Red Sniper

Sniper. The word ran through Barkov’s mind again. Only a sniper would fire once, and then keep his finger off the trigger.

“That shot was from a long way off,” the Mink announced from his hiding place, several feet away. “Whoever it was knew his business.”

“See anything?”

“Bushes, rocks, grass. That is not what you meant, is it?”

“The prisoners had no weapons.”

“Maybe Inna took Dmitri’s rifle,” the Mink suggested.

“No, she did not. Besides, what could anyone hit with that piece of shit? You saw what happened. One shot, and Bunin is dead.”

“Maybe not such a good shot,” the Mink said. “Whoever it was, was trying to shoot you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Think about it. Who looked like you from a distance?”

Barkov nodded. As usual, the Mink made sense. But that still did not answer the question of who had shot at them. “Let’s go see if we can find this sniper,” Barkov said.

He didn’t care about Bunin, beyond the fact that someone else would now have to take care of those dogs. What he did care about was that somehow, his quarry had turned the tables on him.

• • •

Cole and Vaccaro watched the Russians in the distance. “How long do we wait?”

“Long as we need to.”

“Do you think you got Barkov?” Vaccaro asked.

“I would say that’s a fifty-fifty chance,” Cole said. “I shot a big man. Was it Barkov? Flip a coin.”

“If he’s half the sniper he’s supposed to be, he’s already on his belly down there, trying to worm his way toward us.”

“Let him come on,” Cole said. “If someone shoots at us, then we know it ain’t Barkov that I shot down there.”

“The dogs are getting closer. You hear them?”

Cole nodded. “Them dogs are gonna be a problem.”

Down below, some of the soldiers had not hidden themselves well. Cole picked out a fellow who was lighting a cigarette.

Shot him.

• • •

Barkov gave orders for the men to stay put. There were no arguments after a second bullet killed one them. Nobody did anything as stupid as light a cigarette after that. Barkov kept forgetting that these men had not experienced war, until today.

He and the Mink began to work their way forward, using the terrain for cover. It was likely that the sniper had fired from the high ground just ahead. By working around to the left, they could follow a depression—not quite a gully—that brought them closer to the hill without exposing themselves to the sniper.

Barkov was beginning to have the nagging thought that perhaps, just perhaps, there was more to this escape than he had perceived. He thought about the fact that their quarry had somehow managed to cross miles and miles of taiga at a punishing pace. How was that possible? One of the trio had just picked off Bunin. With what weapon? None of it made sense.

He pushed aside his doubts and followed the Mink through the brush. True to his name, the Mink moved almost soundlessly. When people thought of a mink, they thought of fur coats. However, a mink was not cuddly. By nature, a mink was in fact a predator, and ruthless.

Being bigger, Barkov kept getting hung up on briars and had to bull his way through the brush. Barkov paused to listen for the dogs. They were somewhere on the hill ahead, baying in excitement. Poor Bunin. He would have liked to hear that. He really had been proud of those worthless mutts. The dogs sounded excited, as if they were very close now to the quarry.

“The dogs must have found them,” the Mink said.

They moved in that direction, careful to stay low in the gully.

A rifle fired from the vicinity of the hilltop.

They heard a yelp.

“Now he is shooting the dogs,” Barkov announced. “Good. He will be worried about those dogs, and not about us.”

Still, he was a little surprised that the Americans would be so heartless—even Barkov wasn’t sure that he could bring himself to shoot a dog. He had killed men without a second though, but never a dog.

They picked up the pace, moving toward the sound of the excited dogs. Close now. The dogs were near the base of the hill, which surprised Barkov, because he was sure the last rifle shot had come closer to the top if the hill. Then again, it could be that the trio they were pursuing had split up. Even now, Bunin’s dogs might be snapping at that bitch Inna Mikhaylovna. She might even be glad to see him if he called off the dogs. The thought made him smile.

The Mink stopped, then jerked his chin at the noise ahead. They could just see the dogs through the brush, barking as if they had someone cornered. Barkov nodded and pushed his way through the undergrowth. Though the twigs and branches clutched at him, he managed to move almost silently.

Then the dogs were right there. Barkov stepped out into a clearing in the brush, the Mink right behind him. No one there. He did, however, see a bright red scarf tied high up in a bush. The dogs milled about under it, barking furiously, jumping to get at it, but the scarf was just out of reach of their jaws. One of the dogs was dead, shot by the Americans.

Barkov kicked the dogs out of the way and reached for the scarf.