Chapter 3

 

From his observation, Bwana knew the cabin had a bathroom at its rear, its frosted window visible from where he lay. The bathroom had a black drain pipe that vented into the ground. The pipe was worn and chipped and Bwana could see water flowing through it. A sign that the bathroom was in use.

Bwana rose swiftly, left behind his G28, brought out his Glock and ran to the cabin’s door. A second to assess any external threat. There was none. Another second to test the door. It didn’t creak. He skipped the single step, thrust the door open and rushed inside. Rifle ready. Eyes searching, sectioning the long room that he had entered.

The room doubled as a kitchen and living room. It was sparse of furniture. At the far end was the kitchen counter. A sink. A stove. An oil lamp, since the cabin didn’t have electricity. A few pots and pans. Gleaming knives.

A wooden table that had seen much use. Two benches on either side. An old rug on the wooden floor. A fireplace in which a log fire burned. Nothing else by way of ornamentation. The walls were bare. No pictures, no wall hangings.

The table was bare too, but for Gorshkin’s rifle.

 

 

Bwana slid to a corner of the room where the wooden timbers had blackened, providing him with a semblance of cover. He tamped down his chi, his life force, the way Zeb had taught all of them, and waited.

The wait wasn’t long. He heard the water stop running in the bathroom and a door open. Gorshkin entered the living room and went to the sink without spotting Bwana. He filled a pot with water and placed it on the stove. He reached for a jar and presently Bwana smelled a familiar odor. Coffee.

‘You’ll join me, won’t you?’ Gorshkin asked him without turning back. ‘You must be cold from all that waiting. Coffee will go down well.’

Gorshkin’s English was faultless even through his strong Russian accent. He pottered around the stove for a few more moments before facing Bwana.

‘They said you were big,’ he shook his head in admiration as he looked Bwana up and down. ‘They didn’t say just how large.’

‘You came to kill me?’

‘That depends,’ Bwana answered, moving forward carefully. Alert, prepared for any development.

‘Relax, tovarich. I am alone,’ Gorshkin smiled wolfishly. ‘You would already be dead, if I wanted you. I know all about you. I knew you were in the forest. I have a sixth sense.’

He might be speaking the truth. Zeb has such a radar. Some of the most dangerous people Bwana knew, had such an instinct.

‘My people told me about you the moment you killed that man in France,’ Gorshkin continued. ‘You broke his neck. I didn’t believe it at first. Breaking a neck is not as like Hollywood shows it. But after seeing you now…’ he trailed off and turned to the stove. He poured the steaming liquid in two mugs and thrust one at Bwana.

‘Take it. It’s not poisoned.’

Bwana switched his gun to his right hand and took the mug with his left.

‘Ach,’ Gorshkin clicked his tongue in irritation. ‘That’s not required. We will sit down. We will talk. Then we will see who lives.’

The Russian sat on his bench and raised his mug in a silent toast. ‘Six months you have been after me, haven’t you?’

‘Seven.’

‘Seven. That’s a long time. All the others, they gave up before that. Many of them I killed,’ Gorshkin smiled again. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. ‘You are American?’

Bwana nodded, letting the criminal speak.

‘You are from FBI?’

‘No.’

‘An American cop?’

‘No.’

Gorshkin put his mug down and leaned forward, puzzled. His right hand was inches from his rifle, but he didn’t glance at it. ‘Who sent you then?’

‘No one.’

‘You are hunting me on your own?’ Gorshkin goggled at him. ‘Why?’

‘I rescued some of your girls in Paris. It was then that I decided to come after you.’

Gorshkin stared at him in disbelief. ‘Just because you rescued them?’ He took a long sip, shook his head and mumbled, ‘Americans!’

‘I provide a service. People use my girls. Surely you have used women?’ Gorshkin’s brows came together, trying to figure out his visitor.

‘No.’

‘Americans,’ Gorshkin shook his head again. ‘You are strange. You think so grandly. Democracy. Freedom. Women’s rights. What use is all that when a belly needs to be filled and man has a need for women?’

‘Those were your girls?’ Bwana side-stepped Gorshkin’s desire for a philosophical debate. ‘The ones I saved.’

Gorshkin flung his hands in the air, ‘Who else’s? I am the only one who supplies girls in all of Europe,’ he admitted proudly. ‘If you experience one of my girls, you will forget all your fancy thinking.’

His eyes turned knowing, ‘You are recording this? That’s why you are quiet, letting me speak.’

‘Record,’ he waved a hand grandly. ‘It won’t be of use. You will die here. All we need to decide is how.’

‘You are so sure of killing me?’

‘Da,’ Gorshkin nodded. ‘You think you are smart, brave. You Americans think you are bulletproof. You never met Gorshkin before.’

Thinks a lot of himself. Bwana didn’t let any emotion show on his face, but he was wary. There’s a reason why he’s confident. What could it be? He’s alone here. He doesn’t have backup. I could down him easily. Those men?

‘Who were those men?’

‘That should have been your first question, American,’ Gorshkin chortled. ‘They are my messengers. If you captured them, you could bring down my gang. No one suspects them, though. They look like miners, don’t they?’

Bwana stiffened when Gorshkin rose, but the Russian merely filled more water in the pot and set it to boil.

‘Where are you from?’ He asked Bwana curiously when he had seated himself again.

‘America.’

‘Ach,’ he grimaced. ‘I know that. Where are you really from? Where did your father or grandfather come from?’

‘Congo. My father came from the African Congo,’ Bwana answered reluctantly.

Gorshkin’s reaction surprised him. The Russian’s eyes narrowed and all mirth left his face. He scrutinized Bwana carefully for several minutes before speaking, ‘The Congo is a big place, tovarich. Where exactly in the Congo?’

‘Why?’

‘It’s not a coincidence, is it?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Bwana asked, puzzled.

‘No matter. It’s time. For you to die.’

A step creaked behind Bwana.

He flung himself to the side. Just in time, as a round embedded itself in the table, where he had been sitting seconds earlier. He landed on his back, turned frantically to have both the door and Gorshkin in his vision.

His Glock rose automatically.

Trigger break. One of the shadows in the doorway dropped his weapon.

Bwana fired again. Conscious of Gorshkin moving.

His left hand moved, seeking for some weapon. Anything. It found a broom, one of those with a long wooden handle.

He grasped it and flung it at Gorshkin. Simultaneously firing at the second figure in the door.

A round hit him like a sledge hammer. His breath left him in a gasp. He kept firing however, executing a near-flawless rapid mag change that his friends would have been proud of.

No time to think of that. Fire into body mass. Keep at it till both hostiles fall.

The first hostile dropped. No cover. Can get hit. So what? He slithered back. Another mag change. Another round hit him. He felt like he had been pole-axed.

But his vision was good. His gun hand was steady and when the second hostile dropped, Bwana whirled towards Gorshkin.

He dove for the second time as the old man’s rifle came up and blasted air.

Bwana fired. Caught Gorshkin in the shoulder. The Russian lost his gun. He was roaring in rage and pain, swearing, the words incomprehensible to Bwana.

Gorshkin reached back and flung the pot at Bwana, who rolled away, but not fast enough as drops of hot water scalded his cheek. Bwana flinched momentarily, and that was the opening Gorshkin needed.

He threw a kitchen knife at Bwana, who ducked, and that saved him. The blade buried deep in his shoulder instead of his heart.

Ignore. Compartmentalize.

He fired again. Missed, when Gorshkin upturned the table and used it as a shield.

Bwana fired again. No luck. The table was several inches thick and stopped his rounds. Gorshkin shoved the table at him, its wooden side sliding smoothly on the floor.

Bwana divined what Gorshkin was trying to do. He wants to crush me against the wall. My Glock’s of no use against the table. He probably has his rifle with him.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind, than Gorshkin’s hand appeared over the table. Clutching his rifle. Firing blindly. Rounds peppering the floor in front of Bwana. Table just a couple of feet away from him. Approaching fast.

Only one thing to do.

Bwana rose, even as the rounds thudded a few inches away. Left leg and left arm against the wall to provide leverage. Right leg providing lift off.

He rose in the air, body straightening, becoming horizontal, sailing in the air, over the table.

Glock following his eyes. His eyes finding Gorshkin behind the table. The Russian looking up in surprise. His eyes widening when they saw Bwana’s Glock.

Trigger break.

And Gorshkin was no more.