He was quick, but off the pace. The rifle came into his hands while I was five steps away. Two more and he was bringing it up. Another two and he was struggling with the sling caught between his hand and the trigger. It was about as much of a break I was going to get so I launched myself at him and brought him down with a full body slam. He hit the ground hard on his back but he kept on rolling, shouting something and trying to scrabble away. He hadn’t let go of the rifle, which was a worry, so I followed him using my knees to drive myself forward, grabbing the rifle as I caught up with him.
He was tough and lean, and coiled beneath me like a snake, grunting furiously. He let go of the rifle as a lost cause and began chopping at me with short, sharp strikes, one after the other, bucking in an effort to throw me off. A strike to my head was followed by another to the side of my neck and another to my upper chest, all delivered in a desperate volley. Each contact carried sting and power and I realized that if I didn’t neutralize this guy very quickly I was going to be in real trouble.
He changed his approach and snapped his elbow around against my head. I went to block it but it was a feint, and he reached instead for the inside of his jacket. When he brought it out he was holding a pistol, a companion piece to the Browning I’d found on the first man.
I grabbed it before he could pull the trigger and twisted it back on him. We stared at each other for a split second, then he spat in my face, desperately trying to push the muzzle towards me. Being on top I had the advantage of weight and leverage.
He struggled like crazy, kicking his heels into the ground and shaking his whole body in an effort to dislodge me. Then I gave it one last effort and pushed the gun into him, hoping he’d see sense and give in because this was only going to end badly for one of us. And I really didn’t want to kill him.
But he didn’t see it the same way. He scrabbled frantically for the gun, piling on the pressure with his other hand, and I felt it beginning to slip from my grasp as our hands and the weapon became slick with greasy sweat. I could also feel the strength in my hands and wrists ebbing away. I took in a deep breath and gave it one last try, knowing it was now or nothing.
He swore, long and loud, then there was a muffled shot between us and I felt the heat against my chest as the blast rippled out from the muzzle.
I rolled off him, tearing the gun out of his hand and getting to my knees, bringing it to bear and ready to shoot in case he was faking it. But there was no need. He was dead.
I sat back, dropping the gun. I was trembling with the after-shock of the fight and knowing the situation could have so easily gone the other way. But the bigger shock was the realization that the man lying there was Russian.
Or had been.
FIVE
I searched the dead man’s pockets. Hearing him swear so fluently in Russian had done away with any idea that he might have been an innocent local hunter. When your life is so close to the edge you might call for God or your mother, but the last thing you do is adopt a language that is not your own. And the spare magazine for the pistol discounted the hunter idea even further. Other than that he was a carbon copy of the first man: no ID, nothing personal, just the photo of me in his jacket pocket. Which was as personal for me, at least, as it could get.
I dragged the body across to the depression in the rock face where I’d seen him emerge. A wet squiggle in the dust of the ground showed where he’d urinated, and a loosely screwed-up ball of greasy paper holding the remains of a shawarma sandwich lay nearby. I rolled the body into the gap and left him there.
Instinct and experience told me the Browning Hi-Power might come in useful, so I picked it up and walked back to the Land Cruiser. I started the engine and hit the gas, keeping an eye out for other vehicles and following the land downhill. I had to force myself to slow down; I was shaking with after-shock from the fight and my breathing was painful where he’d caught me on the side of the neck with a solid knuckle strike. I desperately wanted to take a slug of water but I needed to put distance between us before I could think of stopping. Having already been wrong about there being another man I didn’t want to be wrong again.
A quarter mile later I spotted a pickup parked in a gap between two giant boulders. It was a Nissan and looked dusty and inconsequential, a go-anywhere vehicle that would attract little attention in this country. I skidded to a stop and jumped out. This had to be their ride.
The doors were locked so I smashed a window, apologizing to any innocent folk this might be offending. Inside I found a paper bag with more sandwiches, bottles of water … and a cellphone in the armrest-lockbox.
Hold the excitement.
