Dean shouted.

“No, you bastards!”

The airborne helicopter was in motion now … not toward Dean, off to the east, but toward the south, toward the Panj River and his friends on the south bank. From here he could see them, two tiny, dark figures at the water’s edge.

Kneeling, he raised his AKM and opened fire, sending a long volley toward the Hip-C, continuing to fire until the weapon clicked empty. So far as he could see, he hadn’t even hit the aircraft.

He heard bursts of full-auto gunfire, heard the crack of rounds snapping above his head. The troops on the ground were closing in, firing as they moved.

His weapon empty, he dropped it and sprinted toward the river.

The Russian helicopter continued flying south, roaring low over the river, crossing the border into Afghanistan. The Russians were risking an international incident to capture two fugitives.

But … why not? This stretch of ground south of the looping, twisting Panj was a desolate wilderness of marshes, bogs, and lakes called the Kowl-e Barzangi. The International Bridge and the village of Shir Khan were a good six or eight miles downriver. The nearest built-up area was the district capital of Kunduz, almost forty miles to the south.

He saw the helicopter in the distance pass low above the running figures, swing around, and settle toward the ground two hundred yards inside of Afghan territory.

KOWL-E BARZANGI NORTHERN AFGHANISTAN THURSDAY, 0809 HOURS LOCAL TIME

The Hip-C roared low overhead, its rotor wash slashing at the two of them as they ran. “Down!” Akulinin yelled, and they flopped forward onto the muddy ground. The helicopter slowed, drifting sideways as it turned thirty yards away. Akulinin could see the door gunner standing in the open door just behind the cockpit. The man was actually grinning as he pointed at them, calling something to others in the cabin. The ramp in the rear of the fuselage was coming down.

Akulin could read the aircraft registry number on the tail boom, 10450, white numerals outlined in red. The same Hip that had brought the bodies of Zhern and the other two to Ayni. He wondered if Vasilyev was on board.

The first Russian soldiers jumped from the open ramp.

“This way,” Akulinin told Masha. If they ran east, trying to work their way around the front of the aircraft, they might be able to stay ahead of the ground troops, at least for a time. If whoever was in command over there was smart, though, he would order the Hip to drop off a few troops at several points in an arc, surrounding them.

Akulinin had never felt so helpless. They had no weapons — not even the Makarov pistols that had originally been issued to him and Dean. Those were back in the abandoned car, an added encumbrance better abandoned at the time.

Capture, he knew, would mean savage beatings and interrogation and imprisonment for both of them, probably rape for Masha, and he couldn’t do a damned thing to stop them

NORTH BANK OF THE PANJ RIVER SOUTHERN TAJIKISTAN THURSDAY, 0809 HOURS LOCAL TIME

Bullets slapped and cracked around him, but Dean kept running, bare, muddy legs pumping as he raced flat out for the river. He reached the bank and kept going, launching himself flat through the air, arms extended, hitting the water in a shallow dive as the soldiers ran after him across the field.

He surfaced swimming. He could hear shouts and gunfire behind him, but he focused all his strength on the swim, all of his attention on the southern bank thirty yards away.

KOWL-E BARZANGI NORTHERN AFGHANISTAN THURSDAY, 0809 HOURS LOCAL TIME

“Ilya! I can’t go any farther!”

“We’ve got to! Now move!”

The ground was soft and uneven, thick with marsh grass and difficult to walk on, much less run. Akulinin turned his head in time to see the Hip lifting up off the ground, leaving behind four soldiers who were making their uneven way across the marsh toward them. The helicopter drifted forward, searching for another place to set down, a place where the fugitives’ flight could be boxed in.

Maybe if they doubled back toward the river …

The explosion staggered Akulinin and drove Masha to the ground, a thunderous crash and a ball of orange flame erupting from the helicopter’s engine compartment and boiling into the early morning sky. The aircraft jerked sideways, and the rotors snapped free, pin-wheeling across the marsh directly toward Akulinin and Masha. Both ducked low and felt the breath of the hurtling blades rush overhead. The Hip slewed wildly and slammed belly-down into the ground. Akulinin caught the harsh stink of jet fuel as the aircraft’s fuel tanks exploded, sending a second shock wave racing across the marsh.

“Yeah, you bastards!” Akulinin shouted.

Moments later, a shrill roar sounded overhead as two jet fighters banked sharply above the swamp. He could make out the Iron Cross on the wings — German Tornados.

And as the Tornados’ thunder dwindled into the distance, Akulinin heard another sound: the fluttering clatter of a large helicopter in the distance. This one sounded like it was coming from the south, however, not from the north.

Slowly, he raised himself into a crouch, holding the draining briefcase, the looped belt still hanging from the handle. He looked for the Russian troopers on the ground, but saw no one. The wreckage of the Hip was close to where he had last seen them. Maybe the crash and explosion had killed or injured them. Maybe they were crawling for the river …

“Ilya?” Marie’s voice called in his head. “Ilya, do you copy? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he managed to say. “Not sure how …”

“Two NATO aircraft are in your area now. Do you see them?”

“They’ve been and gone. I hear a helicopter now.”

“That’s Delta Green One on SAR. They’re coming to get you out. But stay alert. We’re tracking more hostiles north of you.”

“Copy that,” Akulinin said. He helped Masha get to her feet.

They had to get clear of the smoke from the burning wreckage, so the SAR chopper could see them.

“It’s okay, hon,” he told her. “We’re going home.”

PANJ RIVER NORTHERN AFGHANISTAN THURSDAY, 0810 HOURS LOCAL TIME

Dean dove beneath the surface as bullets struck the river around him. Submerged, he could hear the sharp chirp of the rounds striking the water to left and right, but he kept swimming, holding his breath for as long as he could, holding it until he thought his lungs would explode with the effort, then surfacing again with a gasp.

Gunfire cracked and chattered from the northern bank. He felt mud beneath his knees and hands, felt the riverbed rising to meet him. Blinking, he could see the south bank just a few yards ahead — and he could see a billowing column of smoke, a lot of oily black smoke staining the bright blue of the sky.

He didn’t dare try to climb the bank. The soldiers were only thirty yards away; several, he saw, had taken a few steps into the river, firing at him wildly. One pulled out a grenade, yanked the pin, and hurled it at him. Dean ducked beneath the water and swam hard; the concussion from the grenade struck him a few seconds later, slamming his chest and his lungs.

He surfaced, gulping air as spouts of water splashed nearby. Submerging again, he swam with the current, letting the flow carry him underwater, dragging him downriver. If necessary, he thought, he could drift with the river for as long as it took to reach Shir Khan, sticking his head up only to grab a quick breath when he couldn’t hold it

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