Storm Front

Volkov had dropped his own gun like it was of no further use to him — like it was out of wooden bullets? Storm guessed — and wrapped a tree trunk of a right arm around Storm’s neck. Then he clasped his right hand with his left and began squeezing with more than enough force to restrict most of the blood flow to Storm’s brain.

Storm knew he was in danger. He had perhaps forty-five seconds’ worth of consciousness left. He had to make the most of them.

There was no point trying to loosen Volkov’s grip. He’d have a better chance of prying open the jaws of a hungry shark. Storm’s only advantage was height. Volkov was ten inches shorter.

Storm struggled to his feet, lifting not only his 230 pounds but Volkov’s denser 220 — and doing it with little help from his damaged left leg. Volkov was now draped on his back like a cape, the extra weight strengthening the chokehold.

Storm started taking backward steps out of the cockpit. He needed some room to maneuver, some runway to get up some speed. Soon, he was backpedaling as fast he could, given his encumbrance, and had cleared into the first class cabin. He finished his back-stagger with a mighty back-dive toward the first row of seats. His aim was to get a hard part of the armrest to connect with the soft part where Volkov’s neck connected to his skull.

He just didn’t get enough lift with his left leg. So he missed. The backrest connected midway up Volkov’s back.

Still, the power of it — 450 pounds propelled at a moderate speed from six-plus feet in the air — was enough to momentarily loosen Volkov’s grip. Storm adroitly slipped away and the two men faced each other.

Each was in a crouch, ready to spring. Close-in fighting favored the shorter-armed Volkov. Boxing favored the longer-armed Storm. Both men knew this and were sizing each other up, trying to see how they could turn the fight to their advantage.

“I am so pleased you are here, Storm,” Volkov snarled.

“Why? You’re getting a crush on me? Don’t worry. It happens to all the girls.”

“No, it’s that I realized something when I saw you this morning,” Volkov said, then pivoted and executed a sweeping high leg kick. Storm dodged it easily.

“And what’s that?”

“I never really paid you back for these,” he said, pointing to the scars on his face. “All this time, I thought you were dead, so I figured our score was settled. But now I see you and I know you need to be punished.”

Storm grabbed a laptop computer that had been left behind by one of the passengers and threw it at Volkov. The Russian blocked it with one swipe of his paw.

“It won’t work, you know. This absurd thing you’re trying with Cracker.”

“Oh, I beg to disagree, Storm. I have some of the richest men in Russia ready to cash in on the disruptions to the market, and with the money they make, they’ll be able to fund an insurrection that would topple even the mightiest government. Those clowns who run Moscow now will have no chance. Mother Russia is meant to be ruled by a strong leader. I am that leader.”

“You’re twisted.”

“You flatter me. It’s a shame I have to kill you.”

“You’re the one who’s dying to night, Volkov.”

Volkov’s response was to lower his head, emit a banshee yell, and charge. Storm reacted with what was meant to be a devastating right-leg kick to Volkov’s rib cage. The only problem was, the launch of it meant he was standing only on his left leg. The moment the majority of his weight transferred to the wounded side, he crumpled.

Volkov, who was aiming for Storm’s midsection, ended up overshooting. The entire exchange only resulted in them swapping sides of the small clearing at the head of the first class cabin, where they were facing off.

Storm did not wait for Volkov’s next rush. He came at the smaller Russian swinging with his fists. Volkov tried to back away but was not fast enough. He was stung by a round house right, then by the left jab that followed it. Blood flowed from his nose.

Volkov tried to get in underneath the punches so he could bear hug Storm and turn this into the wrestling he preferred, but Storm fended him off with an uppercut that opened a wound over Volkov’s eye.

Both men retreated for a moment. Had this been a heavyweight prizefight, Storm would have scored solid points on all judges’ cards. It’s just that no scorecard could account for the gunshot wound to Storm’s calf.

The men were now on opposite sides of the cabin, each breathing heavily, each struggling with his wounds. Volkov’s good eye — the one not patched over — was beginning to swell shut. Storm was losing feeling in his left leg and didn’t know how much longer the limb would continue to respond to his commands.

Both knew the fight was coming to an end. Each thought he would be the winner.

Volkov’s eyes were darting around. He backed farther away, and Storm thought he was working up room to come at him headlong. Instead, he ran at Storm, then cut quickly to his left down the aisle.

Storm’s first thought: He was going for another gun he knew he had hidden in his carry-on luggage.