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 Creole. They would pay.
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 promyshlennik could outsmart an Indian any day of the week and twice on Sunday. His confidence returned and he moved forward with a touch more caution. Stone pillars blocked some of his view of the group.
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 spent. He edged through the open door of a cell and flattened against the wall.
They streamed past with no thought other than getting to their wounded comrade. Bear saw Valari as he slipped out behind them. The door creaked as he pushed it open.
Heart-stopping cold swirled around him. St. Anthony Redoubt lay over a hundred kilometers to the southeast. The colonel mentioned an armored column but Bear hadn’t paid attention, his thoughts centering on Chena at the time.
He pulled his parka hood up and thanked the woods spirits the Indian hadn’t cut the buttons off his coat. He hurried into the dark forest to search for his skis.
46
Wing and Karin worked frantically on Nik, trying to staunch the flow of blood. They contained the arm wound, but the chest wound continued to seep. The bubbles around the edges weren’t a good sign, either.
Wing stared at his face and found him staring back at her.
“Not gonna make it, am I?”
“Nik,” she said softly, not wanting to admit even to herself that he was in a bad way.
“’S okay, think I’ll catch up with Cora.” He coughed. She wiped his mouth with her hand and found dark blood mixed with the sputum.
“I thought I hit the bastard!” Grisha said, searching the area with the second lantern. “It was Crepov—I saw him drop.”
“We have to get out of here,” Nathan said. “Can he be carried?”
“How cold is it outside?” she asked.
“About forty below.”
“Why can’t we just stay in here?”
“Whoever shot Nik knows about the back door, Wing,” Nathan said tiredly. “They’ll be back with Russian troops sooner or later.”
“Nathan,” Grisha said from the darkness, “why don’t we post guards and rest for a while. The Russians hit us with planes, not ground troops. Even if they do roll in soon, things have to be crazy up there. They won’t search the ruins until they get reinforcements.”
“Thank you, Grisha,” Wing thought.
“Okay,” Nathan answered. “You take charge of the guard and I’ll get everyone in here sorted out. By the way, Wing, when you have a minute, I think my arm is broken.”
“Let me see.” She sat back and looked up at him.
“No, you take care of Nik.”
“Nothin’… she can do, for me.” Nik said. “Let ’er… fix it.”
Wing knew Nik was right, but she didn’t say anything. “Let me see your arm.”