I look behind me and do as he says, putting my guns and holster in my bag and hiding it in the seat.
“You done this before?” I ask.
He smiles. “Once or twice, yeah.”
“Where are you from, Ray? Your accent is distinctive.”
“I was born in Northern Ireland,” he says. “But I’ve lived between the U.S. and Eastern Europe for the last thirty years, so my twang has faded a little.”
“A good friend of mine is from London — always corrects me on my allegedly poor use of the language.”
He laughs. “Yeah, you Yanks sure ruined that over the years!”
“Oh, Christ, don’t you start…”
We follow the M-10 road for about half an hour, before turning left on the P-33. It’s another forty minutes of fairly straight, unadventurous road before we veer left onto the P-35.
“Okay, it’s about an hour’s drive along here ’til we hit the P-56,” says Collins. “That’s the road that will take us over the border and into Pripyat. Once we cross, it’s about thirty klicks into the city itself. If ya wanna rest up, now’s the time.”
I shake my head. “I’ve slept enough,” I say.
I stare out the window at the foreign land passing us by. It always feels strange, being somewhere new. You forget you’re still on the same planet as home sometimes. The landscape looks and feels so different from Texas. Even the sun is colder here — the heat not quite reaching as far as the light. Fields and trees run off to the horizon in every direction. It’s actually quite a beautiful place. Just a shame I’m here under such ugly circumstances.
“What exactly do ya plan on doing in Pripyat?” asks Collins after a few miles of silence.
“I’m going to kill the person who’s kidnapped my girlfriend,” I reply, matter-of-factly. “And with some luck, I might take out a terrorist or three along the way.”
Collins lets out a whistle. “Sounds heavy,” he says. “I guess the rumors are true.”
I turn to look at him. “Rumors?”
“About you. Most guys who work for GlobaTech’s PMC have heard of ya, because we know your best friend is one of our top boys now. A lot of what people say about ya I’ve dismissed as campfire stories, but looking at ya, seeing how ya got here, and the belief ya have in what you’re gonna do next… maybe there’s something to those stories after all. I’m glad you’re on our side.”
“I’m not on anyone’s side,” I say. “I just want to do what’s right. I hung up my guns a couple of years back, but some radical pricks tried to lure me out of retirement. And now I’m balls deep in God knows what, trying to outrun the U.S. Government and stop a bunch of terrorists doing something bad with a satellite that no one’s meant to know about.”
“I’ve only got a few hours before I have to get back to my assignment,” he says regrettably. “Otherwise I’d offer to help. Sounds like ya need it.”
“Thanks,” I say. “But you’d just get in the way.”
He laughs, shakes his head, and silence falls inside the car once more.
It doesn’t take long to reach the border to Ukraine. We slow to a stop as we join a short queue of traffic waiting to get through the checkpoint. The sun is disappearing behind the trees that line either side of the narrow strip of road. The surrounding terrain couldn’t be traversed in any vehicle. And if you approach on foot, you’ll be picked up anywhere within five miles in a matter of minutes. It’s a pretty secure checkpoint — one road in or out of the country.
There’s a low concrete wall running away to the sides, with a large barrier covering the only gap in it that I can see from the car. There’s a guard’s hut to the right, housing three men in military fatigues — all armed. There are two more men either side of the barrier and at least four patrolling the queue of cars on the road.
One of the men signals the car in front to move forward. It does, stopping level with the hut. There’s a guy behind bulletproof glass looking at screens inside. I’m guessing there’s some kind of electronic pad underneath the ground measuring weight, maybe even producing an infra-red scan of the vehicle, I’m not sure.
Another man comes out and approaches the vehicle. The driver’s hand appears through the window, passing over his papers for inspection. I can see a muted conversation — short, no pleasantries. The guard makes a quick lap of the car and hands the papers back. He signals to the men by the barrier and, between them, they manually raise it and usher the car through.
The guard from the hut turns to us and gestures for us to drive forward.
“Play it cool,” murmurs Collins. “Don’t say anything ya don’t have to. We’re two guys on a road trip, no business.”
The guard taps on my window, and another appears and does the same on Collins’ side.
He says something that I don’t understand, and I look at him like a confused tourist. Seeing my reaction, he sighs impatiently.
“English?” he asks.
“American,” I say with a smile.
He rolls his eyes. “Papers.”
I hand them over and look around casually as he checks them. Next to me, Collins is doing the same, but he’s showing off and speaking in Russian.
“What is business in Ukraine?” asks the guard.
“Just on a road trip,” I shrug.
He eyes me wearily, but I don’t think he’s suspicious of anything. I think it’s just professional boredom from his mundane job. He glances back at the hut, at the guy looking at the screens. He gives an almost imperceptible nod, which the guard acknowledges before turning back to me. He then looks over the car at the guy on Collins’ side. They start talking in Russian.
“What’s going on?” I whisper to Collins, a little worried now.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he replies. “Something about the car.”
My door opens, taking me by surprise, and the guard leans in. “American — out of the car, now.”
There’s a non-confrontational urgency in his voice, and I comply without resistance. Collins does the same.
“Turn and lean on the car,” he says to me.
I do, and he starts patting me down. I look across at Collins, who’s going through the same thing. I raise an eyebrow, asking a silent question. He replies with a subtle shrug.
Great.
I happen to look down at the ground as the guy moves his hands up and down my legs, and I see a large metal sheet in the dirt, directly underneath the car.
Looks like a scale. Thought so — they’ll measure the weight of the car and passengers. Standard security I suppose, nowadays.
I frown.
I wonder if they’ve weighed the car and thought it’s too heavy for just Collins and me? If they search it, they might find my bag… and that would certainly prompt a few more questions. Questions I don’t really want to answer. I look up again at Collins, concern flashing into my eyes. He sees my look and understands, but shakes his head slightly from side to side, as if to say there’s nothing to worry about, and I absolutely shouldn’t kill every guard here.
I’m not panicking. Panic suggests fear, and I’m not afraid of anything — certainly nothing that springs instantly to mind. What I am doing, however, is expressing concern over the possibility of wasting more of my valuable time. I’ve got less than twelve hours before Clara puts a bullet in my girlfriend’s head. I can’t afford to stand here any longer flirting with these Police Academy rejects.
The look in my eyes tells Collins I’m losing patience. He responds with a look that pleads me to ride things out. Against my better judgment, I stand still and let a random Communist continue to feel my legs.
A few more moments pass, and the guard finishes frisking me. He stands and signals to his friend by Collins to join him. They huddle together over by the security hut without a word to us. We both remain where we are, exchanging silent questions. Then my guard walks back over to us.