The gate held. Orkhan fired on the minibus, which backed up twenty feet, then surged forward. This time the gate burst open. The men inside were smashing out the windows with their guns. When Orkhan ran out of ammunition, Mark raised his pistol, and, shooting past Orkhan’s face, fired three shots at the driver. He missed.
“Go!” Mark pointed west. They were outnumbered, and about to be outgunned and overwhelmed. “Cut the corner!”
It was possible to avoid the gate and approaching minibus by driving down a long scrub-covered hill, at the base of which lay the road.
Orkhan steered the van up and over the curb that lined the circular drive in front of the sanatorium, but as he did so, the van’s front tire on the driver’s side blew out and the metal wheel rim smashed into the concrete curb, sending a violent jolt through the van.
Orkhan struggled to steer as the van careened down the hill. Mark swiveled in his seat, looking back. Several seconds passed — then a police car appeared at the top of the hill.
“They’ve got a car.” Mark had to yell so that he could be heard over the rattling of the van. “The cop they shot at the gate — they found his keys.”
Orkhan tried to speed up, but the van swerved dangerously. The police car began descending the hill at what Mark estimated to be over twice the speed of the van. He could see two men in the car.
“What do we have for ammunition?” Mark checked the magazine of his Makarov. He had seven shots left. He opened the dash compartment.
“There’s nothing,” said Orkhan, adding, “We had to move fast with what we had…” Orkhan’s voice trailed off as he focused on keeping the van upright as it skidded down a steep section of hill.
The paved road appeared in front of them. Through his binoculars, Mark focused on the two men in the police car. The one in the passenger seat was leaning out the side window, holding an AKS rifle, waiting to take a shot. When they reached the road, Orkhan tried to speed up. The flat tire ripped away from the rim. Sparks flashed from the wheel well, and the metal rim ground jarringly along the pavement.
Paralleling the road was a deep ditch. Mark gauged that, in about a hundred feet, when the van rounded a gentle corner, he and Orkhan would be out of sight of the police car for at least a few seconds.
“Slow down as soon as we round the bend. Just enough so that I’ll be able to jump out without killing myself.”
Mark climbed out of his seat and squatted on the floor behind Orkhan, next to the van’s cargo door. With his right hand he gripped his Makarov; with his left, the cargo door handle.
Orkhan looked skeptical. “And then what?”
“Then I deal with them.”
“You are not so young anymore, Sava! Perhaps you should stay with me in the van.”
“Screw it, I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
“Don’t. I’ll take care of them, and we’ll meet back in Nakhchivan City. Send a man to the Blue Mosque.” Mark wasn’t trying to be heroic. Splitting up would help confuse the enemy, and Mark would rather take his chances on foot, hiding in the hills and waiting for the right moment to slip back into Nakhchivan City. The alternative — rattling loudly along in an easily identified and barely functional van, out of ammo, and trying to fight off a Russian posse — was a lousy option. Orkhan, however, too fat and out of shape to handle running through badlands, had no choice. “If things go bad for me, call Ted Kaufman. Tell him what you told me. He may be able to help you.” Mark recited the number for Kaufman’s cell.
Orkhan recited the number back while looking around for a pen in the dash compartment.
As the van entered the curve, Orkhan slowed down. Mark yanked open the cargo door, took a quick look down the road to confirm that the men in the police car couldn’t see him, and jumped. He hit the road running, but his speed was still too fast for his legs to handle, so he wound up diving into a somersault roll. The instant he came out of the roll, he slammed into a large waist-high boulder on the side of the road, just above the ditch.
Crawling, he forced himself to move forward as he slowly caught his breath. His chest felt as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. His broken ribs were burning — he’d connected with the rock right around where they’d been hurting.
He’d planned to hide in the ditch beside the road, but the boulder was large enough to provide decent cover, so he hid behind it.
Seconds later, the police car appeared, roaring toward him at top speed. When it was within fifty feet, Mark ducked his head out from behind the rock. He forced himself to ignore the pain, took quick aim at the guy in the passenger seat, squeezed off three quick shots — one of which he thought might have hit home — then fired three more shots at the driver.
When the car barreled past him, it had already begun to swerve off the road. It hit the ditch, bounced high, then rolled.
Mark charged toward the car; along the way, he picked up the AKS assault rifle that had been thrown from it, confirmed that the magazine was full, tossed his Makarov into a ditch, flipped the safety on the AKS to automatic fire, unfolded the stock, and lifted the rifle to his shoulder.
He was having trouble breathing, which he attributed to being out of shape. Slow it down, he told himself. He felt light-headed. It was a struggle to suck in enough air.
The police car had landed upside down. Both men inside were lying on the ceiling, which was now the floor, of the car. Their bodies were immobile, and twisted into unnatural configurations. Mark approached the driver’s-side door and tried to take a few deep breaths to gather his strength, but it hurt his chest when he tried to breathe too deeply, so he took several shallow breaths and then smashed out the window with the butt of his rifle. He dragged the driver out onto the dirt, then fell to his knees.
What the hell is wrong with me? The sun was bright in Mark’s eyes. Don’t pass out. He took a second to gather his strength, then focused on the Russian.
Blood ran freely from the man’s left eye, temple, and mouth. He was lifeless, shot through the head. On a lanyard that hung from the Russian’s neck was a name tag that, in Russian and Turkish, read VICTOR PETROV, BIOLOGICAL RESEARCH InSTITUTE, ST. PETERSBURG UNIVERSITY and under that, in smaller print next to bird-themed logo, NATURE TOURS AND AVIARY EXPEDITIONS, KARS, TURKEY.
Mark coughed a bit, spit in the dirt, searched the driver, and extracted a black Grach pistol from a shoulder holster. He checked the clip — five bullets left — so he wedged it between his belt and the small of his back and then walked around to the other side of the car. He smashed out the passenger-side window and examined the second Russian. He detected a bullet wound to the chest — he’d been trying for a head shot and had evidently missed — but the guy appeared to be dead anyway. Mark searched him, finding an identical Grach. After removing the magazine, which he slipped into his front pocket, he tossed the pistol into the ditch that paralleled the road.
OK, Mark thought. You’re safe for the moment. Now concentrate.
He coughed again, then doubled over because of the pain in his chest. God, why was it so hard to breathe? He stood slowly and felt around his wounded ribs. Everything was hot; he thought maybe he was bleeding there, that maybe he’d been shot and just hadn’t noticed, but the fabric of his shirt was dry.
Assess the situation. You’re armed, but you’ve got angry Russians above you.
Mark glanced back toward the sanatorium. The roof was just visible. Could they see him? Had they watched the crash?