by Chris Pike
The guards in the tower scanned the compound, watching the prisoners for any type of movement indicating an attempted escape. A new guard approached the tower and yelled something in Russian to his comrade stationed above him. He slung his rifle over his back and proceeded to climb the ladder.
Anna took advantage of the guards being distracted while they changed shifts.
Belly crawling on the ground, dragging her backpack, she inched to the fence. While she had brought along the special knife to cut the fence, as luck would have it, the fence had not been properly secured.
As she was about to squeeze her tiny body through the opening, she realized her backpack was too big. She removed the knife from her backpack and took it out of the sheath. She hooked the forward end of the blade over the metal nub to create a pair of wire cutting scissors, just like Dillon had done.
The first clip of the fence was quite easy, but she had to use all her strength on the remaining ones. Sitting back, she estimated she had made a hole big enough for an adult to slip through if they pushed the wires to the side. A tiny girl like Anna could slip through without a problem.
She had not been detected.
So far, so good.
She wiggled through the opening and pushed her hand against the shiny ribbon wire to shove it aside. A stab of searing pain gripped her and she instinctively jerked her hand back. She had sliced the fleshy part of her thumb. A thin line of oozing blood trickled down her hand and dripped to the ground. Anna bit her trembling lip, determined not to cry.
Thinking she was low enough, she wiggled through, but a wire caught on the back part of her shirt. She tugged, trying to get free. She twisted back and forth, pushed up and down. The wire sprung loose, slapping her back. She fell to the ground and landed flat on her belly with a pitiful cry. Anna remained motionless for a few moments until she calmed down. Pushing up on her hands and knees, her back stung like the dickens. The more she moved the worse it stung. She reached around under her shirt and her fingers came in contact with something warm and wet.
Her fingers were covered in blood. Her hand was bleeding and now so was her back. She sniffled and wanted to cry.
Anna thought about what she should do.
She searched her backpack and found a few Band-Aids in a side pocket. She wiped her bloody hand on her jeans, tore the Band-Aids open with her teeth, then placed them over the cut.
Even with her hand bandaged, it still throbbed, and she had no idea what to do about her back.
Stifling a cry, she grabbed her backpack and glanced at the guards. They were in the tower smoking cigarettes and laughing, unaware of Anna.
She slipped through the opening and dashed to the nearest shadow. Dillon and the others had not yet noticed her. If only she could get their attention. She picked up a rock and threw it, only for it to land feet away. She threw another one, but wasn’t strong enough to hit anybody.
With her backpack secured, she took a chance and darted to the group. Like a baseball player sliding into home plate, Anna slid feet first into Dillon, startling him. He whipped around.
“Anna! What are you doing here?” Dillon scanned the area, checking if the guards saw what had happened. They were still busy smoking and talking in the guard tower. Dillon put his hands under her arms and whisked her to the middle of the group. “Make some cover.” The other men positioned their bodies to hide Anna. Dillon noticed her bleeding hand, and her shirt stained with blood. “You’re hurt. What happened? Why are you here? How’d you get in here?” He rapidly fired off the questions before Anna had time to answer. Then he scolded her. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
“Don’t be mad at me,” Anna said. “I’m here to rescue you.”
“What? You? How? Where’s your mom? We need to get you to a doctor. You’re hurt.”
“I’m not hurt that bad,” Anna lied. Her back was throbbing. “I remembered what you taught me. Check my backpack. It has everything you need.”
Dillon tore open the backpack to find a Walther P22 with a silencer. He pocketed the extra magazines and stuffed the knife in his waistband. Dillon patted Anna on the head. “Don’t ever do this again. Do you understand?”
Anna didn’t answer.
“Do you?”
She nodded.
“Good,” he said gruffly. “Thank you, though.”
Anna gave him the thumbs up sign.
“Did you come here alone?”
“No. Holly and Nico, and my mom are—”
“Who’s Nico?”
“He’s Kate Chandler’s boyfriend.”
“Kate must be Chandler’s sister?”
Anna nodded. “Holly, Nico, Kate, my mom, and Amanda are in the woods not far from here. They were going to rescue you, but I beat them to it.”
“Stay down, and stay behind me. That’s an order.” Dillon addressed Chandler, Ryan, and Larry, who were sitting next to him. “Chandler, you’re best rifle shot, so I’ll get you a rifle. Ryan, give Anna some first aid on her hand. Larry, you help Ryan.”
A guard walking along the perimeter of the school noticed the commotion in the circle of men. “What’s going on here?” He used his gun butt to push the Americans out of the way as he plowed toward the center of the group.
When the guard saw Anna, he said, “What the—”
Chapter 29
Dillon slid behind the guard and cupped his left hand tightly over the man’s mouth and nose, forcing his head back and exposing his vulnerable neck. With one deft movement, Dillon sliced the man’s throat, severing the vocal cords and the carotid artery. The guard gurgled and struggled feebly before slumping to the ground where the Americans held him down. He bled out in seconds and lost consciousness. Death soon followed.
Ryan had put his hands over Anna’s eyes so she couldn’t witness the gruesome death.
Chandler took the guard’s AK-74 and crouched in a huddled position. Now armed, he scouted their escape routes, noting the four guard towers, two of which had a good view of the compound. The rear of the school appeared to be the best option due to the short distance needed to run for cover in the woods. Still, the odds of outrunning two machine guns weren’t good. Chandler didn’t want to go there.
“Dillon,” Chandler said, “I can take out a machine gunner once the silence is broken. I won’t have time to take out both guard towers before they get shots off.”
“What do you suggest?” Dillon asked.
“I think our best route to escape is the back wall. Use your silenced .22 to take out the second gunner. You’ll be able to get close enough for a good shot.”
Dillon nodded his understanding. “Good plan. Wait for my signal to proceed. If I don’t give the signal, you don’t move. We can’t afford to fail.”
The guards in the tower were preoccupied and had not yet clicked on the floodlights, and had forgone their hourly rounds. Most of the Russians were inside the school enjoying the benefits of electricity supplied by portable Russian generators not affected by the EMP, whiling away their time playing chess and card games.
Low clouds darkened the moon, plunging the East Texas woods into darkness. Crickets chirped, and a light breeze cooled down the compound.
Dillon figured it was now or never.
He headed toward a guard tower and placed one foot on the wooden ladder, swearing under his breath when the board creaked. He decided to trade silence for speed so he could move high enough to be covered by the platform’s shadow in case the neighboring guard glanced in his direction.
Dillon glanced up and listened. This was not the movies, so there was no trap door to overcome. This was life or death, and one wrong move could result in catastrophe. The towers had been hastily constructed with lumber being their primary component. Dillon reckoned the Russians had probably hijacked any contractor unfortunate enough to be on the premises when they raided the builder’s supply store.
All was still and quiet. Dillon took a deep breath, exhaling it, then another one, focusing on what he
needed to do. He filtered out external and internal distractions.
Focus. Breathe. Repeat.
The top of Dillon’s head breached the plane of the tower floor and he stretched to get a good view. A Russian soldier sat in a chair facing away from him. He had earbuds in and was listening to some type of American rap music, his foot tapping to the beat while he moved his head in time with the music.
Dillon lifted a foot to the next ladder rung, his body stiffening at the unmistakable feeling of a cold rifle barrel jabbing him hard in the back. He froze, and a brief thought crossed his mind he could whip around and shove the rifle away before whoever it was got a shot off. But if a shot was fired, all hell would break out, and Americans could get killed, including Anna. Before Dillon took any action, the guard spoke.
A heavily accented Russian voice said, “Be quiet and do exactly as I say.”
Dillon nodded. The rifle barrel in his back was quite persuasive.
“Are you Dillon Stockdale?”
“I am.”
“You were about to walk into a trap. The ground over there is a minefield.” The man shoved the rifle barrel harder into Dillon’s back, forcing him to step off the ladder.
“Who are you?” Dillon turned around, and recognized the man as the Russian who set fire to Holly’s house.
“My name is Andrey Koshkin.” He lowered his AK-74.
“You son of a bitch. You’re the one who torched the house.”
“No. I only made it look that way.”
“Liar,” Dillon said, testing him. He suspected the house had not burned, yet wanted to confirm it. “I saw the smoke.”
“Smoke from bushes only. House fires cause black smoke. The smoke was not black.”
Dillon mulled that over, knowing Andrey was being truthful since grass fires resulted in gray smoke. “Did you see any women in the house?”
“I did. I found them in a hidden room. The little girl who was with them just gave you a backpack.”
“Why are you helping us?”
“Colonel Burkov is a killer and a madman. I want no part of this. If I help you, will you help me?”
“Are you defecting?” Dillon asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll do whatever I can to help you. If you double cross us, I swear I’ll—”
“I assure you I will not.”
Dillon accepted Andrey’s answer.
“Put on my coat.”
“Why?”
“Just do it. From a distance you’ll look like one of us.”
Dillon shrugged on Andrey’s coat.
“Come with me.” Andrey motioned for Dillon to follow him. They moved over to where the prisoners were.
Chandler saw Dillon and the Russian soldier walking toward them. Dillon showed no sign of distress, yet Chandler wasn’t one to be fooled. If this was a trick, he’d be ready. He kept the safety off his AK-74, positioning the rifle so he could fire it.
“Everything is okay,” Dillon said when he reached the group. “Meet Andrey Koshkin. He’ll be helping us.”
“Can he be trusted?” Chandler asked, dubious about the man’s motives.
“He’s already helped Holly and the others.”
“How?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“Dillon, you take the AK from your friend and pretend to be the following guard for a service mission I am leading,” Andrey said. “Make sure everyone knows to follow my footsteps exactly once we get to the other side of the fence.”
Dillon and Chandler passed the instructions to the other Americans.
The group walked single file as directed. Ryan carried Anna on his back. He’d sacrifice his life before he let the little girl be harmed by an exploding mine.
Dillon brought up the rear, with Chandler in front of him as they walked toward the gate. The grass appeared normal except for a slight difference in color of a few blades of grass sticking up as straight as a metal yardstick. Chandler recalled what a sergeant taught him in camouflage school: There are no straight lines in nature. He understood what those odd colored blades of grass were: hidden triggers for the land mines.
Two-thirds of the way across the minefield, one of the guards stationed in a tower called out angrily to them. Dillon’s eyes flicked to Andrey for a cue.
Andrey swiveled around, brought up his AK, sighted the guard, and fired. He missed. Dillon tossed his AK to Chandler, knowing the trained sniper had better skills than he did. Chandler sprang into action and leveled the rifle at the guard. In the moment it took the guard to understand what was happening, Chandler fired. The single shot struck the guard in the face. He was dead before he hit the floor of the tower.
The floodlights flickered on.
The prisoners’ escape had been compromised.
Russian shouts rang out.
“Hurry,” Andrey ordered, without bothering to keep his voice low. “We have to hurry!”
The single file broke up as prisoners panicked, rushing to the woods. More shots were fired and Dillon ducked, but the muzzle flashes coming from the woods confused him. Ah, he understood now. His friends were in the woods.
Suddenly a loud explosion rocked the ground. Dust and debris flew into the air like missiles, and Dillon was thrown to the ground. Stunned by the blast, it took him a few seconds to get his wits about himself. A wet and warm liquid dripped down the side of his face. He wiped it away with his fingers and was shocked to find his hand covered in blood. Dillon palpated his scalp and face checking for injuries. Finding none, he made sure he had all his limbs, so the blood must be someone else’s. Feet away, a bloody corpse was face down in the dirt, arms and legs blown off. Dillon scanned the other survivors and accounted for Chandler and Ryan.
God help them all. They were going to need it.
A stampede of blurred forms rushed the compound.
Dillon fumbled with his .22, handling it like he was drunk.
“Don’t shoot!” a man yelled coming up to Dillon. “I’m Nico Bell. I’m with Holly and the others.”
“Are they okay?” Dillon fought to clearly speak, fighting the muzziness in his head.
“Yes. I told them to stay in the woods in case anything went wrong.”
Andrey Koshkin appeared and Nico spoke to him in Russian. While Dillon didn’t understand the conversation, it was apparent they were fervently discussing the situation.
Shots were fired.
“We need to go now!” Nico ordered.
“I’ll cover you,” Andrey said. “Go. And may God by with you.”
“And with you,” Dillon said.
Andrey crouched and readied his weapon. “Be careful. There is a spy among your people. I do not know who it is. It was not by accident you were captured at the wedding. Colonel Burkov makes it his practice to recruit spies in every territory.”
The ragged survivors dashed out of the compound and into the woods where Holly and the others were waiting. Some of the American prisoners decided it was safer to scatter in different directions than to stay together, and Dillon didn’t fight them on their decision. He wished them luck.
“A snapped twig at the wrong time could get us killed,” he said to the group, taking the lead. “If we are separated, head to Rally Point A. If you don’t know where that is, follow Chandler or me. It appears we have some help, so hold your fire until we are fired upon or until we give an order.”
Chandler spoke urgently, instructing the survivors what to do. He helped to lead the way, and using the glow sticks as a guide, pocketing them as he ran, they made it back to where the truck had been hidden.
Chandler, Larry, and Ryan–who still had Anna on his back–followed Dillon to where the women were hiding.
The convoy of survivors moved cautiously through the woods as sporadic gunfire from the other side of the school picked up in intensity. Strings of thuds were followed by the occasional long twang of a ricochet heading off to parts unknown.
Chandler raised his hand in the universal gestu
re to stop. Shadowy figures moved in the woods, dashing behind trees to take cover. One person peered out from a large pine, and Chandler focused his senses on the person. Obviously a woman by her small stature and the way she moved, and there was something familiar about her. He recognized her. “Kate? Is that you?”
“It’s me,” Kate said, stepping away from the tree.
Chandler gave his sister a brief hug. There was no time for an emotional reunion, so hugs and tears of happiness would have to wait for later. Kate stepped over to Nico and hugged him.
“You know him?” Chandler asked.
“He’s my fiancée.”
“Say what?” Chandler gave his apparent future brother-in-law a critical glance.
“I’ll explain later. He can handle himself and can probably teach you guys a thing or two.”
Chandler gestured a peace sign to Nico.
“Listen, everybody,” Kate said. “We have a truck hitched to a hay wagon. It’s nearby and we need to get to it before it comes within range of the Russian’s rifles.”
“Andrey,” Dillon said, “stay next to me until I have a chance to explain you to the group.” Since Andrey had made no attempt to clarify the location of Rally Point A, Dillon felt he could trust him, yet the spy issue was still in the forefront of his mind.
As they approached the truck with the hay wagon, Dillon stopped, bent at the waist, and put his hands on his thighs. He gasped for air, fighting the urge to heave. It had been a long time since he had pushed his body to the brink of exhaustion. As the group gathered, he mentally checked each one off his list.
Who was the spy? Who among this group would turn traitor and put the lives of fellow Americans in danger? They had escaped, they were alive, but they would never be truly safe until the spy was exposed and punished.
There was only one punishment for spying.
Death.
Whoever it was would pay one way or the other, and Dillon planned to make sure they did. He had taken an oath to uphold the constitution of the United States, and by God, he was going to do that.
Chapter 30
The group clambered aboard the hay wagon and squeezed in together, legs hanging off the flatbed trailer.
