Red Sniper

Cole circled around to the front of the hill, walking almost casually. He took the scarf he had taken from Inna out of his pocket and dragged it along the branches he passed. He gave Vaccaro the items from Whitlock and Ramsey.

“What are we supposed to be doing?” Vaccaro wondered.

“I want to leave the dogs a trail and stop them here,” he said. “When you run a dog, first you give him a noseful of what you want him to run after. I reckon the Russians gave them dogs something that belonged to one of these three, so they’ll pick up the scent right here.”

Spoken in Cole’s mountain accent, the last two words ran together out as “rye-cheer.”

They walked along, rubbing down the branches they passed with the scarf. When they came to a small clearing, Cole collected the scarf and speared it overhead on the tip of a broken branch. Then they walked back the way they had come, following the same trail.

When they reached the point where they had started near the base of the hill, they turned and began to climb.

It took them less than a minute to reach the open, rocky top. The hilltop was mostly devoid of trees and brush. It was as if a giant had dumped a wheelbarrow full of rubble up there. The place would be sunbaked in the summer and windblown in winter, but there was good cover for a shooter.

There was also a commanding view of the surrounding landscape. Maybe half a mile off, they could see a handful of pursuers. Racing ahead of them were three dogs. They appeared to be the same breed as Vaska’s dog—somewhere between a husky and a mutt, with maybe a little wolf mixed in. What the locals called a laika. These dogs were all pointy ears and snout, curved tail, and eagerness. They also looked mean.

“Cole, I have to say, I don’t like the looks of those dogs.”

“That makes two of us. But I reckon I like the looks of them Russians a whole lot less.”

Cole put the rifle scope to his eye. He counted nine men. Six of the pursuers appeared to be soldiers, but three of them wore civilian clothes. One of the men in civilian clothes was small and slight, but the other two were big men. Both carried rifles slung over their shoulders. Which one was Barkov?

Cole moved the crosshairs from one man to the other. They were just within range. Normally, this would be farther out than he would prefer to shoot. But he needed to buy the others time. If he missed, he told himself that it was no big deal. The Russians would still be slowed down.

Then he thought, I ain’t gonna miss.

“Cole, they’re too far away,” Vaccaro muttered. “Let them get a little closer.”

“Which one do you think is Barkov?”

“The big one.”

“I see two big ones.”

“If you’re not sure, then save Barkov for later.”

“My pa always said to drink the good whiskey first,” Cole replied. “That’s what I aim to do.”

“You and your sayings. I ought to write them down and put them in a book.”

“Who the hell would buy that?”

“City people,” Vaccaro said. “They think you country people are full of wisdom.”

“They’d be right about that much.”

War movies made it look as if every soldier was a marksman who never missed a shot. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth.

Using a rifle to hit a target more than a short distance away was a complex process that required skill and practice.

It was why machine guns and hand grenades were a whole lot more effective. Close wasn’t good enough with a rifle, but it worked out fine with a fragmentation grenade.

Cole got comfortable for the shot. He had set up behind a boulder and rested the rifle on top of the stone. He took off his mittens—gloves not being worth a damn once it got really cold—and slid them under the forearm of the rifle to cushion the wood. He nestled the butt of the rifle firmly into his shoulder and pressed his check against the comb of the stock. In a strange way, it was almost like a lover’s embrace. He had done this so many times that the rifle felt like part of his body.

Bone and stone.

Just what he needed to make this shot.

CHAPTER 23

Barkov called a halt. Immediately, the half dozen soldiers flopped to the ground. The time for any semblance of military order was gone. They were tired of walking and running—mostly running—in the wake of dogs that never seemed able to catch the escaped Americans. Flasks of vodka appeared and the soldiers passed them around. In spite of the hardships, the soldiers still seemed eager for the chase. Barkov thought that it might be a different story once the vodka ran out.

“Do you hear them singing?” Bunin asked, a contented smile on his face.

Confused, Barkov looked at the men, who did not appear very musical. It took him a moment to understand that by singing, Bunin meant the baying of the dogs.

“It is about time,” Barkov said. “I was beginning to think that those dogs were worthless. I was going to shoot them rather than have to feed them again.”