“Mi ingles no es tan bueno, senor,” Ariadna said.
“Absurdo. Pienso que su ingles es excelente, senorita,” Zakharov said in very good Spanish. He quickly searched her and immediately found her pistol. “Reporters these days are armed very well, I see—body armor and a pistol. Who are you?”
“I…I’m with Kristen,” Ariadna said in English. “SATCOM One News. You must be Yegor Zakharov…Colonel Yegor Zakharov.”
“Kristen Skyy’s bodyguard? Lover? What?”
“Producer.”
“Producer. Ah, I see. And who were you talking to?”
“Our security officer, in the van.”
“If you are speaking of Lieutenant Quintao, I’m afraid he won’t be answering you,” Zakharov said. “He wasn’t very trustworthy anyway—I found him nearly asleep behind the wheel. I believe I taught him a valuable lesson: never fall asleep on guard duty.” He stepped toward Ariadna menacingly. “But he did not have a walkie-talkie with him, just a video camera. So who were you talking to?”
“I have some questions for you, Colonel Zakharov,” Kristen interjected. “Let’s you and me talk. She isn’t in charge of this crew: Iam.”
“Oh, believe me, Miss Skyy, we will be talking together, quite extensively,” Zakharov said. “But I know you very well already, of course; and you have two people over there that, if I may hazard an observation, look like members of your production crew. I would even venture to say they are not armed. But you were armed, menina. And pardon me, but you do not look like a journalist to me. Now, who are you?”
“I told you, Colonel, I’m a…”
The butt end of the Dragunov sniper rifle flashed in a blur of motion, and in the blink of an eye Ariadna lay on her back on the stone patio floor, blood streaming from her mouth. “It is going to get very, very ugly for you, lagarta, unless you talk,” Zakharov said. “It is a simple question: who are you?”
“Bastard!” Ariadna swore, wiping blood from her mouth. She was unable to speak for several moments, dazed from the blow; then, she replied weakly, “Vega. My name is Vega.”
Zakharov’s eyes widened in surprise—it was clear that he recognized the name. “Well, well, what a pleasant surprise,” he said. “Dr. Ariadna Vega?” It was Ari’s turn to look shocked. “I am surprised to see you here. You are not at all what I expected. A female civilian scientist and electrical engineer working for the United States Army—I expected either a tattooed dyke or an ugly one-hundred-and-fifty-kilo nerd with glasses as thick as icebergs.”
“What are you talking about, Colonel?” Kristen asked. “Do you know her? What’s going on here?”
“We will have our conversation soon, Miss Skyy,” Zakharov said in a menacing tone. “For now, please do not interrupt us.” He withdrew a military walkie-talkie from underneath his coat and keyed the microphone: “Kapitan? Zayaveet. Ana zdyes.” To Ariadna, he said, “We did not expect you to accompany Miss Skyy, so it created a little confusion out at the airport.” Ari’s eyes widened in fear. “Oh yes, we located your jet and your friends at Abaete airport, and they should be well taken care of by now. The PME was not very cooperative at first, but we convinced them quite easily of how much we wanted to greet our visitors from New Mexico.” He keyed the mike button again: “Kapitan? Zayaveet!”
“If you’re trying to call Captain Khalimov, Colonel, don’t bother—he’s right here.” Half-hidden by a corner of the farmhouse, Sergeant Major Jefferson emerged with his pistol aimed at Khalimov’s head. “Now drop your rifle and order your men to drop their guns.”
“I suggest you drop your weapon before there is a bloodbath here,” Zakharov said casually, aiming the captured pistol at Ariadna. “We have you outgunned.”
“Nao exatamente, Zakharov,” Manuel Pereira said, using his commando skills to remain hidden in the darkness although he was less than a dozen meters away. “And if there is to be a bloodbath, you will be the first to die. Eu garanto-o.”
“Manuel!” Ruiz shouted. “Thank God you’re alive.”
“Do it, Zakharov!” Jefferson ordered. “Drop your weapons, or I’ll blow this fucker’s head off, and Manuel will do the same to you.”
“You mean, all that’s standing between my seven hostages and you is Captain Khalimov there? Ya huy na nivo palazhyl. Here’s what I think of that.” In a blur of motion, Zakharov pocketed the pistol, swung the Dragunov sniper rifle up, and fired. Khalimov screamed and flew backward, the round hitting squarely in his chest like a hammer.
The ensuing battle took only seconds, but the carnage was enormous. Zakharov immediately sprinted to his right and took cover behind the van. His two gunmen fired bullets into the heads of the two Brazilian farmworkers, killing them instantly. One of them turned his gun toward Kristen Skyy and fired. Kristen screamed, took a couple of steps toward Jefferson, then dropped to the ground. The Russians died moments later when Pereira fired two three-round bursts from Khalimov’s submachine gun and made perfect hits.
Zakharov fired a round toward the corner of the farmhouse where Jefferson was, making him duck for cover, then retrieved Ariadna’s pistol from his pocket and fired at where Jorge Ruiz had been standing near the Amarals. At the first shot, Ruiz turned, ran at full speed, and body-tackled his parents, sending them and himself over the other side of the short stone wall surrounding the patio. Kristen’s crew members leaped over the wall themselves, disappearing into the darkness.
“Stop!” Zakharov shouted from behind the van. “Stop or I’ll kill Skyy and Vega!” Ariadna was still too dazed to move—she had simply curled up in a fetal position when the bullets started flying over her, with her hands over her ears and her eyes tightly closed.
“Give it up, Zakharov!” Jefferson said. “You’re not going anywhere!”
“And neither are you!” Zakharov said. “I knew about your jet at the airport, and I had everyone there executed. The jet and all your equipment is mine.”
Jefferson found he had stopped breathing—could he be telling the truth? “Bullshit!” he finally shouted. “Pereira! Flank that bastard and kill him!”
“If I even suspect he’s moving against me, I’ll kill her.”
“If you kill Vega, I’ll spend the rest of my life hunting you down!” Jefferson said. “Pereira! Get that son of a…!”
At that moment, a military helicopter appeared out of nowhere, a bright Nightsun searchlight sweeping across the patio. “Uyedu na-hui! About fucking time!” Zakharov swore to himself. He pulled out a portable radio, keyed the mike button, and said in Portuguese, “Este e Zakharov. Escute acima! Target one on the northwest corner of the farmhouse; target two somewhere in the weeds west of target one; targets on the move on the east side of the farmhouse. Mate-os todos!”
The Nightsun light zeroed right in on Jefferson, and a gunner aboard the helicopter opened fire with an assault rifle. Jefferson ducked out of the way just in time and ran behind the farmhouse. Pereira switched his submachine to full automatic and swept the sky with bullets toward the helicopter until the magazine was empty, then ran out toward the highway. The helicopter wheeled right and maneuvered in that direction to follow him.
“Nao!” Zakharov shouted in Portuguese. “Comece outro! Get the other one! I want target one!” The helicopter wheeled hard right again and started searching for Jefferson. Switching to Russian, Zakharov shouted, “Keptan! Pashlee! Tyepyer!” Pavel Khalimov rolled painfully onto his back to catch his breath, then rolled again and struggled to his feet, rubbing the spot in the center of his chest where the sniper round had impacted his bulletproof vest. He half-collapsed on the hood of the van that Zakharov was hiding behind. “Are you all right, Captain?” Zakharov asked.
Khalimov wiped half-dried blood from around his left eye, but nodded. “It feels like my sternum is broken, Colonel,” he gasped, “but I can travel and fight.”
“Serves you right for getting yourself captured, Captain,” Zakharov said, only half-joking. “Next time you do that, I’ll aim higher.” A switchblade appeared in Zakharov’s hand out of nowhere; he cut Khalimov’s wrists free and gave him the pistol. “Kyem? Who is he?”
“He is military,” Khalimov replied. “Older, but very well trained.”
“Jefferson. United States Army Ranger. Bardak,” Zakharov swore. “Looks like our airport team failed.” He raised his walkie-talkie to his lips, keyed the mike button, and asked in Portuguese, “Where are the ground units?”
“Pulling onto the ranch now, Colonel,” the helicopter pilot responded.
