“Negative.”
“All right. Stand by.”
Brent raced through the woods, foliage dragging across his arms and legs until he spotted the two Brits about forty meters to his right, with the Russians charging toward them another forty or so meters out (36.57 according to the tactical computer, but Brent ignored that detail at the moment, understandably so).
The one troop to the far left darted behind a pair of trees and dropped down to one knee, while the second forged on, cutting loose with two salvos meant to draw fire on him, while his buddy cut down the unsuspecting Brits from his more concealed vantage point.
This was a rather unoriginal gambit that made Brent snort. He reached into his web gear, drew his favorite model grenade, and let the bird fly home to poop on the Russian crouched behind the trees.
As the Brits opened fire on the first troop, the second one exploded in a flash of light backfilled by a shower of blood.
Both of those British officers dressed in digital pattern khakis turned in unison to spot Brent, just as he swung around, lifted his rifle, and fired on the second Russian, who’d dropped to the leaf-covered forest.
Brent was pretty sure he’d missed the guy, so he knifed off as though he had a 500-horsepower engine in his gut, covering the gap between him and his prey in all of a half dozen heartbeats.
When he arrived, the guy was gone.
He spun around, crouched. Looked up.
Son of a—
Brent glanced beyond the small clearing to the stand of trees from where the trooper had emerged, the Russian’s rifle aimed squarely at Brent.
Only the troop’s eyes were visible, his mouth covered by his balaclava. But if eyes could smile menacingly, his did so.
A flurry of gunfire boomed in the distance.
That sound was enough to distract the troop, and all Brent needed was that fraction of a second, that mere flick of the Russian’s glance.
He fired at the guy while falling backward, knowing the troop would return fire simultaneously, and yes, Brent’s instincts paid off. The trooper’s rounds punched the air no more than three or four inches above Brent’s chest as he hit the ground. On impact, Brent glanced up, never losing control of his rifle, and fired again, riddling the soldier with a full salvo. If the guy wore Dragon Skin or other forms of Kevlar, Brent’s rounds had found the seams. The troop did not move.
Brent sighed deeply.
“Who are you?” screamed one of the Brits, rushing up behind Brent. He was long-limbed and gaunt-faced, with a nasty set of crooked yellow teeth.
In truth, the Brit hadn’t been that polite. He’d prefaced his question with a string of epithets that might’ve impressed the devil himself — and what kind of British hospitality was this? The guy held his rifle high and aimed it at Brent’s head.
The Brit’s partner ran up beside him. This guy was shorter, with a slight paunch and jet-black crew cut. Neither man was older than thirty, both still a tad baby-faced.
“Do you speak English, comrade?” cried the second guy.
“Don’t you mean Yank?” Brent asked.
“You’re an American?” cried the first guy. “You’re lucky you’re not dead.”
“Then I guess this is my lucky day,” Brent answered, wearing a silly grin.
“Oh, a wiseass, huh?”
“Go back to your buddies. They’ll be waking up soon. We got it from here.”
“Who’s
“No one, really. Just a bunch of ghosts.” With a groan, Brent hauled himself to his feet.
The first guy’s eyes swelled. “You tell your Yank friends that the British government will be lodging a formal complaint regarding your unauthorized actions here. In this regard, you are trespassers!”
Brent shrugged. “We won’t be staying long. See ya.” With that, he turned and raced away, stealing one last look at the dumbfounded men. “Lakota, how we doing?”
“Awesome, Boss. Dropped the Russians. Thomas is back with us. Suggest we collapse on the trucks. Inbound rotary aircraft, still unidentified…”
“Gotcha. On my way!”
The bike was old and rusty, the rear fender barely attached, the handlebars loose, the chain grinding as Chopra pedaled through the rut-laden street. The other kids stared at him in envy. This bicycle had been the last thing his father had given him before he’d been killed, and so in Chopra’s young mind the bike had become the man. He would park it near his small bed and stare at it, well into the night.
He turned the corner and headed down into the alley, where he would meet his old boss who would give him the list of deliveries. The front basket would be filled with bidis, and Chopra would make his stops and collect the money. It was a lot of responsibility for a twelve-year-old.
When Chopra reached their usual meeting place, the old man was lying on the ground, bleeding from a gaping wound to his forehead. The boxes of bidis were empty. Chopra got off his bike, rushed to the man, and tried to comfort him, but he was scared that the people who had attacked the old man might still be around. He got back on his bike, raced home, and told his mother, begging her to send help. She did.
The next morning, Chopra returned to the alley, hoping the old man had recovered and the deliveries would happen as usual. The old man was gone, the empty boxes still lying there. Before Chopra could climb back on his bike, he was stopped by two boys a few years older than himself. They’d been watching him from across the street, half hidden in the shadows of laundry lines crisscrossing the alley in a thick canopy of multicolored fabric.
The larger one with bushy eyebrows glanced at Chopra’s bike. “It’s mine now,” he said evenly.
“What are you talking about?” asked Chopra.
“Your bike.”
“You’re not taking it,” said Chopra, lifting his voice and seeing his father smiling and saying,
The boy shifted up to Chopra and stared down at him. He was a full head taller, his eyes narrowing. “What are you going to do anyway?”
Chopra took a deep breath. His mouth went dry. “You can’t have my bike.”
“I’m doing you a favor. You’re just making the old man rich. You can’t work for him anymore. Do something else.”
“You know I can’t.”
“Then you’ll never be anything in this world, so it doesn’t matter if I take the bike or not.” He started away from Chopra and grabbed the bike’s handlebars.
His friend came up behind them. “Can you ride me?”
“Sure,” said the boy. “Climb on.”
The second boy balanced himself on the rear wheel’s bolts while the first took a seat.
“You can’t take it!” shouted Chopra, reaching toward them.
The first boy turned and shoved Chopra away. “Don’t do anything. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Chopra reared back, ready to punch the boy in the face, but suddenly he was on the ground, the dust coming up into his face. The other kid had hopped down and shoved him.
With tears in his eyes, Chopra watched as his bicycle vanished down the alley.
“Change of plans,” said the Snow Maiden, riding up beside Chopra.
They were still pushing along the embankment, passing the rows of gridlocked cars, with Hussein keeping close behind them.
“Are you listening to me?” she asked.
Chopra glanced at her. She was riding through that old alley in Mumbai, and then the alley dematerialized into the narrow country road. “What did you say?”
“I told you we have a change of plans. We’re not going to Dover anymore. We’re heading to Folkestone. We’ll be met there. It’s farther south than Dover and closer to us. Now let’s pick up the pace. Come on.”
