“Put your weapons down,” Asiyah ordered in Kazakh, advancing.
Fazed, the leader hesitated. A vein throbbed on his tattooed neck. Fully aware of Asiyah’s identity, he struggled to cope with the complication. If they harmed the daughter of his President, death would be the easiest punishment dealt to him. The only solution lay in shifting the responsibility off his shoulders to someone higher in rank who could bring her in.
Yelling at the top of his lungs, the Batyr leader sounded the alarm.
The call for support barely escaped his throat.
In a smooth motion, Asiyah fired the handgun, feeling her wrist absorb the recoil. The bullet went through the teen’s skull, cutting short his cry, and his limp body crashed to the ground.
She held the gun at the whiskered boy. He dropped the AK and froze like a statue.
“All you have to do is show me the way inside the bunker,” she said.
The youths cowered, nodding their willingness to cooperate. They now knew Asiyah was not going to ask questions twice.
The whiskered boy opened his mouth to explain the directions, stopping abruptly.
Pain erupted in her right shoulder. From behind, an arm locked around the joint and yanked it back. The pressure was unbearable. Her fingers released the gun. She gasped, but a vise choked her, squeezing her windpipe as the attacker pressed her body to him.
“There you are, princess,” Oleg Radchuk whispered in her ear. His breath and his skin reeked. “We’ve been missing you.”
He held the blade of a hunting knife against her cheek. The razor-sharp serrations of the knife’s edge punctured the tender skin. Blood seeped. She was too frightened to breathe. The slightest motion would prompt Radchuk to draw the blade across her face, disfiguring her with a scar.
“Ah, we don’t want to tarnish that pretty face too much, do we? Daddy won’t be happy about that. Better let him decide what to do with you.”
He shoved her down to the ground and pinned her with his boot. She felt unable to resist.
“Tie her up and bring her where she wanted to be,” Radchuk told the child soldiers. “And then get that son of a bitch lying here out of my sight. Bury your worthless friend next to the chimps.”
12
Sokolov heard the report of the handgun and sprinted towards the source of the sound at the farther end of Kantubek.
Asiyah. She had to be there!
Before he could cover a few meters, a rifle cracked, and the force of a sledgehammer pummeled his stomach. He fell flat on his back in the middle of the avenue, the wind knocked out of him.
It took him a moment to realize he had been shot.
Despite the agonizing blow, the polymer armor had saved his life after all. He eyed his vest, identifying a depression that matched the source of the pain. The slug had deflected off a trusty old titanium plate, but the effect hurt so much that Sokolov was hardly in a mood to celebrate.
Stunned, he began to pick himself up. But no sooner had he recovered than a dozen-strong swarm of Batyr soldiers converged on him.
He picked up his AK-104 but before he could level it, the first few soldiers that were onto him knocked it out of his grip.
Crowding him, they landed an avalanche of blows. Feet and rifle butts struck all over his body. All he could do was curl up, shield his face with his arms and let his armor and helmet take the brunt of the onslaught. He avoided the temptation of kicking out at them — it would only open him up to a sucker punch to the groin. And they could shoot him at any time. The hits came down with such intensity that he didn’t have a breather. But they would wear out soon at this rate. As long he soaked up the pain, he had a chance to get out.
The problem was, they were not tiring. And simply battering him was no longer enough. With irate cries that reached a fever pitch, they were clawing at him. His helmet torn off, his handgun snatched from his side, they went for his uniform, trying to rip out a piece of fabric or yank off the bulletproof vest. Someone spat at him.
As far as Sokolov could predict, stoning would ensue.
“Enough! Back off!” a man bellowed.
The voice carried such authority that the mob instantly paused their lynching.
“I have a better use of this swine. Take him to the field.”
Sokolov’s curiosity made him glance up at his perverse benefactor.
Not the tallest of men, he still possessed an intimidating presence. Black-bearded, eyes burning wildly, he packed physique under the fatigues of a Batyr commander.
Sokolov remembered him from the photos. Ahmed Sadaev, the former Chechen guerrilla.
Quickly reminding him that his ordeal was far from being over, the Batyr mob picked him up. They half-dragged, half-carried him somewhere along the dusty streets and then threw him unceremoniously on the ground.
Getting up, Sokolov realized with dismay where he was.
The ground underneath him was flat and barren, only bits of debris and litter scattered about. Tillers of yellow desert grass carpeted the surface in lieu of a green lawn.
The goal posts and the spectators’ stands had long since decomposed to metal framework.
It was the football pitch, whatever was left of it.
The child soldiers surrounded him, forming a wide circle. As they jeered at him, two men entered the pitch. Ahmed Sadaev, accompanied by a tall Slav stripped to the waist to demonstrate sweat-slicked muscles, his blond hair tied in a ponytail. It was Radchuk.
Sadaev and Radchuk entered the improvised arena. Radchuk toyed with a hunting knife, flipping it in his hand. The Chechen unsheathed his own weapon, and gestured at Sokolov with the long, jagged blade. This time the crowd cheered. Radchuk had a smug grin on his face. They were going to play with him until he bled out like a lamb.
Sokolov braced himself for the mismatched fight.
Ahmed Sadaev lunged at him. Sokolov sprang back, the blade slicing the air. The Chechen swung his knife again and instantly followed up with a kick that Sokolov parried, smashing the instep of his foot into Sadaev’s side. Sokolov thought he’d put enough power in the roundhouse to topple an ox, but Ahmed only staggered, his fist already flying. The blow glanced off Sokolov’s head. The hit would have fractured his skull had it connected properly. Pegged back, Sokolov was wary of the Batyr soldiers limiting his space from behind, ready to shoot.
Radchuk approached slowly, amused that the victim resisted. Holding the knife in a reverse grip, Radchuk took a swipe. Sokolov repelled it with a fierce strike of his forearm to Radchuk’s wrist, opening him up for a counter. An elbow across his jaw and a kick to the ribs pushed Radchuk away, but not before Radchuk thrust out reflexively, stabbing Sokolov in the heart.
Radchuk bolted back, retreating.
“He has his vest on. You’re a cheat, Ahmed, I scored a good kill!” said Radchuk angrily, gritting his teeth in pain.
“Don’t be a sore loser,” Sadaev replied. “You won’t beat me.”
It wasn’t just a game, it was a contest between them.
Sokolov knew his odds of survival were getting slimmer by the second. Twice already he’d barely held them off. He was still alive only because the ritual was dragging on in its prelude. Once Kasymov’s thugs got down to business, they would end it all very quickly. A single flick of a blade would be enough to sever an artery and kill him. Unprotected, his limbs were extremely vulnerable. Real knife fights were rapid and ugly, especially for an unarmed and outnumbered victim. Knocking the knife from Radchuk’s grasp could have made a difference, but he had no time to rue the lost opportunity. Sokolov focused solely on the two attackers facing him.