But the command burns behind his eyes.
He must attack.
He shifts his back legs to best advantage, firing his muscles for the charge to come. Waiting for his moment—
—then movement to the left.
His partner steps out of hiding, onto the road’s shoulder. He moves wrong, tilting, stumbling. Kane knows this is false, a feigned flailing. He picks out the glint of steel held at his partner’s hip, out of sight of the other.
Across the road, his target turns toward his partner and focuses fully upon him. Kane feels a surge of bone-deep approval and affection. The two are a pack, one tied to the other, working together.
With his target distracted, Kane bursts out of hiding.
Tucker stared down the barrel of the submachine gun, trying his best not to flick his gaze toward Kane, as his partner charged across the pavement.
This had been the dicey part. Much of it depended on the enemy not killing Tucker on sight. Once Kane had reached his vantage point across the road, Tucker had limped out of hiding, stumbling forward, weaving and dazed, looking like a disoriented crash victim. He held his Magnum against his thigh and kept that side turned away from the shooter.
As expected, the man had spun toward him, swinging his Bizon up.
Time slowed at that moment.
Tucker lunged forward, leading now with his Magnum.
He had to put his full faith in Kane. The pair had worked for so long together, the shepherd could read Tucker’s tone and body language to infer much more than could be communicated by word or hand signal. Additionally, Kane also took in environmental cues to make astute judgments on how best to execute any orders.
All that training came to a perfect fusion now.
Kane never slowed and closed the last ten feet with a leap. Seventy pounds of war dog slammed into the man’s side, and together they crashed into the dirt. Even as they landed, Kane’s jaws had found their mark, closing down on his target’s exposed throat with hundreds of pounds of force.
Still on the run, Tucker knee-skidded to a stop beside the man, pivoted, and fired an insurance round into the shooter’s hip.
He switched the Magnum to his left hand, snatched up the Bizon with his right, and leaped over Kane. He landed on his butt in the grass and began sliding down the ditch’s steep embankment.
He took in the situation below with a glance, fixing the position of the three remaining enemy combatants.
One to the left, twenty feet away . . .
One kneeling at the SUV window . . .
One standing at the bumper . . .
The grass whipped Tucker’s face, and rocks slammed into his buttocks and thighs. As he plummeted, he aimed the Magnum at the man beside the bumper and opened fire, squeezing the trigger over and over again. His first shot went wide, the second caught the man in the leg, and the third in the sternum.
One down.
Tucker turned his attention next to the kneeling man, who lay directly below him. He tried to bring the Bizon to bear, but he was sliding too quickly and hit the bottom of the embankment first.
At the last moment, he kicked out with his legs and flew, body-slamming the second man against the side of the SUV. Pain burst behind his eyes—but he had the other pinned, now underwater. A blind hand rose and slapped at him, fingers clawing. Then a mud-covered face pushed out, gasping, coughing. As the man tried to gulp air, Tucker shouldered his face back underwater.
He held him down, while he swung his Bizon and pointed it toward the far side of the SUV. The third enemy appeared, still about ten feet beyond the SUV, out in the open. Tucker fired a burst of rounds. His aim was wild, but it forced the other back out of sight.
By now, the man under him had stopped struggling, drowned.
Tucker crouched up, certain the last man would come charging at him.
Nothing came for a full five count.
He heard rustling in the grass and looked up to see Kane picking his way down the embankment.
With his partner coming, Tucker sidled along the edge of the SUV and took a fast look past its bumper.
The last man was stumbling away, his back to Tucker. The Bizon hung loosely from his right hand. His feet splashed heavily in the water. Out in the open, he knew he was defeated.
“Damn it,” Tucker muttered.
He couldn’t let the man go, but he refused to shoot a victim in the back.
“Stoj!” he hollered and fired a burst into the air. Stop!
The man obeyed, but he didn’t turn around. Instead, he dropped to his knees and threw his weapon to the side. He placed his hands on top of his head.
Kane reached him, but Tucker held him back.
“Stay, pal.”
Tucker walked down the ditch to where the man was kneeling. He realized the man was a boy of about nineteen or twenty.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
“I will tell no one,” the boy begged in heavily accented English.
Yes, you will. Even if you don’t want to, they’ll make you.
Tucker was suddenly tired, spent to his core. “Turn around.”
“Nyet.”
“Turn around.”
“NYET!”
Tucker swallowed hard and raised the Bizon. “I’m sorry.”
18
March 15, 10:10 A.M.
Along the Volga River, Russia
As ugly as the Marussia SUV had been, Tucker had no complaints about the vehicle. In the end, it had saved their lives.
That, and the soft mud at the bottom of the ditch.
Tucker turned his back on the overturned vehicle. The others wobbled along the shoulder of the road. After extracting them from the SUV and doing a quick triage, he managed to rouse Utkin, who helped him with Anya and Bukolov.
In all, the group had sustained bruises and a smattering of cuts and abrasions. Bukolov suffered the worst, with a dislocated shoulder and a slight concussion. Tucker had managed to pop the old man’s shoulder back into place while the doctor was still asleep. The concussion would take time and rest.
But now was not the time to stop moving.
Tucker led them to their new car, their attackers’ dark blue Peugeot 408. Aside from a dent in the front bumper, the sedan remained unscathed. Whoever had rammed them off the road knew what they were doing. Tucker searched the car for transmitters or GPS units but found none.
As Anya helped Bukolov into the car, Utkin pulled him aside.
“What is it?” Tucker asked, wanting to get moving.
Utkin acted rather furtive. “You’d better see this.”
He slipped a cell phone into Tucker’s hand. It was the only phone they had found amid the attackers’ possessions.
“Look at the photo I found in the digital memory.”
Tucker squinted at a grainy image of himself on the screen. He was seated at a computer workstation, his hands frozen in midair over the keyboard. With a sinking feeling in his gut, he recognized the location. It was that dingy Internet café in Dimitrovgrad.