He may be able to kill Mashkov, but the other snipers may get to Tarasenko before Rogozhkin can neutralize them. A poor outcome.
He swivels his sight back to Mashkov just as the man picks a cigarette pack from his breast pocket.
Mashkov doesn’t smoke.
It’s a signal.
Rogozhkin exhales, then brushes the pad of his index finger onto the Dragunov’s trigger.
Mashkov fits a cigarette between his lips and positions the plastic lighter. He flicks down the little lever.
Click. Nothing.
He tries again. No flame.
He’d borrowed the cigarettes and lighter from Shatilov. The way the man smokes, it’s no surprise the lighter’s empty. Damn it!
Tarasenko says, “Can that wait? We’re done. I’m taking the picture.” She lunges forward, pulls the painting and its wrappings out of Bulaev’s hands, then backpedals to stand next to Galina.
A gunshot, to his left.
Carson and Galina land on their faces together. “What the fuck?”
Mashkov and his helper are also face-down. The helper has his arms crossed over his helmet, like that’ll stop a bullet.
The girls in the stands are scattering like sparrows, shrieking and climbing over each other.
Another shot, this one from the south end of the field. Of course the bastard brought snipers!
A third shot, from the north end. A clang of metal on metal south of her makes her look toward the closed gate. A man in a black track suit sags into a heap on the ground.
Carson picks up her head just enough to look over her shoulder. A guy in a hoodie in the east stands is pulling a rifle from what looks like a fishing-rod bag. Another shot from the north blows out the back of his head.
What the fuck?
Then it makes sense: Rogozhkin. How could he know?
He couldn’t. But why…?
Another shot. A tuft of grass pops up an inch from Mashkov’s head.
Her brain vomits up a whole scenario in an instant. She heaves herself onto her knees and screams, “Don’t! Don’t do it! Stop!”
Then she throws herself on Mashkov.
He grunts. “What are you doing?”
“Saving your fucking life. Keep your head down.”
Galina’s on one knee, firing single shots toward the north gate. Off in the distance, a police siren keens.
Mashkov growls, “Who is that? Did you bring someone?”
Carson repositions herself so her body shields all of Mashkov above his knees. She slaps the side of his head. “No. You sure did. Two snipers? I should let this asshole kill you.”
He looks bewildered. “Why don’t you?”
“Because I promised no tricks. I keep my promises…even when they suck. Shut up before I change my mind.” She turns her head toward Galina. “Stop shooting!”
Galina stops shooting and stares at Carson. “What? Why?” She’s bewildered, too.
“Because…” God help me “…he’s friendly.”
Galina and Mashkov look at her like she’s nuts. Maybe she is.
Now all she has to do is keep Rogozhkin from killing Mashkov long enough to get out of this place.
What is she doing?
Rogozhkin sights in on where Mashkov’s head should be and gets a scope full of Tarasenko’s upper back instead. He was so close on that last round, but he’d overcompensated.
And now this…
Tarasenko hauls Mashkov upright and starts hustling him toward the fieldhouse. Rogozhkin tries to get a firing solution, but she’s in the way.
Shoot her first, then him.
No. That’s not me anymore. Besides, I need her to keep me out of Kyiv’s PW camps.
They disappear inside. Galina scurries after them a few moments later, hauling the painting.
Shit.
He dumps his AK next to the dead sniper, cases the Dragunov, salvages as much ammo as he can from the body, then melts into the darkening shadows.
Chapter 49
Mashkov signs yet another sheaf of orders and hands them to the orderly. His hands are still shaking from that circus at the football stadium.
Tarasenko saved his life. Why? Especially when he tried to have her killed?
Why did he do that?
Fear. Frustration. She kept getting in the way. How many of his men had she shot? She disgraced poor Dunya. And her little friend destroyed or damaged nine of his lorries to help her escape.
Yet she saved his life. And the brigade has a million euros.
He stretches and yawns. The past hour on top of his lack of sleep last night has caught up with him. He’d like tea, but he couldn’t bring his kettle from the base and the abandoned farmhouse that’s now his headquarters has barely enough electricity to run their computers and radios. A junior lieutenant foolishly tried to use the antique microwave oven an hour ago and brought down the brigade’s entire comm network.
He passes through the ramshackle kitchen for coffee—absolute swill, but effective—and enters the former-bedroom-now-plotting room. The topographic map spread out on a folding table in the center shows the brigade’s progress as it deploys to its positions. Shatilov and a sergeant stand by the table, both wearing radio headsets. As Mashkov watches, the sergeant wipes a unit symbol off the plastic sheet and draws its replacement with a grease pencil. Crude and old-fashioned, but at least it doesn’t need electricity.
Mashkov joins the men at the table. “What’s our status, Evgeniy?”
Shatilov shoves a clipboard with a thick wad of paper—the combat order—under his right arm, then swivels the headset microphone away from his face. “Sir, we’re about sixty percent bedded down.” He draws a fingertip around the south end of a kilometer-wide topographic feature. “Third Battalion’s taken its positions south and east of the quarry, here. They’re digging in now. They’re due to link their left flank with Lev Brigade’s right in the next hour.” He takes a hit from the cigarette burning between the middle and ring fingers of his left hand, then points to a spot between the quarry and a large, triangular mass just to its northeast. “Second Battalion’s here, bridging the gap between the quarry and the spoil heap. They’re emplaced and ranging their weapons.” His finger stabs the top of the artificial butte. “UA infantry here.”
Kyiv’s army, so close? “How many?”
Shatilov turns up his left hand. “There’s no good intel on that. Could be up to a company. They call their base up there ‘Everest’ because they can see for kilometers in every direction, or so I’m told.” He mashes his finger onto a roughly trapezoidal tan blotch. “First Battalion’s in reserve in this quarry here, just east of town. Kyiv’s spotters can’t see them, and the UA artillery will have a hell of a time placing ordnance on them. It’s a steep drop-off. They’re more likely to drop rounds into the lake at the bottom.” He takes another drag, then chuckles. “Wouldn’t that be a shame?”
Mashkov can’t focus right now. “Yes. Yes, it would.”
Shatilov dismisses the sergeant, then skirts the table. “Dima? What happened up there? You’ve been half here since you got back. Are you hurt?”
“No.” He sags onto a folding metal chair. “I should be dead.” He gives Shatilov a quick rundown of the action. “I don’t understand what happened. She had every reason in the world to let me die…and she saved me.”
Shatilov claps Mashkov’s shoulder. “You’re alive. You got the money for the brigade. Losing the three snipers is shit, but…” He shrugs. “You won. Win gracefully. Let it go.”
“Let it go.” Mashkov’s head feels like stone when he shakes it. “Rogozhkin was there.”
“Rogozhkin’s dead. The Russians say so. Our scouts took his money and they’re probably having a huge drunk in Kyiv right now.”
“Then who else? Who could she get who can shoot like that?” He throws up his hands. “Who else would want to kill me?”
“The longer you’re in this busi
ness, the longer that list gets.” Shatilov ankles another chair in front of Mashkov and sits, bracing his elbows on his knees. “It doesn’t matter. You got the money just in time. We can pay for supplies and petrol. We’re in the hunt…because of you.”
Mashkov knows all this, but can’t feel it. Two near-death experiences in three days are too much. “Hooray for me. Remind me why you’re not running this brigade?”
Shatilov snorts. “I’m just a broken-down old soldier. All I know how to do is fight. You know how to do the rest of it.” He takes one last puff, then crushes the butt under his boot heel. “So do it. Forget Rogozhkin, forget the women. Lead us. We need that.”
He’s talking sense. Mashkov sighs and nods. But if I ever get another shot at that bastard Rogozhkin, I’m throwing everything we’ve got at him.
Chapter 50
MONDAY, 16 MAY
Carson leans back against the rusted housing for a conveyor belt and stares out the empty window into the darkness. The almost-half-moon hovers over the horizon, about to set; the low angle stretches long, black shadows toward her from the four-story apartment blocks across the street. A stiff breeze rattles the weeds and blows bits of trash through the ruined grain dryer’s open bays, sounding like people sneaking in to finish her off. All good reasons to not be able to stay asleep.
She checks her watch: 2:36 in the morning. Twenty minutes until they have to go.
Galina’s sleeping in the car like a well-fed cat: curled up in the back seat, draped in a wash-weary blanket, her fists under her chin. Rogozhkin is…well, who cares where he is.
They’d bailed out of the hotel as soon as all three of them got back from the stadium. Between the cops and the militia, it was too dangerous to stay. When Rogozhkin poked his head into their room to see if she and Galina were ready, Carson sucker-punched him. She should’ve thanked him for saving her life and Galina’s, but she was furious he’d almost screwed up her plan.
Now she’s as far up in the weathered concrete building as she can get, feeling both mad and guilty, watching the northern part of the town sleep.
Bootsteps clunk on the scabby steel diamond-plate walkway. Carson raises the AK cradled in her lap and flips the safety, just in case it’s not who she thinks it is. Or in case it is.
“It’s me.” Rogozhkin’s voice, just loud enough to carry the three meters or so between them. He closes the distance, then grunts as he sits next to her. “Is it safe to sit here?”
“No.” She safes the rifle and settles it across her thighs. “Maybe.”
They sit silently for a while. Rogozhkin finally says, “I should’ve told you my plan.”
“You think?” She keeps staring out the window, but doesn’t see anything. “I promised him ‘no tricks.’ I promised he’d be safe. I told you that in the park.”
“I didn’t realize you took it so seriously.”
“I keep my promises. Otherwise, what’s the point of making them?” She chucks a broken lump of concrete out the window. “Now Galina’s mad at me for not letting her kill Mashkov, and not letting you do it.”
Another long pause. “I’m sorry.”
Carson watches him watch her with a sad little frown on his lips. She grabs the front of his shirt, kisses him hard, then pushes him away. “Thanks for saving my ass.”
“You’re welcome.” His eyes are wide and the frown’s turned into a semi-smile. “Where did you get your training?”
She edits the story down to the least she can get away with. “A guy named Yurik in Vienna. Ex-FSB Alpha Group. You know that saying, ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’? It was like that.” Rodievsky paid for the six grueling weeks she spent with Yurik Vasiliev so she’d stop acting like a cop and start doing things the Bratva way. She still goes back for refreshers.
Rogozhkin nods. “You could do worse.” He squeezes her arm, then takes his hand away. “I woke Galina. She’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
“She didn’t shoot you.”
“I was careful. Did you eat?”
“Some.” When they arrived at the grain dryer, Galina insisted on buying food at the ATB supermarket about half a klick away. Carson wanted to go with her, but Galina told her to keep an eye on “the Kacáps.” Bread, sausage, and canned vegetables served cold didn’t make for much of a meal, but they kept Carson’s stomach from rebelling. “Are we still heading north?”
“Yes. It’s always best to try the easiest option first.” Rogozhkin hauls himself to his feet and shakes out his legs. “You should come down—”
Approaching engine noises bounce off the grimy, graffittied cast-concrete walls. Carson and Rogozhkin swap puzzled glances that become more alarmed as the noise gets louder. They scramble along the catwalk to the building’s east side.
A dozen or more pairs of wide-set headlights swarm the open dirt field east of the grain dryer. The ones in front pull up due north of where Carson and Rogozhkin stand; the ones following glare off clouds of dust. There’s just enough residual moonlight to highlight boxy cabs on eight-wheeled chassis, packing what look like bundles of sewer pipes.
Rogozhkin murmurs, “Uragans.”
“What?”
“BM-27s. Multiple rocket launchers.”
“Yours or the DNR’s?”
“Ours. We didn’t give these to the DNR. We don’t trust them that much.”
The shadows of men leap out of the cabs. Glowing red and white cones—probably attached to flashlights—swing front to back as the men run ahead of the transporters, then stop to signal where each launcher should go. Within a couple of minutes, the entire five-hundred-meter-long field is covered with the rumble of engines and the whine of electric motors swinging the sewer pipes—launch tubes—into position.
Carson checks her watch. Five to three. “When’s the battle supposed to start?”
“First light. 0430. There’s preparatory artillery fires beforehand, but I thought that’s supposed to start at T-minus-thirty.”
“Why here?” Carson pokes her head out the window. Dull yellow streetlights surround the field. “There’s houses over there, apartments back there. The New Market’s down there.” About a hundred meters south. “Won’t the Ukrainian Army shoot back?”
Rogozhkin sighs and pushes his fingers through his hair. “Yes. That’s exactly why this battery is here.”
Her brain follows that idea down some very dark holes. “They want the army to shell houses?”
“Yes.” He sighs. “These launchers will fire on the UA artillery’s last-known locations. Our UAVs jam Kyiv’s counter-battery radar. The UA will see incoming fires but won’t be able to calculate accurate origins. Their spotters on the slag heaps will see the rockets coming from here and send coordinates to their fire-control centers. The UA artillery will respond and drop ordnance all over here. They’ll hit houses, the market. Kill civilians.” He points out the window using his whole hand. “These launchers will be long gone by then. I don’t doubt that RT has camera crews standing by in the park to run up here and shoot video of Kyiv’s latest atrocity.”
Carson’s no stranger to dirty dealing, but the sheer cynicism of this move takes the wind out of her. “Is this a regular thing?”
“Yes, just not at this scale.” Rogozhkin lets out a bitter chuckle. “The final irony? When the UA responds, our UAVs will get fresh coordinates for their artillery. Then our artillery, about ten kilometers east of here, will have up-to-the-minute targeting intel. If they don’t respond, we’ll know they won’t hit this area and we get a safe firing position that’s almost on top of the contact line. It’s lose-lose for them.”
“You guys are real bastards. You know that, right?”
Rogozhkin nods. “I’ve known that for a long time.”
A blinding-yellow billow of flame shoots out of the back of the nearest launcher. White thunderbolts of light streak toward the west with the shriek of the sky being torn open. Both Carson and Rogozhkin clap their palms t
o their ears.
Then another. And another.
Rogozhkin grabs Carson’s arm and pushes her away from the window. “We have to go!” he yells in her ear. “The counterfire will be here in a few minutes!”
They storm down the steel staircase to the ground floor and dash to the open bays where they parked the Octavia the previous evening. They find the car but not Galina.
Carson circles the slab, peering into the dark shadows. She finds Galina sheltering behind a concrete pier on the east side, holding up her phone. “What are you doing?” Carson yells.
“Taking video. You know what they are doing, yes?”
“Yeah, Rogozhkin filled me in. Come on! This place’s gonna get stomped to shit!”
Galina glares at Carson. “I have to get them driving away!”
Carson’s lost track of how many launches have happened in the past couple of minutes. She’s partly deaf and getting scared, waiting for shells to start pummeling the area—and this building. “We need to be in front of that! We’ll be stuck here if we’re not!”
The nearest launcher roars west to the road next to the field. Galina’s phone follows its progress. Carson grabs her arm, drags her to the car, and stuffs her into the back seat while Galina sputters and flails at her.
Rogozhkin stomps the gas pedal, sending them rocketing out the west side of the grain dryer toward the road. The red taillights of at least four Uragan launchers speed northbound.
The Octavia swerves onto the road heading southbound and tears past the boxy apartment blocks to their right. Lights flick on in their windows. Get down, people, Carson tries to tell them telepathically. Take cover. This is gonna be bad.
Rogozhkin skids the car right at the first intersection. The shrill whistle of the first incoming shell leaks through Carson’s half-open window.
A flash of light behind them.
Whump. A gout of flame and smoke shoots upward from behind the market grounds.
The car squeals right onto the highway, cutting off Carson’s view. Galina sits rooted on the back seat, her eyes blown, clutching the headrest on Carson’s seat. Carson closes the window so they don’t have to listen to the shelling. The supermarket and bank flash past on the driver’s side.
Zrada Page 28
