44
Even though his body ached and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep, Grisha forced himself to follow Wing. Ahead of them, Nathan’s large-bore revolver prodded a bruised and stumbling Valari.
The ice-sheathed stone walls glistened redly from two kerosene lanterns carried by the small band of survivors. Out of thirty-odd people who had been in the room above, nine now crept through the dim depths of the redoubt. Iron-barred cells, some containing frozen corpses, testified to the malignant nature of this level.
“Do you think they have recaptured the redoubt?” Grisha asked.
“I think they have leveled the redoubt,” Wing said shortly, “thanks to that bitch’s transmitter.”
“They didn’t care if they killed her,” Grisha said wonderingly.
“You of all people should know how cheap life is in the Czar’s Amerikan possession,” Nathan said over his shoulder. “Weren’t they going to use you as a Judas goat? Didn’t they kill a Cossack officer and blame you?”
“Why does anyone work for them, then?”
“Ask the major,” Wing muttered.
Nik, in the lead and carrying one of the lanterns, suddenly stopped.
“There’s no way out.”
“Yes, there is, but it was always heavily guarded,” Nathan said with authority. “I’ve been down here before…” He audibly swallowed, and there was a catch in his voice when he continued. “… when I watched them torture my twin brother to death.”
“They killed your brother in here and you escaped?” Grisha asked.
“I… did. He died in this place, and… and I was with him when it happened.”
“My God,” Nik said quietly.
The group fell quiet, staring at Nathan, whose face shone with reddish tears. Grisha’s ears reached out in the sudden silence, searching for something he hadn’t been aware of until just now. They were being followed.
“Nik,” he said quietly and crooked an index finger.
The tall Russian handed his lantern to a soot-streaked figure whom Grisha finally recognized as Karin. Her eyes blazed defiantly as she grasped the bail.
“Which way, Nathan?” she asked.
“Over, there—” he pointed. “I think.” The band shuffled onward while Nik and Grisha hung back in the shadows.
Nik stepped next to Grisha, his eyes large and hollow-looking.
“What is it?” he whispered.
“Someone’s behind us.”
“One of ours, maybe?”
“They haven’t identified themselves,” Grisha said flatly.
Nik peered back into the gloomy distance, his jaw muscles tightening.
“Good point,” he murmured, easing off the safety on his weapon.
They pulled apart in mutual understanding, taking up station across the dark cavernous space from each other. Grisha leaned against the icy wall and willed his breathing to relax. Only an occasional murmur from the group, now thirty meters away, broke the silence.
Exhaustion tugged at him, seductively whispering how sweet it would be to let his eyes close for a few moments. Lassitude slowly washed over him and he felt as if he were floating above all the strife, carnage, and death he had witnessed in the past two—my God, only two—days.
Out in the darkness boot leather scuffed against stone. Grisha’s senses prickled to full awareness and he pointed his machine pistol toward the spot from where the sound had emanated.
He strained to hear where the next step would fall, wondering what would happen then.
From across the space something bumped woodenly.
Gunfire filled the chamber.
45
Bear Crepov finally caught sight of the group ahead of him. Only nine. He smiled, feeling the scar on his face sting as it pulled tight. The clip in his weapon held fifteen rounds—this would be almost too easy!
He eased forward as silently as a hunting lynx. The light from their lanterns provided him ample illumination for his stalk. Before he fired a shot he wanted them all in plain sight.
His step lightened as adrenaline surged through his veins. Confidence suffused him and he recalled that just a short time ago these people had pushed him about as if he were a
They would pay dearly.
His foot touched a loose stone on the floor, and even as he froze all motion, it rolled over with the smallest possible sound of protest. To Bear it seemed an avalanche. His mouth went dry and his eyes flicked about madly, searching for motion, seeking reaction to his self-betrayal.
Nothing. Mutters and louder bursts of sound came to him from the rabble ahead. They heard nothing. He smiled tightly in the darkness.
A good
He edged ahead, eyes jumping from floor to light to floor again. There they were. He allowed himself a cat smile that suddenly froze on his face.
Only seven forms stood around the two lanterns. His heart accelerated, thudding in his ears like the shoes of peasant dancers on a wooden floor. Clenching his machine pistol more tightly in his suddenly sweaty hands, he eased toward the wall on his left.
Maybe a pillar blocked two of them? Had they stepped into the darkness to relieve their bladders? His ears detected no careless splatter of urine.
His breathing sped up, puffing into small clouds of condensation that drifted off sideways. Where were they? He bit his tongue slightly to keep from screaming the question at the dark corners.
His elbow gently found the wall. He stopped and stared away from the light—trying to force his irises to maximum diameter. His senses expanded outward seeking information.
Murmurs from the group ahead of him effectively masked any other small sounds in the cavernous space. Also, the light they carried with them made the unlit portions densest black. Cold air moved across his face.
Had they escaped? He craned his head around and spotted his quarry. They filed through a door; they had found a way out.
He brought his foot up to hurry after them and his right mukluk scraped against the wall. Suddenly he sensed movement on the other side of the chamber. Something, someone, hit a piece of heavy wooden furniture, probably a bench, with a dull thud.
Crepov aimed at the sound and squeezed the trigger on his machine pistol. The brilliant muzzle blasts illuminated the area in chattering flashes. A figure reeled behind a heavy wooden post and Crepov followed with a stream of rounds.
Something moved in the corner of his eye and he dropped to his knees. A different weapon roared and Bear Crepov felt the hot breath of rounds as they snapped past his head and blew rock splinters out of the wall, lacerating his face and neck. He rolled away from the menace and regained his feet.
“Nik! Are you okay?” someone said urgently, panic in his voice. Bear grinned and hurried toward the door. He had hit the turncoat Rezanov. Good.
“Don’t think I’m okay, but I’m still alive,” Rezanov said and coughed a short liquid bark.
Light gleamed in the dark and Crepov realized the group was returning with the lanterns. His ammunition was
