Arcadian Genesis

‘Where, then?’

Alex answered for him: ‘Katyr-Yurt.’

Khamid nodded.

Bronson straightened. Pulling his GPS from its pouch, he ran his fingers across the display. ‘Katyr-Yurt: seven miles, west — heavy terrain. We move, now.’ He glanced back at Khamid. ‘We’ll be moving quickly; you must keep up, sir.’

He didn’t wait for a reply but instead turned to Stozer. ‘Leave them a little surprise — courtesy of Bill Singer.’

She smiled grimly. ‘My pleasure, boss.’

* * *

A weak sun was just turning the sky a cold steel gray in the east when Borshov and ten of his Spetsnaz killers entered the military camp, each of them still wearing their cyclopean night-vision lenses. The regular soldiers who were awake backed out of the way as the giant and GRU Special Forces strode amongst them.

Borshov walked toward one soldier who had been eating salted beef from a tin; the food now stuck in a throat suddenly gone dry. The soldier rose meekly, trying to stand to attention, but his knees trembled under him. His head only came up to Borshov’s big, bearded chin.

‘Where is your commanding officer?’

The soldier mumbled and pointed to the edge of the camp where a large camouflage tent was set up. Borshov turned and strode toward it.

At the entrance, most of his Spetsnaz formed up in a line, their backs to the tent, guns cradled in their arms. The tent might have once belonged to the squad leader, but now it belonged to them.

Borshov pushed into the tent with two of his men. Captain Serkargov was at a field table with two young officers; at a seat nearby, a thin lieutenant held a damp cloth to his throat.

Serkargov straightened with an audible intake of breath as Borshov loomed like a colossus in the center of the tent. His huge bulk dominated the space and he spoke slowly, almost as if bored.

‘Where is the prisoner?’

Serkargov blanched. ‘Escaped. . He attacked one of my men. .’ He motioned with his head toward the lieutenant.

Borshov eyed the seated man for several moments before crossing to him, his huge body moving slowly. Low-pitched words rose from deep within his barrel chest.

‘Sore neck, yes?’

The man nodded, lifting the damp cloth to reveal heavy bruising. Borshov placed a hand gently on his shoulder and moved around behind him. He grinned at Serkargov.

With startling swiftness, Borshov grabbed the lieutenant by the hair. Wrenching back his head, he drew a slim black blade across the man’s throat, opening a second mouth, which vomited blood onto the floor of the tent.

Serkargov’s eyes bulged and behind him one of his soldiers gagged. His braver counterpart managed to unclip his sidearm, before fear and indecision stayed his hand.

Borshov let the lieutenant crumple from the chair. ‘There is no room for incompetence in battle. This man betrayed his country, his unit and his dignity when he allowed a civilian to overpower him. This type of fool loses wars.’

Eventually, Serkargov’s head jerked into a terrified nod.

‘Good, now we understand each other.’

* * *

Borshov’s Vympel moved like hunting dogs over the terrain surrounding the Russian military camp. After fifteen minutes their circular search pattern had coalesced into a narrow corridor heading northwest.

Borshov stepped onto the trail and watched one of his trackers picking through the mud, crushed grass and puddles of frozen water.

‘How long?’

‘Maybe. . three hours. Five big men, one smaller, maybe a woman — all skilled at concealment. The scientist was with them.’

Borshov nodded. ‘Which direction?’

The man nodded to the northwest. Borshov looked into the distance, his eyes narrowing.

‘Where will you run to, little Chechen piggy, with your pack of wolves? And who are these wolves — Israeli, English, American?’

He hoped they were Special Forces; they took a long time to die, and he was yet to make one beg for mercy.

‘Let’s go, we have a wolf pack to catch.’ He whistled and pointed at two of his men. ‘Get out in front; pick up the trail.’

The men tore away like dogs let off a leash. Borshov watched them disappear into the cold mist that swirled amongst the trees. The big man closed his eyes and tried to place himself in the heads of his quarry. They were on foot — and moving into dense terrain. An airlift would be more difficult. . so why there? Why northwest?

He lifted his dark bearded chin and sniffed deeply, as though trying to catch their scent. The scientist would slow them down. They would not be too concerned if they thought the best that would follow them would be regular army, but if they suspected they were being pursued by Special Forces and wanted to slow them down…

His eyes flicked open just as the explosion thumped deeply in the forest ahead. It was small, but concentrated, and the initial blast was followed by the whipping sound of tiny objects moving in a wave through the trees.

Like the rest of his men, Borshov dove to the ground as the shrapnel ricocheted around them.

In a second it was over. Shredded leaves floated to the ground, and the bark on the tree trunks was pitted and scarred. He got to his feet and exhaled, making a deep rumbling sound in his chest. He looked at the man next to him and motioned forward with his hand. The man trotted in the direction of the blast, this time with a little more caution. In a moment, he reappeared out of the mist and held up two fingers, drawing them across his throat.

Borshov nodded. ‘So, now we are introduced.’ He turned and clicked his fingers, pointed to his ear. A small phone was handed to him and he keyed a number into the pad. While he waited, he pointed to one of his agents.

‘Go back to our soldier friends. Get me some trucks.’

He turned away and spoke the code word, waiting while he was rerouted. He grunted his request.

‘Secure file search — the man I seek: tell me everything about him — open all databases. I want to know all, from when this pushta was born. His past, his recent…’ He grinned. ‘I already know his future.’

Borshov stepped back as the first of the broad, open-topped trucks crashed through the underbrush. He climbed into the front seat, some of his men jumping in the back. The rest clambered into the next truck as it arrived. Borshov held up one large hand, and the group paused while he received some further information.

‘So Khamid is also Khamidov.’ He grunted, nodded, then turned to the driver.

‘Katyr-Yurt.’

* * *

Alex smiled grimly at the sound of the explosion now many miles behind them.

‘That one’s for you, Bill — kick their asses in hell.’

In his gut he felt the anger again — it hardly ever left him anymore. His father had disappeared at an early age, just when he needed him. Then the fights had started — first at school and then just about anywhere he could find one. The military had harnessed that anger, given him an outlet, but it still festered like an infection below the skin. He hoped it would be different for Singer’s kid.

His jaw was clenched so hard it ached. He knew he should have been clinical, focused, but instead he wanted brutal revenge. He didn’t want to just engage the enemy; he wanted to seek them out, pulverize them, grind them down to shit and dust.

Alex shut his eyes, tried to calm himself. He should tell Hammerson… but then what? He’d likely be pulled from mission-ready status for assessment. No way, he thought. Instead, he concentrated on golden sands and sunlight on crystal clear surf. He could handle it; he could deal with anything. He just needed