Black operator complete.., p.39
Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6), page 39
"I know."
"That woman, she was the worst. Those men killed like machines. She was enjoying it, laughing the whole time, like she was watching a comedy show. Maybe we should have finished off that big guy."
"We didn't have time. Maria and Yuri are waiting for us, and any second, the others could turn up."
They ran, sprinting along the trail, and after fifteen minutes, Maria stepped out from behind a tree. She was in control, but her eyes were wide with fear.
"What happened?"
"We stopped him, but not for long. We have to keep going, and fast."
"Go where?"
"Anywhere. Away from here."
They ran, and the need to put distance between them and the Karpovs dominated their thoughts. He estimated they'd made two miles when he first smelled the smoke. At first, he assumed they were coming up on a cabin with a log-burning stove, but then thick roiling smoke thickened, and the sky darkened. The smoke became so thick it blotted out the sun. They were running through semi-darkness when the flames erupted. Not behind, but in front of them, and he looked at Maria.
"They used their vehicle to get ahead of us and set fire to the forest. They're trying to drive us back, like beaters. Back onto the hunters’ guns."
"What can we do?"
"I don't know. We keep going."
They ran and attempted to turn toward the edge of the burning forest, but the flames were spreading too fast. They broke out of the forest and reached a gap of several hundred yards of open land. They stopped to catch their breath and find the way through, and he looked around. The hill was thick with trees, and the flames and smoke racing down the slope toward them as if some elemental force had unleashed the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Four demons about to swallow them up between the fiery hooves of hell.
Standing in the open on top of the hill, she was there again, Kareena Karpov. The flames lit up her face in a ghastly parody of a Renaissance depiction of the depths of hell. She must have been at least a mile away, yet even at that distance, there was something otherworldly about her expression of exultation at the extreme cruelty and destruction she had unleashed.
"Faster," Cris shouted, “We have to outflank the fire. We’ll go east.”
They kept running, but it was useless. The flames were approaching too fast. They weren't going to make it, but he wouldn’t give up. They raced into another clearing of what appeared to be a logging camp, long abandoned. A tipper truck lay on the ground, with its wheels removed, and the steel sides seemed to beckon them toward some semblance of safety. Yet it was illusory, the flames would heat the steel until it was like an oven, and they'd become nothing more than burned lumps of charcoal.
Then he had an idea, an outside possibility, and he ducked his head underneath the truck. They'd parked the truck over a shallow hole in the ground, no doubt to work on the underside. He rolled underneath and discovered the depression was about six feet deep. Most of it had filled with dark, murky water. It was a chance, a very slight chance, but all they had. He shouted to them to join him.
"There's not much to burn around here. If we duck under the water when the flames and smoke are at their peak, we may survive.”
"May?" Yuri’s eyebrows rose.
"May, that's right. If you can come up with a better idea, I suggest you spit it out now. Otherwise, get under there."
Maria was already climbing into the pool of water. The Russian looked around wildly for a few seconds and dove under the truck. Stan Miles followed, and the four of them ducked under the water every few seconds to stay wet. The flames were coming nearer, the heat intense. Choking, roiling smoke surrounded them, assaulted them, threatened to cut off their breathing, and to roast them alive. As a last desperate measure, they stripped off their shirts to wrap them around their faces and filter the worst of the smoke. Every time they surfaced, the heat was so fierce it was like coming up inside the boiler of a steam locomotive.
"We can't survive much longer," Maria gasped. Her face was red with the heat, and he splashed water over her hair to stop it igniting.
She was still suffering, and he pushed her head completely under the water. It was all they could do. There was nothing else they could draw on to protect them. Nothing.
Is this to be our funeral pyre, our last resting place, a crematorium courtesy of the Karpov family? It may be.
Chapter Two
If the devil had devised a more searing, more agonizing method of torture, he couldn’t envisage what that torture could have been. For what seemed like hours, even days, but couldn't have been more than thirty minutes, they fought the blaze, alternately dipping their heads under the water, coming up for a few seconds to suck superheated air into their tortured lungs.
The fire went past, and slowly the heat began to ease. After another hour, Cris dragged them out to the edge of the pool, and they lay exhausted. Too tired to climb out, and even if they’d summoned up the strength, a few yards away everything was still smoking. At last the area cooled, and they heard a vehicle approach. Voices called to each other, and then someone was peering beneath the truck. Not the monstrous visage of one of the Karpovs, but he wore a firefighter’s helmet and an asbestos suit. He stared down at them, like they'd just landed from the planet Mars.
"Were you here when the fire hit?"
"We were. The water saved us."
"Yeah, I can see that. Jesus! Let me help you out of there. Provided you're wearing boots, the ground isn't too hot, and I'll get the guys to damp it down some more."
He shouted an order, and seconds later cold water sprayed around them. They heard the hiss and sizzle as the still-smoldering undergrowth began to damp down. They stood huddled in a group, astonished they were still alive, and an older firefighter came across to them. He had ‘Fire Chief’ emblazoned on his helmet.
"They tell me you survived underneath the truck. You know it's a miracle."
"We know."
He nodded. "Yeah, that’s the only miracle we’re gonna get this day. And I can tell you some bastard’s going to pay for all this damage. Thousands of acres of forest set ablaze deliberately, and the last report on the radio said we'd had at least ten deaths. Chances are there be a whole lot more when we reach the outlying farms and cabins. When we catch up with the bastards who started this, the cops are gonna take them apart, piece by piece. Just wait until Sheriff Dodge finds them. He and his men will show them justice, Traverse City style.”
Cris kept his voice to an almost inaudible murmur. "If they were sensible, they’d give it a miss. You don’t know what you're up against. Best you never find out.”
The firefighters didn’t hear above the noise and bustle. They brushed off the leaves and the worst of the mud from their soaking wet clothes, and already the fire in the clearing was dead. Just wet mud on the ground, and the occasional wisp of smoke or steam to show where the conflagration had passed. Cris found the Fire Chief again.
"Sir, we need to move on. Could you direct us to the nearest highway? And we’ll need to find a car rental agency."
A new voice intruded. A voice filled with rage. "You don't need to worry about that. We’ll give you a ride free of charge, courtesy of the county Sheriff’s Office. You're under arrest, all of you."
Cris stared at the burly, angry looking man who'd come out from behind one of the fire appliances. His uniform and badge announced he was the County Sheriff, Henry Dodge VIII.
"What's the charge, Sheriff? We didn't do anything wrong."
He snorted. “Arson, murder, destruction of State and County property, and anything else I can think of.” He spoke to four deputies, who were standing to on either side of them. “Put them in the van."
They dragged them away, and Cris heard the Sheriff arguing with a state trooper, who insisted they belonged to them, but the Sheriff was having none of it.
"I want these bastards hung, drawn, and quartered. We're gonna fry ‘em. And don’t toss any of that jurisdiction crap my way. It won’t wash. Not after what they’ve done.”
The trooper raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, Sheriff, that suits me. Just make sure to get me a front seat when they get what’s coming to them."
They were inside the police minivan, their hands shackled behind their backs, and a grinning deputy sitting in the back with them. He had his gun out the whole time and a stupid grin on his face. He threw the occasional remark at them, stuff like, "Jesus Christ, Henry VIII is gonna have a ball with you guys. You'll be lucky if you ever make it to trial. It wouldn't surprise me if he gets a lynch mob together and does the job himself to save the state money."
Maria gave him a severe look. "I don't suppose you ever stopped to consider someone else may have started the fire?"
He sneered back at her. "Nope, not for a minute. But I tell you what; you and me could have some fun together. Maybe I'll put in a good word for you with the Sheriff."
Her reply was calm, unimpressed by the thug in uniform. "Yob tvoy mat."
"What language was that?” He looked at them, “Russian?"
"It means go fuck your mother," Cris interpreted, sick of the leering redneck.
His expression darkened, and he raised his gun to slash it across her face. Cris brought up his legs and tripped him. The deputy fell and slid along the floor of the van. Like an eel, he jackknifed around and hit him on the head instead. Satisfied he’d demonstrated his power, he went back to sitting on the bench and watching them. Playing with his pistol and darting them murderous looks that weren’t difficult to interpret. They were in deep shit, almost as bad as if the Karpovs had taken them. Almost.
They reached the Sheriff’s office, and the cops tossed them into a large holding cell, the sole holding cell in the compact Sheriff's office. Cris was thinking fast, trying to work out what had gone wrong.
How did the Karpovs find us? Has somebody sold us out? It’s a definite possibility, and I have a candidate in mind, the trapper, Stan Miles. His account of getting away from the massacre at the cabin was too easy, too convenient.
He made a note to make sure he didn't say anything he didn't want passed directly back to the Karpovs, or anyone else Miles had made a deal with to save his skin.
They waited it out through the day, their wet clothes stinking of smoke from the fire. No one offered them a chance to clean up. At one time, a deputy brought them an enamel container of water, and he passed it through the bars. There was a single plastic cup, and they greedily drank the lukewarm liquid. No one offered them any food.
Through the bars, he could see the shadows lengthening as day stretched into evening, and then the light disappeared. A half-hour after nightfall they heard a voice talking in the outer office, a girl's voice, speaking English with a thick Russian accent. He glanced at Maria, and there was no need to work it out. Kareena Karpov. She'd found them, which meant her two monstrous brothers would be close. He looked at her.
"We have to get out of here tonight. Tomorrow will be too late."
"But how?"
He shook his head. "I'm working on it. Something will come up."
She didn’t look convinced. Nothing did come up, and they sat there as the cold night air filled the cell. The bitter chill cut through their wet clothing, and they shivered uncontrollably. Around midnight, Cris was pacing around the cell when an enormous crash shook the building. Like an earthquake, or as if a heavy truck had collided with the wall of the cellblock.
He rushed to the barred window and looked outside. It was no earthquake, and no accident. The Mack truck was reversing, about to charge forward again, and what would happen next didn't take a great deal of working out, not when he’d glimpsed the man in the driving seat.
"Everyone get away from the outside wall. He’s going to ram the truck against the wall again."
"Who is going to ram the truck?" Maria asked.
"One of the Karpovs. Get back!"
The outer door crashed open, and a deputy rushed into the cellblock. "What the fuck is going on here?"
He was drawing his gun when another massive crash made the entire building shake, and he peered through the bars. He didn’t see behind him when the door to the office was suddenly filled with the figure of a woman with the face of an angel. He heard her and turned around.
"Excuse me, Ma’am, you shouldn't be here."
Her reply was three words. “Yob tvoy mat."
He looked at her and glanced at the occupants of the cell.
"What did she say?"
Maria translated, and his response was immediate. He swung back to Kareena Karpov, bringing up his pistol. Too late, she fired twice, a tiny Russian .22 caliber handgun. Two bullets pierced his heart in a tight group and threw him to the floor, where he landed next to the bars.
Cris didn't hesitate. He knelt and scooped up the gun still held in the deputy’s dead fingers. With a flowing motion, he brought it up and fired a snapshot at Kareena. She saw the gun and swiftly stepped back out of sight. A moment later she blindly fired three shots into the cell. They all missed.
Cris reached out a hand and groped for the deputy's keys. He managed to get a hand around them and pass them to Yuri, before another massive crash struck the building. He felt it was about to collapse, and a huge crack appeared in the wall. Large enough for a man to squeeze through, and he rushed toward it. And stopped.
A monster was standing on the other side, about to smash his way through the damaged wall. Cris fired three shots and scored at least one hit. Again, he felt he might as well have been shooting at a hardwood tree. The Karpov brother ignored the pain and tore at the chunks of masonry to get at them. He turned to toss a huge slab to one side, and Cris saw his chance. The truck he'd used to ram the building could help them. Could act as a defensive barrier, with Karpov on one side, and a possible escape on the other. He helped Maria, Yuri, and Stan get out and sent them to run clear. Then he turned, and the creature was shambling toward him.
He’d had just about enough, and he snarled a challenge. "Okay, motherfucker, I've had a guts full of you. Let's see how much lead it’ll take to slow you down."
He pulled the trigger, and nothing happened. He hadn’t emptied the magazine. The deputy had been sloppy and hadn't bothered to reload after the last time he’d discharged his weapon. With no choices left, he prepared to fight.
Karpov came on, and once again the massive arms were stretched out to grab, to destroy and tear him into little pieces. He dodged below them, picked up a chunk of rock, and threw it at the massive body. Karpov didn't even try to avoid it, and the masonry bounced off his chest. Without so much as a blink, he came on again. Cris looked around desperately for something to fight with, and his hands closed around two chunks of rock, each around the size of a tennis ball. They would have to do. He dodged several more attempts to grab him, and slammed a fist holding a chunk of rock into the beast’s face. The Russian recoiled, and he followed up with a fast one-two combination that rocked his head. But he was far from finished, and he moved closer.
Cris’ moves were reduced to dodging, ducking, and weaving away as those massive hands kept reaching for him. There was nothing that would stop him, nothing, when his eyes fastened on a length of cable. The main electrical feed into the sheriff’s office had ripped away from the wall when the truck finally brought it down. The collision had also ripped away much of the insulation, and the wires were bare. The lights were out, and he could see the switch box high on the wall had tripped automatically.
It was a faint chance, but his only chance, and he took it. He grabbed hold of the bare wires. The monster came nearer, arms reaching out, and he dodged away. Cris darted in from the side, wrapping several turns of the cable around the outstretched arm.
He nearly died in the attempt. The creature fastened one massive hand on him, and he had to twist away, losing part of his coat that ripped away in the vice-like grip. But the wire was wrapped around his arm.
Kareena stepped through the open door into the cellblock, searching for them. Cris ignored her and leapt for the switch box on the wall. He pulled it down, and at last the monster stopped. His hair stood on end, his body glowing as if he'd been hit by lightning. The stench of burning flesh was overpowering, and his body trembled as the high voltage ripped through him. He was powerless to remove the cable that tormented and agonized him, and all he could do was suffer the exquisite agony of electrocution. Cris knew it wouldn't be enough to finish him. The sister would switch off the power and free him, and they'd be hot on their heels.
Maria, with Yuri and Stan, were waiting out of sight around the end of the sheriff’s office. The police cruiser was parked a few yards away. He ran to check it out, and the keys were in the ignition. Then he raced back through the front door into the Sheriff’s office, gambling the Karpovs were still out the back, dealing with the electrocuted brother. He grabbed a pair of AR-15 assault rifles and paused. Peter Schiller’s Navcom was lying on the desk, and he grabbed that, too. He raced outside, shouting at them to get into the cruiser, and vaulted into the driver's seat. He rammed the key into the ignition and started the engine.
His foot stamped down on the gas pedal, and they fishtailed out of the parking lot, but already someone was raking them with gunfire. The other brother was standing in front of the office door with an assault rifle, firing round after round in their direction. Bullets peppered the bodywork, but none scored any hits, and then they were away, rounding a bend, and out of the line of fire.
"Where to now?"
He was past caring. "Anywhere the fuck out of this place, Maria."
* * *
She saw the problem immediately and switched off the main power breaker. Her brother stopped shivering and shaking, and tenderly she unwound the cable from Kazimir's arm. The voltage had burned deep, and he looked at her through eyes filled with pain.
