‘This man more than others,’ said Jean-Marc Papineau, very unexpectedly, in the ears of the team. ‘He is Colonel Viktor Borovsky of the Russian police. He questioned me in-’
Cobb didn’t hear the rest of Papineau’s statement. Not because the feed was cut, but because a shot rang out from the nearby trees. A split-second later, the horse ridden by Colonel Borovsky lost its head in an eruption of bloody shreds as bone, brain, and hair filled the air.
49
To reach the isolated village, Colonel Borovsky and Anna Rusinko had boarded a helicopter that he had commandeered from the
From there, it was smooth sailing.
At least until the train arrived.
Anna had tried to discourage Borovsky from his plan to stop the train, on horseback, with old rifles. But ever since they had left Russia, he had become increasingly less communicative. Anna had a stronger and stronger sense that he had a private mission apart from finding Andrei Dobrev and solving a murder. The colonel belonged to some century other than his own. He certainly didn’t belong in this era with its layers of bureaucrats and desk-police and regulations.
In that regard, he was more cowboy than cop.
An old-school hero in a new world.
Standing on a rise while glancing through seventy-year-old binoculars — with superb optics, she had to confess — Anna had seen Borovsky ride toward the train, fire at the ground, then trot alongside the engine. The entire time he was smiling, like he was having a total blast.
From her vantage point, it had looked like a nest of insects swarming around a toy train. She had looked helplessly at the villagers around her. They were not fearful of the sharp reports of weapons or the danger faced by loved ones. They were completely silent while they watched, intently, as events unfolded.
A few had even seemed proud.
But that only made sense. It wasn’t every day that the local peace officers received a call from a colleague in Moscow — one who wanted them to join him and do what they were trained to do. And on a matter of international importance. Most of these people had never been more than twenty-five miles from their village.
To do something that affected the world was an honor.
But after ten minutes, the action was over.
That part of it, anyway.
She was about to get in a waiting hay cart — a hay cart! — for a ride back to the village when a crack had rolled ominously from somewhere behind her. In a panic, she quickly raised the binoculars and studied the scene before her.
Only one man had appeared to be hit.
Colonel Viktor Borovsky.
Cobb slammed onto the floor of the train cab, temporarily dazed by the blood and horse brains that had splattered the side of his face.
Jasmine ducked as she yanked up the shotgun like she was about to blow the roof off the train, riding the fear as she’d been taught. Her survival depended upon treating her emotion like an unwelcome friend, not the enemy itself.
‘Can I kill someone now?’ McNutt spat sarcastically as he spun in the direction of the shot. He saw the attackers a second after Garcia did.
‘ATVs, AK-47s — Black Robes!’ they all heard in their ears.
A dust cloud filled the horizon. Tearing up from the southern woods with the ear-slicing roar of a hundred dragons were dozens of dark, four-wheel, all-terrain vehicles, ridden by men cloaked in black robes and carrying AK assault rifles. They tore up the grass and shredded the flowers as their bulky, industrialized, heavy-tired machines buzz-sawed furiously up the slope, while the horsemen raced for the far side of the train where their leader still was.
Cobb’s head came up as McNutt dragged Jasmine and Dobrev down.
‘Full metal jackets!’ the sniper hissed as he grabbed the Benelli shotgun from Jasmine, twisted toward the southern side of the cab, then cursed.
‘What?’ Cobb said.
‘Too far, damn it!’ McNutt said. ‘Out of range!’
Then McNutt was gone, out the back of the cab, so fast that he practically left a puff of cartoon smoke.
Jasmine stared after him then spun her head back toward Cobb, who was still on the floor, his head raised. Half his face looked like it was slapped with red warpaint. He was trying to look out the window without losing the top of his head.
‘Jasmine, you stay back,’ Cobb said. ‘I can’t afford to lose my translator.’
The remark stung a little. His concern wasn’t for
As Jasmine stepped back, Sarah appeared in the cab door. She was fully dressed in her Type IV Modular Tactical Vest and Ops Core Ballistic helmet — the best bullet-resistant gear money could buy. The former looked like a tailor-made down vest, and the latter looked like a particularly aggressive bike-riding helmet. Even so, they were made to withstand everything up to, and including, thirty-zero-six armor-piercing bullets.
Sarah’s arms were full of additional gear for the rest of the team. She tossed vests and helmets to Cobb and Jasmine, along with a spare for Dobrev, then she swung a SIG 553 Commando assault rifle around from where it was strapped on her back. The seven-pound, twenty-eight-inch, five-point-six-millimeter, thirty-round weapon was also considered one of the best in the world.
‘Thanks,’ Cobb said as he pulled Jasmine lower and helped her suit up before putting his own equipment on.
‘No problem,’ Sarah said. ‘I gotta get back to McNutt. He’s setting up the armory for war.’ She smirked at the thought. ‘He said we have permission to kill them. True?’
In the pause that followed, they heard the slapping metallic noise of lead hail hitting the southern side of the train.
‘Yes,’ Cobb said.
‘Wait!’ Papineau shouted in their ears.
‘Sarah, go,’ Cobb said, ignoring the Frenchman. He looked at Sarah, pointed toward the armory, then pulled his finger across his throat.
Sarah gave a thumbs-up and disappeared. Better protected now, Cobb went to the door for a clearer view of the Black Robes. From this vantage point, he heard a scratching just beyond the lavatory door on the other side. He twisted around to see a stunned, winded Borovsky, his face covered in his horse’s brains, feebly trying to pull himself up the cab ladder.
‘Jack, are you there?’ Papineau said.
‘Shut him down, Garcia,’ Cobb shouted, clearly referring to the Frenchman, while reaching out to the Russian.
‘Just his broadcasts or-’ Garcia started.
‘Everything!’ Cobb bellowed as Jasmine and Dobrev, who had put on his own, slightly ill-fitting protective gear, rushed to help Borovsky. It didn’t matter that he was a Russian police officer or the leader of the villagers. Cobb sensed that Borovsky would be more of an asset than a threat, particularly after saving his life.
