Yanking the handle, he fell out, chased by a thick pall of black smoke.
Outside.
He choked and gulped at the same time, his heart banging like crazy, oxygen surging into his blood.
He stumbled in the backyard, where the Land Rover was parked.
The Land Rover was his only asset.
Around him, the forest was menacing. Sokolov had no way of knowing how many shooters were hiding in the trees, or whether they had moved in to surround him. Who were his enemies, and what was their training?
If they had dispersed, a blasting gun could emerge right before him at any instant. But going out in the open would spell immediate death, as proved by the four corpses from the FSB.
He needed to create a distraction!
His keys were gone in the fire. The Defender was locked — but a set of keys was inside, he remembered.
The chance stimulated him.
Hurrying, Sokolov failed to notice the cut on his arm as he broke the glass, released the lock and opened the door. Just as he’d hoped, the keys were there. He snatched the keys — but did not start the car, fearing that a sudden engine noise would alert the killers early. He wanted to stall until the last moment.
Nestled far in the back of the Land Rover, a full canister of gasoline helped him create a weapon. He poured the sharp-smelling liquid around the interior generously, covering every surface. As he emptied the canister, he unlatched the removable driver’s seat, accessing the auxiliary gas tank. It had a capacity of 40 liters, complementing the main 80-liter tank of the fuel-hungry Defender. Sokolov unscrewed the cap off the top of the tank and replaced the seat.
He got behind the wheel and started the engine, which chugged to life with a half-turn of the ignition. From the glove box, where he kept emergency items, he took out a box of matches.
He shifted into first gear, releasing the clutch ever so slightly, until the heavy four-by-four rolled into motion.
Sokolov lit a match, throwing it on the rear passenger seat as he dove out.
Landing on the grass, he saw the Land Rover lumber away, the interior flickering with flames.
Clearing the side of the house, the burning Defender reached the lawn, a timed bomb that was aimed at the source of the gunfire. As the killers realized this, a staccato of shots came at the car, piercing the aluminum, hammering glass, going for the tires. The Land Rover swayed like a drunk, but held its course.
There was no stopping it.
The bursts of automatic gunshots ceased.
He saw them running into the forest, at least two men in jungle fatigues, their complexion dark, Asian.
The Land Rover slammed into the trees. By this time, the fire had burned through the thin cushion of the passenger seat, and attacked the open gas tank.
Exploding, the 120 liters of gasoline blew chunks of metal off the Defender’s frame, hitting a row of trees with the blast force of a napalm strike.
Stunned, standing there with his house and his car burning in front of him, Sokolov realized that the gunmen were Orientals. Who the hell were they? Why did they kill the FSB officers?
He could not let them escape. He had to chase them.
Sokolov slid into the woods.
12
The forest never brimmed with sunshine, muting it through its dense canopy, but now visibility was slashed to just a few meters, as a toxic mist drifted from the burning trees. The murky air could be either a foe or a friend. One misstep could lead to an injury. Treacherous roots covered the forest floor. A terrain of bumps and holes, covered with moss and wild grass, fallen braches, pine cones, and dead stumps, demanding calculation in every step. Sokolov was familiar with the forest of his childhood, but his enemies were not — and that made it twice as deadly for them. A cough forced by the smoke, a misplaced foot snapping a dry twig, grass rustling under body weight — all would betray them. Not only their location, but their numbers — which they themselves would not be sure of. The haze blinded them, and the possibility of exposure silenced them.
There was one advantage on their side that outweighed Sokolov’s knowledge of the territory: they were armed. For the enemy, disclosed position equaled loss of stealth; for Sokolov such a mistake would lead to loss of life.
His senses tuned to pick up the faintest scrape in the distance, so other sounds became exaggerated, like the thundering drum beat of his heart, fueled by adrenalin. This, in turn, heightened his sense of danger.
His bare soles stung as Sokolov moved across the ground, invisible like a wraith. He had to force them out, immediately. Divide and conquer.
Sokolov felt a large rock under his foot, grabbed it and hurled it into the thicket with all his might. It landed, hitting something hard with a thump.
Sokolov registered the unnatural sensation. The sound — or a sudden lack thereof. A gentle rustling sound which he had taken for a leaf rolling in the breeze had suddenly stopped. A man had been moving, and on instinct, startled by a threat that was the flying rock, he had halted.
In a few moments, the almost imperceptible pattern of sound resumed. That was it. Sokolov locked in his memory the source of the soft rustling, and its direction.
Sokolov crept — anxious, feeling an influx of strength. A human shape came into focus — a man’s back.
Sokolov was onto him like a raging demon — which he was, having escaped from burning hell.
Sokolov wrung his right arm around the man’s neck, the rigid side of his left hand slashing across the locked head, rendering him unconscious.
The man sagged in Sokolov’s arms and he set the shooter on the ground.
Another shooter sensed that something with his partner had gone terribly wrong.
“Hey!” a voice yelled. The partner made no reply.
Nervous shots railed through the mist, short bursts traveling in every direction, hopeful to ward off a lethal blow. That convinced Sokolov that there was only one of them left. There would be no shooting unless a man was suddenly alone, driven by fear, showing no concern for hitting teammates by friendly fire.
The volleys ended, and the sole shooter broke into a run. Motion caught the eye, and Sokolov spotted a silhouette moving rapidly, dodging trees. Running deeper inside the forest, the man escaped the hanging mist, out into clear air.
But his ankle snagged against a crooked root, and he tripped.
Sokolov covered the distance in two leaps, and pounced. His heel crushed the man’s wrist and kicked aside the automatic rifle; his knee plummeted down into the man’s ribs, Sokolov’s entire weight converging in a single point.
The Asian screamed something in his native tongue.
Sokolov forced him up and slammed him against a century-old pine.
He pulled out the Asian’s belt and used it to tie up his hands behind the tree trunk, in a manner that would aggravate the pressure in case of resistance. Then Sokolov searched him. The camouflage suit held spare ammo, a small encoded radio, a handgun, a lighter…
And three photographs.
Tiny, laminated prints.
Close-ups.
Eugene… Constantine…
And Asiyah Kasymova.
Sokolov jabbed the picture of his brother into the man’s face.
“Answers. Your life depends on them. Who are you, and who is this?”
“I received an order,” he replied in accented Russian. “To kill the man on the photograph. We were told he could come to you, or you could lead us to him.”
The arrival of the FSB men had interfered with those plans, Sokolov thought.
“Who gave you the order?”
The assassin shook his head in defiance.