know. She might have to help keep the secret. She might need that money. “Um, Galina. When you left here last night, did you—”
Galina abruptly pulls a pistol from her waistband and aims past Carson’s right shoulder.
What the…? Carson swivels to look out the bay entrance.
Rogozhkin stands centered in the doorway, his feet shoulder-width apart, hands folded in front of his hips. “Good morning, ladies. Care for a chat?”
And here he is, Carson thinks. She carefully presses Galina’s Makarov down until it’s aiming at the floor, then steps toward the Russian. “Figured you’d forgotten us.”
“I would never.” He flashes an almost covert smile. “We should talk.”
“Sure. Start by telling me where the icon is.”
“It’s in the back of my vehicle, along with the money I took under my safekeeping.” He nods toward Galina. “Good morning to you, Galina. Or is it Galya?”
Galina sneers at him. “To you? Demchuk.” She spins and stomps to the car’s trunk.
Rogozhkin turns to Carson, shrugging. “She’s still angry with me, I see.”
“You’re still Russian.”
“True.” He sweeps a hand toward the spotty ankle-high grass outside. “Let’s walk.”
It’s good to get away from the mold and dust and residual chicken stink in the farm building. Rogozhkin walks with his hands behind his back; Carson keeps her arms folded to stop her breasts from swaying. She hates going braless. “I need the icon. You promised I could have it if I led you to Stepaniak.”
“Yes, I did, and you’ll get it. I keep my promises.” He studies her face. “What happened to you?”
“Got in a fight.”
“Did you win?”
“No.”
“That’s disappointing.”
“Was for me, too.”
“I can imagine. You should put something on your knuckles so they don’t get infected.”
“Thanks, Mom. How did you find us?”
“Remember the beacon in Stepaniak’s Range Rover? It’s in your car now. Syrov put it there.”
Carson halts and glares at Rogozhkin. “And you didn’t tell him to do that?”
“No. I learned of it during the attack. There was no time.”
So that’s what Mashkov was hinting about. They knew the Octavia was hanging around the base. Galina’s very, very lucky…or really good. “Mashkov said you’d find me. Now I know how.”
Rogozhkin chuckles. “I imagine Mashkov’s like a child at Christmas with Stepaniak’s money.”
Carson parses his question. Is that why he wants
to talk? “He didn’t get it.”
His eyes widen. “Really? Who did?”
Careful. “Don’t know. There were a lot of people in that room. What do you want?”
Rogozhkin’s face turns thoughtful. He watches a nearby scrum of early birds hunting for worms. “You want to go to the West. You know that’s not straightforward, yes?”
“That’s what Galina tells me.”
“I can get you across the line of contact.”
“So can Galina.”
“Perhaps. Using the legal ways. Unless she’s an accomplished smuggler, she may not know the others. You’ll need those to get past tomorrow’s offensive.”
Carson stares at him. What the hell? She lets the unasked question—can I come with you?—simmer on her brain’s hot plate for a few steps. “Why would you do this?”
They reach the chicken coop’s western end. Rogozhkin’s Hunter rests on the gravel road just past it. He turns to her. “My time here is…done. Mashkov’s militia may be hunting me.”
“Not the ‘why’ I meant. You can get across borders better than any of us. Why do you need us?”
He nods sadly. “You’re right. I can cross the contact line. I can’t get past Kyiv’s army alone and I have no need to spend time in a PW camp. I want to get out of Ukraine into a neutral third nation. Did you come here on a commercial flight or by private aircraft?”
“Commercial to Bonn, private jet to Dnipro. Why?”
“Did you have to go through passport controls in Dnipro?”
“No.”
“As I thought. I have a Russian military passport. You can imagine what Kyiv’s border police will make of that.” He smiles. “As I said, I can help you and your friend Galina go over the contact line. In return, your company’s jet can take me out of Ukraine with you. Bonn is fine, though if you could arrange a stop in Cyprus, that would be ideal.”
Carson has to unbury what Rogozhkin isn’t saying. “Why not go home?”
“To Russia?” He almost automatically shifts his focus east. “Did Mashkov tell you what happened yesterday?”
“You mean, your Russian friends trying to take him out and blowing it? He didn’t, but somebody else did.”
“That wasn’t Moscow’s desired outcome.”
Meaning, he’s in the shit with his own people. “Speaking of Mashkov: he wants that money. He says he’ll give you a guy named Yartsev if you hand it over.”
His eyebrows leap for his hairline. “Yartsev’s alive?”
“I guess. I didn’t see him. Mashkov says he’s in a hospital in Amvrosiivka.”
“Will he live?” His voice is tight, but hopeful.
Must be close to this guy. “Mashkov thinks so.”
He sighs in relief. “Good.” Rogozhkin’s jaw sets. “So now Mashkov’s a kidnapper. Well, he won’t get his ransom. I’ll tell Command where Sergeant Yartsev is and they’ll deal with it.”
“Why not Syrov and his men? They’re closer.”
“They’ve already left the country.”
“That was fast.” Almost like they’re running away. That’s not her problem right now…probably. “So, you promise you’ll get us out of the Donbass if I promise to get you out of Ukraine?”
The Russian puts his friendly face back on. “That sums it up well. But there’s something else.” He points toward the maintenance bay. “That tracking beacon on your car? I know where it is. Help me and I’ll tell you. Or don’t and the militia can follow you. Did you leave with their permission?”
He’s got her there. “It’s not just my call.”
Rogozhkin peaks an eyebrow. “Who else gets a say?”
“The woman who hates you.”
“Why do you keep making deals with this tarhany?”
Carson knew Galina would ask that, so for once she has an answer ready. “Because we can help each other. And I understand him. There’s a lot to say for that.”
Galina walks away with her fists on her hips, muttering. When she finally stalks back, her face is hot pink. “We can’t trust a Kacáps. I say we kill him.” Galina doesn’t even try to hide the exasperation in her voice. “Then you can take the icon and we can finish with this.”
At least she’s consistent. “You don’t think he’d be useful?”
“Hmpf. For what?”
“Backup, if we need it. Someone else who’s good in a fight. And, what if we can’t use a regular crossing? He probably knows every back-door way across the line.”
“If he does, why doesn’t he go by himself and leave us alone?”
Carson hadn’t told her this part, hoping she wouldn’t have to. So much for hoping. “Because I can help get him out of Ukraine.”
Galina’s jaw goes hard. “What? You would help him escape? He wouldn’t have to pay for what he’s done? Why?”
“You should be happy about this. One of their senior officers is deserting. Don’t you want that?”
“Remember the story I told you? The Russians shooting at me?” She thrusts a finger toward the roll-up door. “They were like him, with the striped shirts. They shelled us and shot rockets at us. They helped the militia attack us and kill our wounded. Why should he go free?”
“If you’d been up against spetsnaz, you wouldn’t be here now. Their airborne troops wear the telmyashka. So do their marines. Rogozhkin may not even have been here when—”
“Why are you defending him?” Galina’s face is bright red now. “Are you on his—”
“No!” Somehow, Carson ends up looming over Galina, using her command voice. She steps back and dials down her volume. “I know guys like him. At least, guys who used to be like him. They’re a rough crowd.” Especially the ones who work for the mafiya. “Special forces are like that everywhere. They don’t trust civilians easy. Kind of like cops. But once they trust you—once you earn it—they will kill for you. And they’ll die for you.”
Galina advances on Carson. “Not good enough. Not if we have to put up—”
Rogozhkin appears in the doorway. “Ladies, if you haven’t already, you need to decide now. The militia is here.”
Chapter 43
The lead BTR opens fire as soon as Rogozhkin slews his Hunter onto the road into Byryuky. He’s exposed for only a few seconds before the farm compounds on both sides hide him from the gunners. By the time the women get in the clear, the militia will be waiting for them. He hopes Tarasenko drives as well as she runs.
He glances in the rear-view mirror. The Octavia skids around the corner onto his road. An instant later, dirt erupts on either side of it while the car swerves frantically.
Tarasenko has a hard nose, but she seems to listen to reason. To mutual interest. She doesn’t strike him as someone who makes an elephant out of a fly, as so many women do. He really should find out more about her.
Another glance in the mirror. The women are in town, about two hundred meters behind him, temporarily safe. Good work.
They left the farm before they could dispose of the tracking beacon. That’s okay for now. He doesn’t want to lose the militia quite yet. He saw the two Hunters leading the column: scouts, most likely. It’ll be easy to lose the armor, but the utes can move as fast as he can. That’s useful. He still needs to disappear from the army.
Those militia fools will help him do it.
Carson floors the Octavia’s gas pedal once she stops zig-zagging. Rogozhkin’s Hunter is a couple hundred meters ahead, but the Škoda should be faster. So far, militia gunnery hasn’t improved.
Galina’s slumped in the passenger’s seat, her arms folded tight, her mouth set in stone. Carson had to pick her up and throw her into the car before they could leave that farm. Another few seconds and the BTRs knifing across the plowed field would’ve been too close to escape. At least she’s stopped arguing, though sulking isn’t much better.
She glances at the rear-view. A militia Hunter’s about three hundred meters behind her, with the bulk of a BTR behi
nd that. Rogozhkin’s Hunter is closer now. She can’t afford to lose him; they didn’t talk about the route, and he still has the icon.
They approach a three-way intersection. Just as the Octavia enters the crossroads, another Hunter screeches off the north-south road into the intersection. Carson cranks the wheel to the left, hits loose gravel, and starts to spin toward what looks like a grocery store. Behind her, the Hunter skids sideways into the front of the building next door.
The store swells in her side window. Carson centers the wheel and punches the gas, hoping the front-wheel drive will pull them out of the spin before they go through the store’s front windows. Gravel spews behind them. Just before the car pancakes into the wall, the front wheels hit something solid and the Octavia lunges forward toward the road…and the other Hunter.
Its driver’s eyes are huge with terror.
Oh fuck… Carson pulls the parking brake, cranks the wheel to the left. The Octavia spins again, engine roaring, tires shrieking.
The Hunter leaps off the road and crashes through a fence.
Carson catches the spin in time to slingshot west on the road and race toward Rogozhkin’s Hunter, stopped about three hundred meters ahead.
“Please don’t wreck this car.” Galina’s voice, small and muffled. Her arms are wrapped around her head. “I need this car. Everything we own is in this car.”
“I’ll do my best.” Carson keeps both hands clamped on the wheel so they don’t shake. Her heart hammers as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. Her shoulders and sides throb.
They follow Rogozhkin on a winding path out of Byryuky, through the southern fringe of Mospyne, then across open fields. Carson’s rear-view mirror is empty for a while. As they approach Horbachevo, she glimpses a now-familiar blocky silhouette far behind her. Too much to hope they’d give up.
Rogozhkin’s Hunter veers right, into the village, instead of following the main road.
Where’s he going? Carson wants to keep running like hell. Getting bottled up in some podunk little town sounds like a bad way to die. But there’s no choice: she goes where the icon goes. No matter what.
Zrada Page 23
