The Hunters h-1

by Chris Kuzneski

  ‘Star Trek,’ McNutt said. ‘Don’t interfere with indigenous life forms.’

  ‘Oh great,’ Sarah sighed. ‘Our gunman’s off in fantasyland again. I wish we could beam his ass back to Florida.’

  48

  Cobb ignored his team’s bickering and focused on the handsome older man in a dark, zip-up jacket, pants, boots, and wool cap.

  He rode his horse as if he were born on it.

  The man trotted alongside the still slowly moving train in perfect rhythm. Yet as much as he looked the part of an old-guard horseman, Cobb sensed there was something off about him — something modern. The straight teeth he flashed? The hands that didn’t look like they spent much time moving rocks or swinging an axe? His posture in the saddle seemed formal: more trained and drilled than native-born.

  Jasmine told the rider what Cobb had asked her to say. The old man listened to the young woman’s fluent Russian words then spoke again.

  ‘What do you want?’ the man asked in Russian.

  Jasmine translated it for the group.

  Sarah spoke in their ears. ‘What are you going to tell him, Jack? No truth, half-truth, or whole truth?’

  Cobb had been thinking about it. For the first time in awhile he was unsure how to attain the best result.

  ‘Jack?’ Jasmine urged quietly.

  The Russian looked at Cobb expectantly.

  ‘I’m talking because I want him to hear words,’ Cobb said. ‘Otherwise he’ll think I’m standing here formulating a lie.’

  ‘Are you?’ Jasmine asked.

  ‘Considering it,’ Cobb admitted.

  Suddenly, a hand fell on Cobb’s shoulder. Dobrev was beside him, the train slowing to a crawl. He said something that Jasmine translated.

  ‘Andrei wants to tell the man something,’ she said.

  Dobrev didn’t wait for Cobb’s approval. Technically, that was his prerogative since rules of the rail put him in charge of the train. Cobb had the manpower to disagree but not the right. So Cobb deferred. Dobrev stuck his head out the window and immediately started talking to the leader of the horsemen. His tone was affable, familiar, even jocular, but still somehow sincere.

  Cobb and McNutt both looked at Jasmine.

  ‘Andrei is telling the man about his life and travels,’ she said. ‘About how he and his family have dreamed of these hills since he was a boy. He says he finally decided to bring his old self and his old train here. The horseman laughed at that, wants to know whether we are vacationers. Dobrev says not exactly and that your description of “explorers” is more accurate. He says that the man’s accent tells him that he, too, is a proud Russian, and that our visit carries a purpose that is important to all loyal Russians as well as our hosts, the Romanians.’

  ‘Does he say what the purpose is?’ Cobb wanted to know.

  That was really the crux of it.

  ‘Andrei just — what is the football word? Punted?’

  ‘That’s the word,’ McNutt said.

  ‘What did Dobrev tell them?’ Cobb asked.

  ‘That you would explain the purpose, man-to-man, over a glass.’

  ‘In other words, he bought you time, boss,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Time and an equal standing,’ Jasmine said. ‘Chief to chief. That’s a big concession to someone who was “not welcome” just a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Oh,’ said McNutt quietly. ‘This guy’s good.’

  Jasmine looked straight at Cobb. ‘Andrei asked the man to come onboard. He declined. He wants us, all of us, to come out. The horseman is telling him to stop the train and we can share a glass of tuica in their village.’ Before anyone could ask, Jasmine explained. ‘It’s a Romanian peasant drink; a brandy made from apples or plums.’

  ‘I am so in favor of that,’ McNutt blurted.

  As the gunman was speaking, Dobrev moved back and started to brake the locomotive without awaiting instructions. Meanwhile, the lead horseman started speaking again.

  ‘He wants to talk to you,’ Jasmine told Cobb.

  Cobb shrugged a silent ‘okay’ and stuck his head back out the train window. While the man spoke, Cobb took a moment to savor the beautiful countryside and the remarkable sight of the surrounding horsemen. It was as if they had now fully been transported to the dawn of the twentieth century.

  ‘He says, “You are their leader, yes?”’ Jasmine translated.

  ‘Da,’ Cobb replied.

  ‘Americanski?‘ the man asked.

  ‘Da.’

  ‘Is that really how they refer to us?’ McNutt asked.

  Jasmine nodded.

  ‘Wow. I thought that was a joke,’ he said.

  The horseman paused. He was studying Cobb’s face with the wisdom of many years more than Cobb had under his own belt.

  The man spoke again. ‘He says, “This is going to be a very interesting talk, is it not?”’ Jasmine translated.

  Cobb smiled philosophically, and nodded. ‘Da.’

  The Russian leader of the Romanian villagers shrugged in return, spoke once more, and started to turn his horse back to where they came.

  ‘“A bad peace is better than a good quarrel”,’ Jasmine translated. ‘Old Russian proverb.’

  ‘They’re all full of them, aren’t they?’ McNutt asked.

  ‘This man more than others,’ said Jean-Marc Papineau, very unexpectedly, in the ears of the team. ‘He is Colonel Viktor Borovsky of the Russian police. He questioned me in-’

  Cobb didn’t hear the rest of Papineau’s statement. Not because the feed was cut, but because a shot rang out from the nearby trees. A split-second later, the horse ridden by Colonel Borovsky lost its head in an eruption of bloody shreds as bone, brain, and hair filled the air.

  49

  To reach the isolated village, Colonel Borovsky and Anna Rusinko had boarded a helicopter that he had commandeered from the Gosudarstvennaya Avtomobilnaya Inspektsiya — better known as the GAI, or the Moscow highway patrol. The chopper had ferried them unobtrusively to Kursk where, during a refueling stop, Borovsky called an associate in the Romanian Ministry of Internal Affairs to clear their passage to Vascauti. After surrendering their sidearms to local authorities, Borovsky had told the deputy minister that they were just going to meet some old friends — friends he had met long ago on an archeological dig.

  From there, it was smooth sailing.

  At least until the train arrived.

  Anna had tried to discourage Borovsky from his plan to stop the train, on horseback, with old rifles. But ever since they had left Russia, he had become increasingly less communicative. Anna had a stronger and stronger sense that he had a private mission apart from finding Andrei Dobrev and solving a murder. The colonel belonged to some century other than his own. He certainly didn’t belong in this era with its layers of bureaucrats and desk-police and regulations.

  In that regard, he was more cowboy than cop.

  An old-school hero in a new world.

  Standing on a rise while glancing through seventy-year-old binoculars — with superb optics, she had to confess — Anna had seen Borovsky ride toward the train, fire at the ground, then trot alongside the engine. The entire time he was smiling, like he was having a total blast.

  From her vantage point, it had looked like a nest of insects swarming around a toy train. She had looked helplessly at the villagers around her. They were not fearful of the sharp reports of weapons or the danger faced by loved ones. They were completely silent while they watched, intently, as events unfolded.

  A few had even seemed proud.

  But that only made sense. It wasn’t every day that the local peace officers received a call from a colleague in Moscow — one who wanted them to join him and do what they were trained to do. And on a matter of international importance. Most of these people had never been more than twenty-five miles from their village.

  To do something that affected the world was an honor.

  But after ten minutes, the action was over.

  That part o
f it, anyway.

  She was about to get in a waiting hay cart — a hay cart! — for a ride back to the village when a crack had rolled ominously from somewhere behind her. In a panic, she quickly raised the binoculars and studied the scene before her.

  Only one man had appeared to be hit.

  Colonel Viktor Borovsky.

  Cobb slammed onto the floor of the train cab, temporarily dazed by the blood and horse brains that had splattered the side of his face.

  Jasmine ducked as she yanked up the shotgun like she was about to blow the roof off the train, riding the fear as she’d been taught. Her survival depended upon treating her emotion like an unwelcome friend, not the enemy itself.

  ‘Can I kill someone now?’ McNutt spat sarcastically as he spun in the direction of the shot. He saw the attackers a second after Garcia did.

  ‘ATVs, AK-47s — Black Robes!’ they all heard in their ears.

  A dust cloud filled the horizon. Tearing up from the southern woods with the ear-slicing roar of a hundred dragons were dozens of dark, four-wheel, all-terrain vehicles, ridden by men cloaked in black robes and carrying AK assault rifles. They tore up the grass and shredded the flowers as their bulky, industrialized, heavy-tired machines buzz-sawed furiously up the slope, while the horsemen raced for the far side of the train where their leader still was.

  Cobb’s head came up as McNutt dragged Jasmine and Dobrev down.

  ‘Full metal jackets!’ the sniper hissed as he grabbed the Benelli shotgun from Jasmine, twisted toward the southern side of the cab, then cursed.

  ‘What?’ Cobb said.

  ‘Too far, damn it!’ McNutt said. ‘Out of range!’

  Then McNutt was gone, out the back of the cab, so fast that he practically left a puff of cartoon smoke.

  Jasmine stared after him then spun her head back toward Cobb, who was still on the floor, his head raised. Half his face looked like it was slapped with red warpaint. He was trying to look out the window without losing the top of his head.

  ‘Jasmine, you stay back,’ Cobb said. ‘I can’t afford to lose my translator.’

  The remark stung a little. His concern wasn’t for her, it was for what he had often referred to as the ‘mission assets’. Whenever she thought she might be starting to like him or one of the others, that reality always intruded.

  As Jasmine stepped back, Sarah appeared in the cab door. She was fully dressed in her Type IV Modular Tactical Vest and Ops Core Ballistic helmet — the best bullet-resistant gear money could buy. The former looked like a tailor-made down vest, and the latter looked like a particularly aggressive bike-riding helmet. Even so, they were made to withstand everything up to, and including, thirty-zero-six armor-piercing bullets.

  Sarah’s arms were full of additional gear for the rest of the team. She tossed vests and helmets to Cobb and Jasmine, along with a spare for Dobrev, then she swung a SIG 553 Commando assault rifle around from where it was strapped on her back. The seven-pound, twenty-eight-inch, five-point-six-millimeter, thirty-round weapon was also considered one of the best in the world.

  ‘Thanks,’ Cobb said as he pulled Jasmine lower and helped her suit up before putting his own equipment on.

  ‘No problem,’ Sarah said. ‘I gotta get back to McNutt. He’s setting up the armory for war.’ She smirked at the thought. ‘He said we have permission to kill them. True?’

  In the pause that followed, they heard the slapping metallic noise of lead hail hitting the southern side of the train.

  ‘Yes,’ Cobb said.

  ‘Wait!’ Papineau shouted in their ears.

  ‘Sarah, go,’ Cobb said, ignoring the Frenchman. He looked at Sarah, pointed toward the armory, then pulled his finger across his throat.

  Sarah gave a thumbs-up and disappeared. Better protected now, Cobb went to the door for a clearer view of the Black Robes. From this vantage point, he heard a scratching just beyond the lavatory door on the other side. He twisted around to see a stunned, winded Borovsky, his face covered in his horse’s brains, feebly trying to pull himself up the cab ladder.

  ‘Jack, are you there?’ Papineau said.

  ‘Shut him down, Garcia,’ Cobb shouted, clearly referring to the Frenchman, while reaching out to the Russian.

  ‘Just his broadcasts or-’ Garcia started.

  ‘Everything!’ Cobb bellowed as Jasmine and Dobrev, who had put on his own, slightly ill-fitting protective gear, rushed to help Borovsky. It didn’t matter that he was a Russian police officer or the leader of the villagers. Cobb sensed that Borovsky would be more of an asset than a threat, particularly after saving his life.

  Garcia cut Papineau off as ordered.

  ‘Dobrev!’ Cobb shouted at the engineer. When he got his attention, he urgently jabbed one forefinger at the northern tree line. The old man nodded and scuttled to the controls.

  As the engine throttled up, Cobb helped Jasmine drag the limp, groaning Borovsky inside.

  ‘Spasiba,’ he said breathlessly.

  Cobb offered him his own protective helmet.

  The colonel declined with a grateful wave of his hand.

  ‘Jasmine, tell Dobrev to get as close to the tree line as possible,’ Cobb said. ‘Garcia, how many?’

  ‘Two dozen, more coming,’ came the answer. ‘Now three … four! More coming!’

  Cobb silently swore. ‘Everybody, retreat prep.’

  ‘No!’ McNutt shouted.

  ‘Dammit, I said prep, not execute!’

  ‘Roger,’ said Garcia and Sarah almost at the same time.

  And then Sarah hissed, ‘Get with the freakin’ program, McNutt.’

  50

  As the train began to pick up speed, Cobb slid to the southern side of the cab. He hazarded a look at the field just in time to see the nearest Black Robe kill a horse and rider with his AK-47. A second after that, the Black Robe cartwheeled off the ATV, his head erupting into a wet, red plume of mist.

  ‘In range,’ McNutt reported gleefully.

  ‘We’ll be too, in a few seconds,’ Garcia said, comparing his map to the specs of the weaponry carried by the Black Robes.

  Cobb heard another dull crack and saw a flying Black Robe.

  McNutt cackled with delight. ‘They gotta get through the killing field first. Let’s see how many volunteer.’

  He was right: the lead drivers who were trying to reach the train veered away to the east, moving out of range and rendering themselves ineffective. The Black Robes would have to wait and attack the passing train from the rear.

  That bought Cobb’s team some time.

  Chalk one up to McNutt, Cobb thought, picturing the gunman using an Accuracy International AX338 long-range sniper’s rifle, the one with the five-shot magazine.

  Cobb’s eyes moved northward. He saw fifty or more Black Robes spread across the field ahead. Some were still riding, but most were parked and hunkered down behind their vehicles, firing at will. The local horsemen, too, had gathered behind the train, firing when they could, but mostly using the locomotive as a shield and waiting for orders.

  Cobb turned back to see Borovsky propped up against the lavatory door, looking haunted.

  ‘Ask him if he’s ready for that tuica,’ he told Jasmine without taking his eyes off their guest.

  She did. Cobb watched as Borovsky’s face changed. He said something in a slow, unconcerned voice.

  ‘He says, “If you’re buying.”’

  Cobb grinned. ‘With pleasure. Tell him we’re going to need his men to get us out of here.’

  ‘Abandon the train?’ Garcia gasped.

  ‘Shut up, Hector, and listen. You’ve got work to do. I don’t want them to be able to crack our computers even if they brought a Russian Garcia with them.’

  ‘You want me to fry them?’

  Cobb nodded. ‘Anything you can’t carry, kill. Understood?’

  ‘Roger that,’ Garcia said, his fingers already flying, his brain figuring out how many laptops to take with him and what kind.

 
; ‘Sarah, you got what you need?’

  ‘In my skull and at the end of my arms, Jack,’ she replied.

  Cobb looked back at Jasmine, pleased to see that Borovsky was leaning half out of the cab, already telling his men what to do.

  ‘Anything I need to know?’ Cobb asked Jasmine.

  Just then, Borovsky turned and spoke.

  ‘He says that the men are ready,’ Jasmine said. She listened to the Russian for a few seconds more, then added, ‘He says to jump on the back of a horse and hold on tight.’

  ‘Hold — onto what?’ Garcia gulped.

  Borovsky was still talking.

  ‘He says that the horses are amazingly well trained,’ Jasmine assured everyone. ‘They have been trained to ignore loud noise, sudden motion, and added weight. They won’t flinch.’

  ‘Not even if I puke?’ Garcia said.

  ‘Not even if you continue to cry like a two-year-old,’ Sarah said. ‘Jeez.’

  ‘Okay everybody,’ Cobb ordered, ‘grab whatever you need that won’t slow us down and double-time it up here.’

  Garcia was the first to arrive, pockets bulging with flash drives and battery packs, arms full of bags of tablets, eyes darting for errant bullets. An additional shoulder bag contained two laptops and one wireless charger.

  ‘Where are the others?’ Cobb demanded.

  Other than the occasional cough of McNutt’s sniper rifle, there was only silence from the back of the train.

  ‘McNutt? Sarah?’

  ‘He won’t leave, Jack,’ they heard Sarah say.

  ‘McNutt!’ Cobb yelled.

  ‘Covering the retreat,’ McNutt said. ‘It’s in the prep drill, remember.’

  Cobb felt like killing someone who wasn’t a Black Robe. He hated having his own instructions flung back at him. Sarah came through the door just then, and Cobb put her in charge of the evacuation.

  Borovsky was already on a horse, behind the rider McNutt had netted. Five more riders milled around the northern side opening of the cab. The rest were spread out amongst the other cars, keeping the Black Robes from circling wide and coming at them from the east. Several additional horsemen were congregated at the front and rear of the train, helping McNutt keep any ATV from charging the train as it crept closer and closer to the protective embrace of the northern tree line. The mob of swirling dust made precise shooting difficult. It was basically a matter of shooting at the center of a tawny cloud and hoping you hit something.