The Russian’s bullet tore into Jon’s right thigh, ripping his pants and spraying blood from the gory hole in his skin, and sent him into the dirt. His vision went blurry from the pain, fire burning in a straight line through his leg. Still, he tried to focus, scrambling to raise his gun and cover the two fallen Russians with the Glock in case one of them wanted to be persistent, but neither man was moving.
“Jon!” He heard Kyra’s voice.
“Keep going,” Jon said. The pain in his leg was sharp and burning even hotter now. The femur was broken, he could tell that much. If the bullet had struck the deep femoral artery or the great saphenous vein, he would bleed out right there in the dirt maybe before the other Russians could reach him and their comrades. “Get to the truck.”
He looked at the Glock. The pistol’s slide had locked open on an empty clip. He didn’t know whether Kyra had another clip in her bag or not.
“No! You’re—”
He couldn’t see Kyra. She was on the other side of the concrete wall. His voice sounded weaker to his own ears now. He was going into shock. He fought it. There were two more pistols on the ground ahead of him. Jon dropped the useless Glock and tried to stand and his leg collapsed under him. He started to crawl through the dirt toward the closer weapon. “Get moving. You have to go.”
“No!” Kyra yelled at him. She’d seen his head go down behind the wall, hadn’t seen it come back up. The Russians behind her were getting closer. She could hear their shouts. If she ran back a few feet, she could sprint up the wall as Jon had and get to the other side. But he was wounded… she could tell that much from his shaky voice. He’d been shot, but where she didn’t know. She couldn’t help him walk and handle the Glock at the same time… and the pain of whatever wound Jon had sustained would wreck his aim. In a few moments, he might not even be conscious.
It didn’t matter. She backed up a few feet to get her running start—
— something arced over the fence and landed in the dirt, skidding toward her. Kyra looked down.
It was a pistol… not the Glock. A Makarov.
Jon had taken out the soldiers on the other side of the wall.
Kyra picked up the Russian firearm. I’m coming, Jon—
She heard another sound, more feet in the dirt on the other side of the wall. The Spetsnaz soldiers had heard the gunshots from the road and jumped over. There was more shooting from Jon’s position. A different sound from the Glock. Jon had shot two men, which meant there had been two Makarovs. Jon had thrown her one and gotten to the other. The Russians fifty yards behind her on the other side of the wall returned fire. She couldn’t see what was happening.
“Go!” Jon said from the other side of the wall. His voice was hoarse now, weak.
Kyra ran to the wall, jumped, and tried to pull herself over with her one empty hand. A bullet hit the stone, sending small shards into her cheek, and Kyra’s reflexes forced her to let go. She fell into the dirt behind the wall, landing hard on her side.
“Jon!” she yelled.
He didn’t answer and she heard no more firing from his position. More shouts in Russian came from the road, closer now. She couldn’t make it over the wall. The Spetsnaz would reach Jon in seconds and they would kill her if she came over the wall, Makarov in hand.
Her training finally took over, crushing her emotions and forcing her to move, her legs refusing her order to stop, instead determined to carry her to safety.
I’m sorry, Jon.
Kyra ran. It was what he wanted her to do, and she hated him for it.
She heard the Russians’ voices grow quieter as she moved farther away. There were no sounds of men crashing through the woods behind her now, no sign they were trying to flank her on the road, no more gunshots. Perhaps the Russian soldiers had contented themselves with capturing one American… or had they killed him? Kyra’s mind rebelled at the thought, trying to force God or the universe to keep it from being true.
Her legs kept moving of their own accord, her body flying over and around the obstacles in her path without the help of her mind, which was still focused on the place behind her where her friend was lying.
She reached the end of the wood line, where the concrete road turned at a right angle to the east. Kyra ran up the wall, pulled herself over, and landed on her feet in the grass on the other side. The truck was down the road another half mile. Her lungs were wheezing, her legs weak rubber. Don’t stop. She heard the order in her head but didn’t know from where it came… certainly not her own conscious mind.
Kyra looked around the corner of the concrete wall back up the road. The sun was behind the trees now, and the shadows had melted into each other. The light would be gone in minutes. She could see no more than an eighth of a mile down the road and there was no one in sight. No yells, no shouts. Kyra pushed herself onto her feet and ran as hard as the adrenaline allowed.
She saw the truck after another three minutes of running, and she didn’t stop until she was standing by it. She fumbled for the keys, almost dropped them. Her hands were shaking harder than she could ever remember. She got the door open, threw her pack and the Makarov onto the passenger seat, then managed to push the key into the ignition. She locked her shoulder belt and fired up the engine.
Kyra sat in the seat, hands on the wheel, and looked up the road. Jon was up there, somewhere, dead or alive she didn’t know. She thought for a moment that she might go after him, drive the truck at full speed, and run over anyone in her way.
Perhaps she could drive back up the road. She wanted to hunt the Spetsnaz, shoot them or run them over. Then she could help Jon crawl into the truck. The nearby village surely had some kind of medical facility, a first-aid kit if nothing else—
Fool, the thought came. Idiot. The Russian men on the road were trained Special Forces soldiers. They outgunned her, and they could simply jump back over the wall if she tried to run them over… no, she wouldn’t even get that close. She’d have to turn the headlights on, to keep from running Jon over on the off chance he was still alive and lying in the road. The Russians would see her coming long before she would see them. One shot into the truck cab and she would be finished.
Jon had taken out two only because he’d managed to gain the element of surprise. In the dark, she would have no chance against them… and Jon wouldn’t have wanted her to try.
Kyra put the truck into gear and U-turned it across the road. She made her way back to the Zehdenicker Strasse road, driving on autopilot, paying no attention to her surroundings. There were no headlights behind her. Her training forced her to notice that much. She turned south onto the highway and continued through the village until she passed the solar farm. Then she found a side road, pulled off, and drove into some farmer’s field, where the truck would be hidden from traffic by more thick woods. Then she stopped, killed the engine, and unbuckled her belt.
She stared into space at nothing, then got out of the vehicle. Kyra walked three steps before falling forward into the grass. Her body started to convulse and she lost her lunch, spewing bile onto the ground until there was nothing left but dry heaves.
Then Kyra fell onto her side, curled up, and cried harder than she ever had, great racking sobs that left her shuddering on the ground, until she had no strength left to move at all.