Red Sniper

Although the sun was out, it offered far less warmth than a 40-watt light bulb. Ahead of Cole stretched the vast Russian plain, flat as a parade ground and wide as the sea. Sometime in the ancient past, glaciers had scraped this plain clean as neatly as a bowling alley built for giants. The few scattered boulders could have been the gutter balls. Now covered in snow, the plain would have made the perfect place to land a B-17 bomber—a whole squadron of them, in fact, and all at once.

There was absolutely no cover, and nowhere to hide. It was one hell of a place to be caught out in the open when a Russian sniper had you in his sights. Just the thought of it made Cole’s spine tingle.

Cole saw how it would play out. Their group would still be laboring to get clear of this open place, when the Russians would arrive at the other end. Barkov was a deadly shot. In a place such as this, he could simply pick them off, one at a time.

A lot of what happened next depended on logistics. It was now a game of covering the maximum distance in the shortest amount of time. How far could they get before the Russians started shooting?

“Come on,” he said. “We have got to haul ass. Whatever you got left in the tank, now is the time to pour it on.”

“This is pointless,” Honaker said. “We ought to get into those woods to the east of us. We are sitting ducks out here.”

“Then what do you want to do?” Cole asked. “Hide all you want. All the Russians have to do is follow our tracks. No sir, I aim to end this, one way or another.”

“What should we do?” Whitlock wanted to know. “Stand and fight?”

“Run,” Cole said. “Or as close to running as you can get.”

It was easier said than done. The snow tugged at their feet. They were exhausted and hungry. Inna had a painful twisted ankle. Whitlock put her arm across his shoulders and helped her along, just as he had done with Ramsey.

They hurried, gasping with the effort.

At the far end of the glacial bowling alley, the Russians came into sight.

“There they are!” Vaccaro said.

“Leave the packs,” Cole said. “If that’s Finland up ahead like Vaska says, we’ll make the border before dark. No need for blankets or any extra gear.”

Honaker opened his mouth as if to argue, but Whitlock was already shrugging off his pack. “What about the weapons?” he asked.

“Keep the guns and ammo,” Cole said. “We ain’t done with them yet.”

They made better time without being loaded down. The Russians were still in sight, but they weren’t gaining on them.

“Finland,” Vaska said, pointing at a line of forest ahead. It was that close. Literally within sight. The Russians wouldn’t pursue them into another country—especially one that was, nominally at least, an ally of the United States. With luck, there would also be a squad of U.S. troops just inside the boundary.

The problem was, they weren’t going to make it without falling into rifle range. They were moving too slowly, even without their packs. The pursuing Russians moved just a little faster. Simple math. One way or another, they were going to have to take on the Russians before they reached the relative safety of Finland.

Cole stopped. “This is where I leave you,” he said. “Me and Barkov have unfinished business.”

“Cole, have you gone crazy?” Vaccaro asked, staring at him. “You can’t take on those Russians by yourself.”

“I ain’t by myself.” He hefted his rifle. “I got this. Now go on. I’ll catch up if I can. I aim to trade lead with Barkov, so let’s see how that works out.”

CHAPTER 32

Cole walked out into the empty plain, backtracking through the snow. He scanned the landscape for cover, but there wasn’t so much as a rock or a scrap of brush. Sunlight reflected off the snow. The brightness hurt his eyes. He squinted into the distance.

He had been half joking with Vaccaro about Western movies, but this is what it felt like. Like it was high noon on some dusty street. He’d be damned if he was the one wearing the white hat. Cole was black hat all the way.

Once he had put some distance between himself and the others, he stopped. Shooting from a standing position was never easy, so he looped his arm through the sling just to help balance the weight of the rifle and steady his aim. He put the smooth comb to his cheek, fitting it just under his high cheekbones. The butt fit into the socket just where his arm met his shoulder. Looking through the rifle scope now, everything sprang closer. He could see the Russians coming through the snow.

Finger on the trigger, he waited.

• • •

Barkov squinted into the distance. The Americans were hurrying now, which made sense. Finland was within sight. He could see the difference in the terrain that delineated a national boundary. He turned to the men behind him and snarled, “Faster!”