Impossible, but Kat knew it to be true.
Monk
He's alive.
10:20 A. M.
Southern Ural Mountains
The American should be dead.
Borsakov cursed his missed shot. He lay flat in the shadow of a mining shack.
The rifle stretched out in front of him, his cheek resting against the stock of his weapon.
He had not expected the sudden bolt of his targets straight back toward him. It had required repositioning and firing before being fully set. Plus he suspected his sights were incrementally out of alignment after the abuse in the swamp. He had not been able to test-fire the weapon and calibrate its sights. The shots would have warned the targets of his approach.
Still, he had them all pinned down.
Two children and the chimpanzee hid in the brick building. The American and the boy behind the truck. Borsakov slid backward, keeping to the grasses. All he had to do was cross the street, and he'd have the American within his sight line again.
This time he would not miss.
He moved stealthily and low across the road, keeping to shadows for as long as possible. He reached the far side and crouched behind an overturned barrel. He leaned out, ready with his rifle.
Down the street, he had a clear view behind the truck now.
Borsakov's fingers clenched on his rifle in fury and confusion.
No one was there.
The American and the boy had vanished.
Pyotr huddled inside the truck, curled in the footwell. Monk had lifted him and shoved him through the half-open window, then disappeared between the two buildings behind the truck. Before he left, he had motioned Pyotr to remain low and duck far into the space in front of the seat. Leaves and beetles shared his hiding place. He clutched his arms around his knees.
Somewhere in the dark places in his mind, where he feared to look, he remembered hiding like this: cramped, breathless, hunted. Another life. Not his. Stone had encased him then, rather than rusty steel.
Hovering between then and now, he felt the pinpricks of lights out in the darkness. Stars in the night sky. If he stared long enough, they would grow brighter, falling toward him. But the night sky had always scared him. So he shied away, back to the moment.
As he did so, a hunger filled him. But like the memory before, this appetite did not belong to him. Close by, a large heart thundered, swallowing Pyotr's feeble beat. Strange odors swelled through his senses: wet grass, the whispers of hot blood in the air, the feel of gravel underfoot. A breath drew heavily, much larger than his own small chest. The scent of the hunt fired through him.
Then another musk came with it.
A new scent.
Another hunter in their midsts.
But this scent carried more than pungent odor.
Memory of searing agony came with it.
Spine prickling, fury burned away hunger.
As Pyotr huddled tighter, that large heart stalked forward, padding toward him.
Monk fled along the rear of the roadside buildings and headed toward the lower half of the street. His back and chest burned, scratched and impaled by splinters from the narrow squeeze between the two clapboard shops. He had secured Pyotr in the truck, safe from the tiger for the moment but not from the sniper. His first priority was to lure the soldier away from the children, to get him chasing after Monk into the mix of buildings below.
Survival and outwitting the soldier would have to follow that.
Monk ran low. He stuck close to the buildings and avoided piles of dry leaves and foundation gravel. He moved silently until he reached where the lower switchback cut downward. Rounding the last building, he edged back to the main street. Had he gone far enough?
Holding his breath, he peeked around the corner and scanned up the street. He spotted the brickwork of the general store, the rusted truck, and the roadway of weeds and high grass. Nothing moved. A breeze flowed down the mountain and feathered the tips of the grass blades.
But there was no sign of the sniper.
He had to be out there, possibly sneaking up on the children. Monk could not risk a hostage situation if the sniper grabbed one of the kids. Monk bunched his legs under him. He had to dash across the street and down to the lower level of the ramshackle town. The crunch of gravel would make plenty of noise.
But he had to be convincing to draw off the soldier.
Taking a deep breath, Monk burst out of hiding and pounded across the gravel.
Run! he yelled and waved an arm to imaginary children. Just keep running!
Let the sniper think that all the children were with
crack
Fire impaled Monk's thigh. His left leg went out from under him.
He landed hard, his arms out to protect him. Gravel tore skin from his palm and stumped wrist. He let momentum roll him farther down the street. A second rifle blast ripped through the grass over his head with a sharp whistle.
Monk dropped flat, but he spied through the grass and saw the soldier rise. He had been hiding farther up the street, about halfway toward the brick store.
Rifle on his shoulder, he sidled straight at Monk.
The soldier had anticipated his adversary circling to the rear. He had hidden in wait, ready to ambush.
But the soldier wasn't the only one hunting.
Fifty yards up the street, a parted V of grass swept straight toward the soldier, like a torpedo through water.
Borsakov kept his face stoic, but a dark satisfaction rang through him. He had the man down, immobile, defenseless. He would end this here, make the American pay for the deaths of his comrades on the boat, make him suffer: a bullet through the kneecap, perhaps another through his shoulder.
As Borsakov took another step, a shift of gravel sounded behind him, a whisper of grass blades, rushing like the wind.
Not the wind.
He knew.
Borsakov twisted around. He started firing before he'd even secured his stance.
He squeezed hard, rifle chugging with automatic fire in a wide swath. A feral scream of rage ripped through the blasts as Zakhar burst out of the grass and leaped straight at him: legs wide, black claws bared, muzzle curled back from curved yellow fangs.
Borsakov fired and fired. Blood burst in sprays from the striped fur but he knew there was no stopping the monster.
It was fury and pain, revenge and hunger, lust and determination.
In the face of such horror, a scream burst from Borsakov's throat, guttural and raw, a primal cry of terror.
Then the tiger landed and pounded him to the ground.
Monk shifted higher, watching the tiger savage the soldier's body. It reminded him of the bear ripping into the massive wolves yesterday. Monk heard the moist crack of bone, and the man's scream cut off. The soldier's body was shaken like a rag doll, gripped by the neck, blood fountaining.
Monk had seen enough and bounded straight at the tiger, his left leg on fire, dripping with blood.
The soldier's weapon had been flung from his body as he was smashed under the eight hundred pounds of feral muscle and claw. The rifle landed halfway between the tiger and Monk. They would not survive this monster without it.
A growl spat toward him.
Zakhar's eyes fixed on Monk. In that black regard, Monk knew the cat recognized him, the murderer of his brother. The tiger crouched atop the broken Russian's body, muscles rippling, hackles high, fur sticking straight out in all directions. Blood flowed across the tiger's chest and flanks, blurring stripes.
The cat survived on pure fury.
Reaching the weapon, Monk slid on his knees and scooped up the rifle.
One-handed, Monk struggled with the weapon, tangling with its strap and fumbling to bring it up and find the trigger.
He would never make it in time.
Zakhar's rear legs bunched for the kill