Red Sniper

Barkov got down and straddled him, pulled back a fist to punch the man, but was surprised when the American’s hands shot out and locked around Barkov’s throat. Instantly, he felt his airflow cut off as the American’s hands clenched around his windpipe. His opponent’s grip felt like a vise.

He grabbed the American’s wrists and pulled. The grip around his throat did not loosen. Starbursts and spots swam in front of his eyes. Letting go with his right hand, he groped on the snowy ground for any kind of weapons. A rock. A stick. Instead, his fingers closed around the knife that the American had dropped.

Barkov had it in his grip in an instant, and plunged it down at the American.

For a big man, the American was quick as a viper. He let go of Barkov’s throat and grabbed his wrist instead before the knife could strike home.

They went back and forth, both of them straining as if the knife weighed a thousand pounds, when in reality it was the sheer muscular resistance of them struggling against one another. Barkov had the advantage of gravity and pressed the tip down, down, toward the American’s throat. Then the American rallied and pushed the knife up, up, turning it with bone-cracking strength until it was pointed at Barkov’s eye.

In spite of himself, Barkov was impressed. The American was incredibly strong. Strong as a bear. Strong as Barkov.

Dimly, he was aware of a pair of legs beside him. Then a rifle barrel reached down and touched the American’s temple. The American’s eyes widened, but he shoved the tip of the knife toward Barkov’s eye with one final wave of strength.

That’s when the rifle went off. Loud as a thunderclap in Barkov’s ear. The American’s grip went slack instantly.

Barkov rolled to his feet, so angry that he was shaking. The Mink stood nearby, nonchalantly working the bolt of the rifle.

“What have you done?” Barkov demanded. “He was mine to kill!”

“You were taking too long. We need to get moving,” the Mink said. He lowered his voice. “Besides, he almost had you.”

Barkov looked down at the dead man. Unlike most bodies, it did not look any smaller in death. Then he look around for the American prisoner, Ramsey, who was still slumped against the rock. His eyes went from his comrade’s dead body to Barkov’s eyes. Barkov tried to read something there—fear or defeat—but saw only defiance.

Well, he would fix that. “Dmitri,” he called. “Bring me my whip.”

“Let’s just shoot him and be done with it,” the Mink said.

“Look at him. He’s already half dead. This won’t take long.”

The boy scurried to do as he was told, pressing the cruelly braided leather grip into Barkov’s hand. The boy eyed the whip nervously, having been on the receiving end of it.

Barkov made the whip sing. He struck the American prisoner across the face hard enough to draw blood.

He pulled back his hand for another swing and froze.

Ramsey now had a pistol in his hand. Nobody had seen it before. He leveled it at Barkov, but then seemed to reconsider. Instead, he put the gun to his own head and closed his eyes. An instant later, it was done. Barkov felt cheated for a second time.

The Mink bent over and pried the gun out of the dead man’s hand.

“He must have had just one bullet left,” the Mink said. He seemed to find the situation amusing because he gave one of his rare smiles. “I think I would have saved that last bullet for you.”

Barkov grunted, unhappy that both Americans were dead. There were many questions he would have liked them to answer.

They searched the pockets of the dead men. One soldier took the big man’s wristwatch. He had a wallet with a few American dollars in it. What did he plan to buy out here on the taiga? There was some identification that one of them could read. The Mink kept the wallet and let the paper money flutter away on the wind.

Ramsey’s limp hand had opened in death. It turned out that he did have one more bullet, but this one was for a rifle. Something was etched into the brass casing. The Mink picked it up and squinted at it, then shook his head and held it up for Barkov to see.

The etching read: “Barkov.”

“The dead one here was not the sniper,” the Mink said.

“How do you know?”

“What would a sniper be doing with a shotgun? No, this isn’t him. If I did not know better, I would say that the American sniper is sending you a message.”

“It’s just nonsense,” Barkov said. He tossed the bullet away. Then he looked across the expanse of taiga ahead and all the open places they would have to cross. He felt a chill, imagining the American sniper’s crosshairs on him.

“What are other Americans doing out here?” the Mink wondered.

Barkov coiled the whip and tucked it into his belt. “We need to get moving,” he said. “Let’s catch up to them and find out. Then we will kill them just like we killed these two.”

CHAPTER 28