I looked back at the trees and saw the Russian commander run to the edge of the forest. I couldn’t make out his face in the shadows, but I suspected he wasn’t smiling anymore.
The Pakistani border guards were shouting furiously.
“Don’t shoot!” I yelled in reply. “We’re Americans. We pose no threat. We need your help.”
Chapter 64
The border patrol officers who staffed the station had taken our weapons. Their commanding officer, a Major Azar Khan, spoke excellent English and told us we were to be held until he had contacted his superiors. Floyd and I were taken to a holding room in the largest of the three buildings at the post. There was one structure on the Afghan side, but it was unmanned and looked abandoned.
The building we were in was constructed from whitewashed cinder blocks and contained six rooms: an office, a staff room, a bunk room, kitchen, toilet, and a holding room. Located at the back of the building, it wasn’t a cell, but it wasn’t far off. A trio of double bunks lined the windowless interior walls and a small electric heater struggled against the cold.
Floyd and I sat on bunks near the heater, trying to absorb as much of its pathetic warmth as possible. We’d attempted to persuade Major Khan to give us access to a phone, but the Pakistani commander refused. He was very aware of how easily two American strays hunted by Russian paramilitaries could quickly escalate into a huge diplomatic incident if everything wasn’t done by the book.
“How long do you think we’ll be stuck here?” Floyd asked.
I shrugged. I knew how slowly the wheels of bureaucracy could move. I was desperate to get to a phone so I could let Justine know I was still alive, and I had no doubt Floyd was itching to talk to Beth.
I heard raised voices beyond the locked door, and then footsteps. A key went into the lock and the door opened to reveal Major Khan. His gray-flecked moustache drooped with disappointment. There was an overwhelming air of apology about him.
“Are we done?” I asked.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “There was—”
He was pushed aside by the familiar figure of the Russian commander. He had a blond crew cut and stood about six-three, looming over the Pakistani officer, who shrank against the wall of the holding room.
“My name is Nikita Kolokov,” the Russian said. “You are now my prisoners. You will come with us.”
Two of his subordinates moved into the corridor behind him and he barked a command at them in Russian. I didn’t need to speak the language to understand the order: I was to be killed.
Chapter 65
“I am very sorry,” Major Khan offered. “There are too many of them for us.”
“And we pay well,” Kolokov added.
Major Khan flushed with shame and cast his eyes to the floor. I didn’t care about the motives for his betrayal of us. My only concern was getting out of there alive.
“Come,” Kolokov instructed, gesturing at Floyd. “Our chopper is ready to take you for processing.”
Floyd didn’t respond, so the commander stepped forward. I seized my chance. I grabbed Khan’s pistol, popped it free of its holster restraint, drove my elbow into the shocked Major’s face and opened fire on the two Russians in the corridor. My aim was true and both men dropped like stones. Floyd moved quickly as Kolokov raised his submachine gun at me. He grabbed the Russian commander by the neck and drove his head into the whitewashed wall, stunning him. I fired twice, hitting Kolokov in the chest. He clutched at the wounds, which had started to bleed into his gray and white uniform. He dropped to his knees and his eyes went blank before he fell face forward onto the floor.
“Get his gun,” I said. Floyd took the Vityaz-SN submachine gun from the dead man.
I discarded the Major’s pistol and picked up a Vityaz and two magazines from one of the men I’d shot in the corridor. We moved toward an interior door that led to the open-plan office at the front of the building. The cheap pine door had no window, so we couldn’t see what was happening beyond it, but I could hear movement and someone shouted a command.
The door opened and the Russian who appeared looked more surprised to see us than we were to see him. Floyd fired a burst that hit the man in the stomach. He staggered back, mortally wounded. Beyond him, I saw half a dozen Pakistani border officers gathered against the wall of the office. I couldn’t see who was holding these men captive since they were concealed behind the door.
I heard shouts and signaled to Floyd to go low. He ran ahead of me in a crouch and I followed at head height. As we burst through the doorway, I saw three men in snow camouflage swinging their weapons toward us. Floyd picked off two and I shot the third before any of them had the chance to pull the trigger.
The Pakistani guards were relieved. One started talking hurriedly, but we didn’t have time to listen. We rushed through the office toward the front door.
There was a rattle of gunfire. Glass shattered and a hail of bullets thudded into the desk next to me. I looked to my right and saw a man shooting through the window. I fired back and he ducked out of sight.
Floyd and I ran to the front door, splitting to stand flush against the wall either side of it. A volley of bullets burst through the wood. Floyd indicated the window to the right and crept toward it as I grabbed the door handle. He stood beside the window and signaled he was ready. I opened the door. Gunfire started immediately. As bullets peppered the far wall, the border officers ducked for cover behind their desks. I waited for the gunfire to stop before I stepped out. A man who stood some twenty yards away was reloading. I opened fire and he went down. I stepped forward and sensed movement to my right as another camouflaged Russian rounded the corner of the building with his gun trained on me.
Chapter 66
A shot rang out and the man aiming at me was suddenly spun round and fell face down into the snow. Floyd had shot him through the window, saving me from certain death. I heard yelling from the treeline. The rest of the Russian unit came running toward the building. I glanced to my right and saw some vehicles parked a short distance away. I ducked back inside.
“Who drives the truck?” I asked the border officers, miming turning a steering wheel.
The youngest of the group, a baby-faced guy in his early twenties, raised his hand.
“Let’s go,” I said, gesturing with the submachine gun.
He hesitated.
“Do you want to wait here until the Russians arrive?” I asked.
He shook his head and joined me by the door. Floyd led the way and we ran outside to be greeted by a hail of bullets. The Russians were aiming closer than they had been previously, perhaps because they were more desperate, or maybe because their commander wasn’t there to rein them in. My heart was pumping adrenalin at a furious rate as we ran from the building toward a small parking area where a trio of vehicles were parked: an old Volkswagen, a Lada, and a Mercedes truck that had been converted into a personnel carrier. Bullets chewed the snow at our heels, but we made it to the truck and took cover behind it.
Our driver used a fob to open the cab and we all climbed in. He started the engine and we sped away as the Russian paramilitaries reached the border patrol station. The tailgate rattled as it was hit by bullets, and the rear window of the cab shattered, sending glass everywhere. But the engine roared and we were soon out of range of the shooters.
Floyd slumped in his seat and gave a sigh of relief.
“Pull over,” I said to the driver, when I was sure a bend in the road concealed us from the paramilitaries.