They’d gone about five miles at that point—fantastic time considering the terrain—but the village stopped them cold. There were a dozen buildings scattered along the main road, which was more a trail than a highway. Rankin and Ferguson scouted the approach and saw two sentries in sandbagged positions next to barricades that blocked the way. They were Chechen guerrillas.
Given the topography, there were dozens if not hundreds of spots where reinforcements might be lurking. If not for their prisoner, they might have been able to work a deal with the rebels. Instead, they had to find a way to skirt the tiny village; it was nearly light before they managed to get beyond it by crossing a field to the east and climbing a fifty-foot sheer wall. They pulled Kiro up by a rope, slipping and sliding, until they found their way to a cave about two miles southeast of the hamlet.
They were so tired that they all actually slept.
~ * ~
T
he first two miles the next night were not only uphill, but were very uphill—they climbed five hundred meters within a half mile on a remarkably wide path. From the satellite photos, they knew that there was a farm in a high valley on the other side of the ridge; when they arrived there they found a small cart with rickety wheels parked next to a shed. Ferguson’s conscience pricked at him when he stole it, and he left an assortment of small bills in its place. The money might be a fortune to the poor farmer—or it might be completely useless in this isolated spot, sure to raise questions if he dared spend it.
The cart made it possible to go much faster on the road. Within an hour they had come to another farm, this one obviously belonging to someone much more prosperous—there was a truck next to a shed near the barn.
“I say we steal it,” said Rankin.
“You think you can hot-wire it?” Ferguson asked him.
“I can,” said Conners. “If it’s old enough.”
They sneaked into the yard, Guns and Rankin standing guard between the house and shed as Conners worked open the hood. The truck was an old Zil based on a Western European design that probably dated to the fifties. Conners lifted the hood and hunted for the ignition coil and starting solenoid, trying to get a feel for the wiring. He had just found the coil when the engine rumbled. Startled, he jerked his head up and smacked it against the hood.
“Keys are in it,” said Ferg.
A light came on in the house as they were backing out. Rankin fired a burst from the Uzi at the side of the building, and the warning was enough to slow down whoever was inside.
Ferguson changed plans, and with the help of the satellite photos they were able to get within sight of Gora Tebulsikva on the border with Georgia several hours before dawn. They left the truck outside the town, continuing by foot to the southwest, where the hills were rutted with paths. The Russians had fenced the border with two rows of razor-wire fence and a series of guard posts, but Ferguson figured it shouldn’t be too difficult to find a passage.
He took out his phone and sat down to call Corrigan, whom he’d promised to update every hour when they were on the move.
As he was talking, Kiro woke and began struggling against his restraints. They were out of Demerol. Guns tried talking to him in Russian, but he pretended not to understand. The Marine offered him food, but Kiro refused, continuing to struggle though he must have realized it was useless. Rankin put his Uzi in his face; Kiro smiled but continued to straggle until a hard smack on the side of the head with the short but hard metal stock rendered him senseless.
As they rolled him over to make sure his restraints were still snug, Conners noticed that the prisoner’s pants were soiled. He felt a twinge of sympathy for the bastard, but it quickly passed.
“The good news is, the helicopter will meet us in the pass five miles on the other
Given the topography, there were dozens if not hundreds of spots where reinforcements might be lurking. If not for their prisoner, they might have been able to work a deal with the rebels. Instead, they had to find a way to skirt the tiny village; it was nearly light before they managed to get beyond it by crossing a field to the east and climbing a fifty-foot sheer wall. They pulled Kiro up by a rope, slipping and sliding, until they found their way to a cave about two miles southeast of the hamlet.
They were so tired that they all actually slept.
~ * ~
T
he first two miles the next night were not only uphill, but were very uphill—they climbed five hundred meters within a half mile on a remarkably wide path. From the satellite photos, they knew that there was a farm in a high valley on the other side of the ridge; when they arrived there they found a small cart with rickety wheels parked next to a shed. Ferguson’s conscience pricked at him when he stole it, and he left an assortment of small bills in its place. The money might be a fortune to the poor farmer—or it might be completely useless in this isolated spot, sure to raise questions if he dared spend it.
The cart made it possible to go much faster on the road. Within an hour they had come to another farm, this one obviously belonging to someone much more prosperous—there was a truck next to a shed near the barn.
“I say we steal it,” said Rankin.
“You think you can hot-wire it?” Ferguson asked him.
“I can,” said Conners. “If it’s old enough.”
They sneaked into the yard, Guns and Rankin standing guard between the house and shed as Conners worked open the hood. The truck was an old Zil based on a Western European design that probably dated to the fifties. Conners lifted the hood and hunted for the ignition coil and starting solenoid, trying to get a feel for the wiring. He had just found the coil when the engine rumbled. Startled, he jerked his head up and smacked it against the hood.
“Keys are in it,” said Ferg.
A light came on in the house as they were backing out. Rankin fired a burst from the Uzi at the side of the building, and the warning was enough to slow down whoever was inside.
Ferguson changed plans, and with the help of the satellite photos they were able to get within sight of Gora Tebulsikva on the border with Georgia several hours before dawn. They left the truck outside the town, continuing by foot to the southwest, where the hills were rutted with paths. The Russians had fenced the border with two rows of razor-wire fence and a series of guard posts, but Ferguson figured it shouldn’t be too difficult to find a passage.
He took out his phone and sat down to call Corrigan, whom he’d promised to update every hour when they were on the move.
As he was talking, Kiro woke and began struggling against his restraints. They were out of Demerol. Guns tried talking to him in Russian, but he pretended not to understand. The Marine offered him food, but Kiro refused, continuing to struggle though he must have realized it was useless. Rankin put his Uzi in his face; Kiro smiled but continued to straggle until a hard smack on the side of the head with the short but hard metal stock rendered him senseless.
As they rolled him over to make sure his restraints were still snug, Conners noticed that the prisoner’s pants were soiled. He felt a twinge of sympathy for the bastard, but it quickly passed.
“The good news is, the helicopter will meet us in the pass five miles on the other
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