Red Sniper

A shock of urgency jolted the team to action. They hastily rolled their blankets and lashed them to the tops of their packs. Whitlock and Inna rolled up their own blankets, and then tackled Cole’s blanket while he kept watch on their pursuers through his rifle scope. Within two minutes, everyone was on their feet and ready to go. Honaker was the only one who didn’t seem satisfied.

“We ought to stay and fight,” Honaker said, gripping his own weapon.

“If we can keep our distance from them, ain’t no need to fight,” Cole said. “Our mission is to get Whitlock across the border, not do a version of Custer’s last stand.”

“I agree with Cole,” Whitlock said. “Stopping to fight is just what they want. They must have been on the go most of the night. They’ll be tired. We have a head start.”

“Enough yammerin’,” Cole said. “Let’s make tracks.”

• • •

Barkov spotted the Americans right away. One moment there was nothing but empty landscape, and the next, there were figures moving in the distance. They stood out against the whiteness of the snowy taiga, but too far to really tell the figures apart.

They must have made camp there for the night. If Barkov and his men had arrived earlier, the Russians would have walked right up on them in the dark.

Too far to get a clear shot. The American sniper had already proven that he could return fire with deadly accuracy. So now, it was a race. The Americans were close to the border. If they pushed it, they might very well might make it across.

Barkov was not about to let them do that. He had chased them too far to let them escape now. The Mink had died because of them.

“Faster!” he shouted at what was left of his band. “Are you going to go faster, or do I need to use the whip?”

Barkov moved quickly for his size. He was longer through the torso than the legs, yet each step covered nearly a meter of snowy ground. The others had to take an extra half step for each one of his strides.

Since the Mink had not returned, Barkov had been in a bad mood. The others picked up the pace, knowing that he would be more than happy to use the Cossack whip at his belt.

Now it was Barkov who stopped. He unslung his rifle.

Through the magnification of his telescope, he could see the Americans. They looked like ants, or less than ants. Fleas, perhaps. Insignificant. Too far for serious shooting. But the sound of a gunshot would give them something to think about.

He placed the reticule high above their heads to compensate for the distance, and pulled the trigger.

The message was clear. Barkov is coming.

CHAPTER 31

The echo of the distant gunshot rolled across the taiga.

“He is shooting at us!” Inna said, panic in her voice. She started to trot through the snow. Not that it would do her any good if Barkov had them in his sights. There was nowhere to hide.

Cole caught her arm.

“Ain’t nothin’ to worry about,” he said. “He’s too far off to hit anything.”

Whitlock muttered, “That’s just what General Reynolds said at Gettysburg.”

Cole snorted. “I reckon my great uncle might have been the one that shot him. I hear tell that he was a Reb sharpshooter. I think he was a lot closer than Barkov, and a better shot to boot. You would have to be a damn sight unlucky for that Red Sniper to hit you at this distance.”

“You ought to take a shot at him,” Whitlock said, through chattering teeth. “Give him something to think about.”

“Too far,” Cole said. “Ain’t no point in wastin’ a bullet. I only got a few left.”

Cole pondered how things had come full circle. He had just spent several months taking part in some of the most brutal fighting that could be imagined across France, Belgium, and Germany. The Germans might have been low on planes, but they always had plenty of ammunition, and so had the Americans. If bullets were seeds, there would have been fields of lead sprouting all across Europe.

Things felt different now, closer to his roots. Cole had grown up in the mountains, during the Great Depression. Rifle and shotgun shells cost hard cash that nobody had, although sometimes his pa traded moonshine for a handful of shells.

There had been times when Cole had just one bullet, and if he missed, it meant that he and his brothers and sisters would go hungry that night. When missing a shot meant nothing to eat, you learned not to miss. You learned not to waste a bullet that you might need later.

Cole wasn’t about to waste any bullets on Barkov. When the time came, he only planned on needing one.

Whitlock noticed the way that Cole’s weird eyes glittered and involuntarily took a step back. “Now what?” Whitlock asked, startled.

“Now we walk.”

• • •

With barely more than a breath of wind, the cold settled over them and seemed to weigh heavily on their movements. The Russians didn’t shoot again, but he had made it clear that he was watching—and giving chase.