Dark Sky Falling

by Richard Ryker

  Alyssa took the box from his hand and she opened it and pulled out the top letter. She ran her fingers across what she recognized as her mother’s thin handwriting. She would learn Chechen so that she could read her mother’s letters. She thought about her mother and how much she missed her. Alyssa loved her father, but right then she wanted to be held by her mother again. It had been so long, and she was afraid she would forget her mother’s touch, what her skin felt like when she ran her fingers along the inside of her arm the way she did, the smell of her clothes. She wiped her eyes and said, “Thank you.” She closed the box then kissed her grandfather on his cheek. When she pulled back, she was close enough to see that his eyes were as red and wet as her own.

  “You must go now. Go home and make something of the life your mother made for you in America.”

  “I will,” she said.

  He barked at the soldier, words she could not understand.

  When they were outside, she asked the soldier. “What did he say to you?”

  “He said that I have extra fuel, to be careful, and stop nowhere.” He paused. “And that, if I value my life, there will be no stopping until I have you to safety.”

  Chapter 42

  Dmitry’s article, including all the details of their search for Alyssa, was right there on the soldier’s device. News traveled fast, even in the Chechen mountains. As if it wasn’t difficult enough chasing Kamila through territory they knew little about, now they’d have to deal with people hoping to take advantage of their situation. They had lost the safety that came with being anonymous.

  The soldiers knew why they were there. There was no point in making up a story or trying to fool them. All Marcus wanted was to get to Alyssa, and that didn’t pose any threat to the Russian Army.

  “Yes. We’re trying to find my daughter. If you let us pass through we won’t bother anyone. No one will ever know we were here.”

  The short soldier scoffed. “You aren’t going anywhere but back where you came from. Except the lady here.” He eyed Stormy again, a devious smile crossing his lips. “Maybe you would like to stay here with us. Your boyfriend won’t miss you at all.”

  He moved a hand to stroke Stormy’s cheek, but she pulled back.

  Marcus shoved his hand away. “Don’t touch.”

  With unexpected speed for someone so stocky, the soldier slipped the rifle off his arm, jabbing the butt into Marcus’s ribs. Pain shot up into his shoulder.

  Marcus tightened his stomach and threw a quick punch. The soldier jerked his head back and Marcus felt the tip of his knuckle graze the man’s nose. Marcus almost smiled as he saw tears well up in the stocky soldier’s eyes. But now both men had their rifles pointed at Marcus.

  Throwing a punch wasn’t the smartest thing to do. But the little prick had to know he couldn’t do whatever he wanted.

  The soldier locked his eyes on Marcus. “I think this one wants to get himself and all of his friends killed.” He flexed his finger near the trigger. Stepping back, he spoke to the blonde soldier. “Go and check the car.”

  As the taller soldier looked through the Lada, Marcus surveyed the area. Further back, by the transports, a few soldiers milled about, smoking. They weren’t paying attention to what was happening here.

  The blonde soldier returned, holding up a rifle. “A Kalash. It was in the trunk.”

  The short soldier looked sideways at Salman, “Do you always carry Kalashnikovs when helping Americans with lost children?”

  He slung his own weapon over his shoulder and grabbed Salman’s rifle from the other man.

  Stormy whispered in English, “Kalash…Kalashnikov… what does it mean?”

  Marcus replied, “It’s an AK-47 assault rifle”

  What was Salman doing with an AK-47? He’d said he wasn’t working with the rebels. He was going to get all three of them killed.

  “And how do you know what a Kalash is?” Stormy asked.

  “History Channel—”

  “Silence!” the Russian said. He turned back to Salman. “Who is your commander, rebel? I need names and locations, if you want to live.”

  Salman looked at the soldier’s feet.

  “You want to play dumb?” the Russian said. In another burst of speed, he slammed his boot into Salman’s left knee. As Salman collapsed, the soldier swung the butt of his gun around, smashing Salman’s cheek.

  “Stop it!” Stormy shouted, taking a step forward.

  “No,” Marcus said, pulling her back. It was too late for words. But the soldiers had guns, they didn’t.

  “I will ask you again, Chechen. Who do you work for? Who is your commander?”

  Salman leaned forward, head down and hands flat on the ground for support. He lifted his head slowly, then spit out blood onto the grass in front of the soldier.

  Marcus glanced at the blond soldier. He was too far away for Marcus to attempt anything. The stocky solider, though, was closer, and distracted.

  “He’s a tough one,” the shorter soldier said, looking at his partner with false amusement. “I like that.” He took a few steps back and with fluid motion, like a soccer player kicking a ball, planted his foot into Salman’s ribs. “Look, I play soccer too.” He laughed, looking at the blonde soldier.

  Marcus eyed the soldier’s weapon, took a step forward, but Salman spoke. “I will tell you.”

  Salman leaned sideways, balancing himself with one arm.

  “Good. Good. Tell us nicely and we might let you leave. Like I said, except the lady.”

  “That’s not happening,” Marcus said.

  “I will tell you if you let all of us go,” Salman said. He put all of his weight onto his right leg and heaved himself up to a standing position. “I cannot allow you to take the woman.”

  He stepped back as if to shield Marcus and Stormy from the soldier. He was only a couple of feet in front of Marcus. Salman untucked his shirt from the front more than it already was, using it to wipe his face. He bent over just slightly, and Marcus saw the pistol sticking out of the back of Salman’s pants. He had pulled out his shirt to show Marcus the gun.

  If he just moved a little closer, Marcus could reach it.

  The short soldier pointed the AK-47 from the Lada at Salman’s chest. “I decide who leaves.” He pushed the barrel into Salman’s stomach and Salman stumbled back into the ditch.

  “Get him up!”

  Marcus slid down into the ditch and put his arm under Salman’s.

  “Take it,” Salman whispered.

  Their eyes met and Marcus nodded.

  “Hurry up!” the soldier shouted

  Marcus heaved Salman up, standing close behind him. He slipped the gun from Salman’s back and tucked it into the front of his own pants, hidden by his coat.

  Salman stood in front of the soldier again.

  “Now tell me the name of your commander.”

  Salman nodded slowly. “Yes…yes.” He put a hand up. “The name of the commander is…your mother.”

  The tall, blonde soldier laughed.

  The short man’s expression turned from self-assurance to rage. He pointed the AK-47 at Salman’s chest and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened. Marcus moved to the side, lifted Salman’s handgun to the short soldier’s head. Marcus switched the safety off, his fingers slippery with sweat. His eyes met the tall blonde. He steadied his voice, forcing a sense of confidence into his words. “Don’t say or do anything or I will kill him.”

  The short man stared at the rifle in his hands. It wasn’t his, it was Salman’s.

  Salman pushed the barrel aside. “Guess I forgot to load it.” He pulled the soldier’s weapon off his shoulder. “Now who gets to decide who lives or dies?”

  “Chechen pig!” He looked toward the blonde soldier. “You coward! Shoot them!”

  The blonde hesitated, then pointed his rifle at Salman. He was going to kill Salman.

  “Kill him!” the short soldier
shouted.

  Salman was their only guide to Alyssa.

  Alyssa was Marcus’s daughter, his life, his reason for living. If Salman died, Marcus would lose Alyssa, forever. Marcus pointed the handgun at the blonde soldier and fired twice. The man collapsed before firing a shot.

  Shouting came from the direction of the transports. They had heard the gunfire.

  “In the ditch!” Salman shouted.

  The three of them fell back into the ditch, taking the short one with them.

  There was the rat a tat of automatic weapons and the ground around them spit up dirt. Using the soldier’s automatic rifle, Salman sprayed bullets in the direction of the oncoming soldiers. Two were hit. A third soldier fell to the ground. The others withdrew to the transports.

  “They are going to kill you all,” the short soldier laughed.

  Marcus looked to Salman. “We need to get to the car.”

  It was about fifty feet away. Not far, but enough distance to get several bullet holes through anyone who tried to make a run for it.

  “We can use him as a shield,” Salman said, motioning to the soldier.

  “No, then only one of us will be protected. Stay here.”

  Marcus sprinted toward the car. He stayed low, stumbling forward as several bullets kicked up the dirt around him.

  In the tall grass between the ditch and the car, the blonde soldier had lifted his rifle. Marcus rolled to his left as the soldier fired.

  He missed.

  Marcus didn’t waste any time. He could run to the car, but then the blonde would still have a shot at him. He leapt forward, shoving the blond soldier’s barrel into the dirt as he landed.

  Marcus ripped the rifle free.

  Their eyes met.

  Marcus rolled him onto his back. Blood seeped from his abdomen. His arm was bleeding too.

  “If you are going to kill me—”

  “I don’t want to kill anyone,” Marcus said. “I’m here to save my daughter.”

  The man’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

  “But that doesn’t mean I can let you kill me,” Marcus said. It was true, he didn’t wish ill on the young man. Once they were out of here, hopefully he’d get the medical attention he needed. He lifted a handgun from the soldier’s belt, took the rifle, and crawled through the tall grass to the car. Shots echoed. Nothing landed near Marcus. Salman must be drawing attention to himself so Marcus could make it to the car.

  Inside the Lada, the keys were on the seat. Marcus ducked low, started the car, put it in reverse, and floored the accelerator. Glass broke as the soldiers by the transport took aim at the Lada. He slammed the breaks, coming to a stop inches from the ditch.

  Marcus slid out of the driver’s side door and onto the grass. He motioned for Stormy.

  “You drive.”

  “Me?’

  “I’ll cover Salman.”

  The passenger door was nearest to the transports, and so most vulnerable to gunfire. Salman rose from the ditch with the short soldier in front of him, a human shield. The transport soldiers held their fire. Stormy climbed into the driver’s seat.

  Marcus stood behind the car, near the driver’s side back door. He covered Salman as he walked the soldier to the car. They reached the front passenger side door, the soldier between Salman and the transports.

  “Get in,” Salman said.

  The soldier turned to face Salman. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Get in!”

  Salman grabbed the man’s arm. It was the mistake the soldier was waiting for. He swept Salman’s hand away and in the same motion pulled the barrel of the rifle down, swinging it clockwise, driving the butt into the side of Salman’s head. Salman stumbled back. The soldier leapt away and the transport soldiers fired.

  Marcus watched as one, two, three bullets ripped through Salman. He fell, disappearing behind the car. Marcus raised the handgun and fired two shots, then two more into the stocky soldier.

  Marcus moved around the Lada, unconcerned about gunfire. He reached the rear passenger door, opened it, heaved Salman inside, fell on top of him, and shouted, “Go!”

  Chapter 43

  Marcus pulled his feet into the car, the door swinging wildly as Stormy sped away from the roadblock. He bent Salman’s legs and closed the car door. Marcus grunted from the pain that shot like a hot knife through his own knee. He looked down and there was a large gash where one of the Russian bullets had hit him, just above the knee.

  Stormy turned in her seat. “You’re hurt!”

  “Focus on the road. It’s Salman that needs a doctor.”

  She turned her attention back to the highway. “Is he going to live—”

  Salman had been hit in the shoulder, his abdomen, and there was a large blotch of blood on the side of his head. Marcus pulled his own coat off, then his flannel shirt. “This is going to hurt.” He pressed the shirt onto Salman’s abdomen, where the blood loss was greatest.

  Salman winced, exhaling through his teeth. He opened his eyes. “Get off the road.”

  “We need to get both of you to a hospital,” Stormy said.

  The drive back to Grozny was too far. If the remained on the open road the Russians would find them any minute now.

  “No. They will look for us on the road,” Salman said. “We have killed Russians.”

  He was right. He—Marcus—had killed another human being. But he didn’t have time to think about that. Salman was dying. Salman’s gaze was unfocused, his eyelids wavering. “Salman, stay awake.” Marcus said loudly. “Salman!”

  He stirred and his eyes flickered.

  “You said get off the road—where?”

  “A yellow farmhouse. The one after that, the forest starts, then there is a road on the south….”

  Stormy interrupted. “South? Where is south?”

  “Left….”

  They continued down the hill, the car tilting with each switchback, Salman grunting in response to every movement of the Lada. Marcus kept an eye on the road behind them. No sign of the Russians yet. He expected a convoy, or worse, a Russian helicopter, to storm over the horizon at any moment.

  “Yellow farmhouse,” Stormy said. “There’s the next one up ahead. Look for the road on the left,” she said to Marcus. They passed the last and continued. After about a mile, Marcus said, “There’s no road.”

  “Just wait,” Salman said.

  “He’s delusional,” said Stormy.

  “There!” Marcus shouted as they passed a dirt driveway. Stormy slammed on the breaks and the car slid across the road nearly into the ditch on the other side. She put the car in reverse, backed up, and back into drive. Just then a semi-truck coming up the highway sounded its horn.

  It wasn’t slowing down.

  “Go!” Marcus shouted. She floored the accelerator, and they jumped over the side of the road and down the dirt driveway. Marcus stared helplessly as the truck swerved at just the last moment.

  In the back seat, Salman lay staring at the ceiling. He stretched out his arm toward the front seat for balance. “Salman,” Marcus said. “We are on the road now.”

  “I felt that,” he said with a faint smile.

  The dirt path cut through the forest for about half a mile then opened into a grassy area. The car tilted back and forth over potholes so massive they threatened to engulf the Lada.

  “There’s a house up here,” Marcus said. “Large barn. Red truck out front. And a big dog. Really big.”

  “That is it. The dog barks but he’s harmless.”

  Stormy parked the car and, as promised, the dog approached, its head nearly level with hers. “Wow,” Stormy said. She rolled down her window a couple of inches and the dog sniffed excitedly. Someone called from the house and the dog lifted his nose for one more whiff before obeying. A man with a short white beard wearing a red and black flannel coat stepped off the front porch, a rifle under his right arm.

  “I
f I have to see another gun pointed at me…” Stormy said.

  The man approached the car and looked curiously at Marcus and Stormy. Closer, he saw the body lying in the back seat and he finally spoke.

  “What happened here?” He lowered his rifle and opened the back door of the Lada.

  “Arslan,” Salman said. ‘It is me.”

  “Salman?”

  “We were attacked by Russians,” Stormy said. “Up the road.”

  “We need to bring him inside. Wait here.”

  Arslan returned with a stretcher. “Help me,” he said to Marcus. As Marcus began to stand his knee buckled.

  “You are injured,” Arslan said, noticing Marcus’s leg. “The lady can lift.”

  “I’m fine,” Marcus said, reaching for the stretcher again.

  “You have lost blood too. Effort will mean more lost. Then you pass out. Then you die. I am a doctor.”

  “Doctor?”

  “That’s what I said. Now move out of the lady’s way.” Marcus obeyed and followed as Arslan and Stormy carried Salman into the house where there was a room with an exam table. The shelves were empty except for scattered boxes of bandages, disinfectant, and basic medical supplies. They set Salman down on the table and Arslan began washing his hands.

  “Sit there,” he said to Marcus. “And put your leg up on the other chair.’

  “You…what is your name?”

  “Stormy.”

  “Stormy, you are my nurse. Stand next to me. Wash your hands first,” Arslan said. “It may not look like an American clinic, but it works.”

  Stormy looked at Marcus. “American?”

  Arslan had already grabbed the medical scissors and began cutting Salman’s undershirt off. “I know Americans,” he said while he continued working. “I went to University of Southern California.” Then, in English he said, “Go Trojans!” He handed a tray of medical instruments to Stormy. “When I say, give them to me. First, we will give him something to sleep.’

  They watched him work for several minutes. He began examining Salman’s abdomen. “Tell me again how this happened.”

  Marcus explained the roadblock and their confrontation with the soldiers. A confrontation that led to Salman’s injuries and at least one dead Russian soldier.