| |
MILA
Her tracks are long gone, lost in the deluge of snow. For a kilometer we’ve walked on anyway, hoping she didn’t deviate from Oksana’s instructions—find the Road of Death to the southeast; bear right at every fork. Up to the point where the teen’s tracks became too filled-in to follow, she had done just that.
Damnation, it’s cold. The landscape is smothered in fresh powder, deep and crystelline. I hug my arms against my body. So focused on catching up to her before she got too far, I’d forgotten to put on enough layers. Movement means warmth. Keep moving, Mila.
How did I miss she was so on edge? Husniya told Jape at the door she was running out on an errand. When we asked him about it, he told us she’d been fully geared up. Unbelievable, the nerve on that girl. What does she think she’s going to do alone against a troop of Kapka’s men, other than get herself killed—or worse—captured?
“Why couldn’t she wait, for once?” I mutter, concern twisting with anger in my gut.
“If she overheard our conversation, she knew where it was going. You did too, I think,” Ghofaun replies. “You never told her you’d seen Faruq once before and were unable to rescue him?”
“No, I didn’t. And now to top it all off she’s found out anyway, gone off on her own, and forced us to defy Bilgi’s direct orders. The old man will have my head for this.”
“All the more reason our mission must be a success,” Ghofaun says.
Another kilometer disappears beneath our boots as we follow the desolate road that seems to lead nowhere. The Road of Death; the name is appropriate. We could lie down and be covered by the ever-falling snows, our bodies sinking into the eternal drifts, and there we’d remain, forgotten forever.
Ahead another fork in the winding path.
How many splits is this now? Five? Six? “Ghofaun, I don’t think we’re gonna find—”
“Mila.” The monk grabs my jacket sleeve. “Look.”
Beyond the gloom of gray and floating precipitation, a glow emanates from beyond the bend. Without a word, Ghofaun and I slink from the road, hiding in the frozen landscape. Out here, away from the decaying urban backdrop, my black leather jacket isn’t doing me any favors in the way of concealment. Maybe if I needed to I could crouch down and look like a rock. Yeah, right, Mila. Let’s not try that.
Between the sparse, dead shrubbery, we skulk. A combination of low crawling and low running across danger areas keeps us out of sight. Ghofaun slides like a wraith from one point of concealment to another, visible yet invisible, a specter in human form. I feel clumsy in comparison.
On either side of the road we wait, watching Kapka’s sentries at the forward barricade as they laugh over some vulgarity. A nod from Ghofaun and we move as one. My left arm snakes around the neck of the closer man, my right foot pressing flat on the back of his knee, buckling his legs. A muffled groan is all that escapes him as I twist the man to the ground and lock my arms down. A moment of vise-like pressure and he gurgles, his eyes rolling back, his body slumping to deadweight in my arms.
“Goodnight.” I release him, and his head thumps against the icy road.
The monk is standing over his felled guard, like he’s been waiting on me to finish. “Whenever you’re ready,” he says, just above a whisper.
I grab the Draganov autoloading rifle from the ground where the sentry dropped it. Might come in handy. Missing its scope, the long rifle has iron-sights only, but otherwise, it’s in great shape. Never shot one of these, but thankfully the action appears similar to the Kalashnikov. Tabbing the magazine free, it’s packed full of gleaming brass. What are the odds? Kapka must have found a sealed ammo cache. I pilfer two more loaded ten-round mags from the felled guard and shove them into the pockets of my jacket.
Leaving the men where they lay, we advance on our hands and knees to the perimeter of the encampment. Lying prone with Ghofaun on my left, I take in the visible assets and movements of the enemy camp.
“Damnation,” I say under my breath.
Inside the perimeter of eight-foot-long wooden stakes jutting from the snow at angles designed to maim, there’s easily twenty-five fighters. At least half are armed with some sort of old-world firearm. And that’s only what we can see. There’s probably another ten who will come running as soon as the action kicks off.
Where the hell is she? “Can you see Husniya?”
Ghofaun shakes his head. “No. But the girl is as vulpine a creature as I’ve seen. She’s more than capable of remaining undetected. It’s her judgment I’m worried about.”
“You can say that again.” What are you planning, Husniya?
The larger tent must be Kapka’s personal quarters. Of course, the tyrant of Baqir won’t still be here. What reason would he have to remain? Yet, the tent looks occupied, complete with a small fire inside its heavy canvas walls. A shiver crawls up my spine at the thought of facing off with that maniac again.
“If Faruq was here, where would they keep him? Any thoughts?” I ask.
“Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe in the back near where that low awning is. Are those cages?” Ghofaun says.
“I can’t tell from here. And can’t see a good way to do this.”
“Which is why we shouldn’t.”
“I agree, Ghofaun, but we’re here at an encampment that’s not supposed to exist. The information was good. Faruq could be here. We have to at least— ”
“Oh no, Mila.” Ghofaun tosses his head toward my right, his eyes wide. “We’re too late.”
Inside the outermost edge of the camp, creeping from one point to another, there she is. A guard passes and Husniya strikes like a coiled snake, the edge of her hand landing hard across his neck. The man falters and she drags him to the ground. Another strike to the face sends him out. She hauls his body behind a nearby woodpile.
“Foolish girl,” I hiss. “She’s going to get herself killed.”
Ghofaun is already shrugging out of his heavy clothing. “I need a diversion,” he says without looking up.
My stomach roils. “I’ll go. Let me go.”
“No. It is a matter of honor. She’s my pupil. I will go after her. I won’t argue this.” He snugs his kukri blade into his belt and raises his hardened gaze to mine. “Give me a distraction.”
My teeth press together, the muscles of my jaw tightening. “I can do that,” I say, pulling the Draganov over.
A panicked shout from the camp. Dread crawls its way across the length of my body. One of the guards has raised the alarm. They’ve found the body.
“Ghofaun, we’ve got to—”
The monk is gone.
Sard it all. I scramble to the bottom of the rise and head for the main gate, the massive rifle in tow. Let’s do this.
Shouts fill the snow-laden air, hanging with the drifting flurries, as I step onto the road. The gate is open, held only by three men armed with rifles. Their attention is diverted to the ruckus inside the camp. One catches me in his peripheral and spins around, jabbering in his native tongue.
The Draganov snaps up, sights aligned. A bark of fire and the barrel blazes hot three times in succession. The heavy rounds do what warmongers manufactured them to do, tearing ragged red holes into the stupefied guards even as they fumble with their weapons. I keep my eyes up, away from the gasps and groans of the dying men, my feet carrying me through the gate and into the encampment.
They chose this side. If that means they have to die, so be it.
The heavy rifle swivels left and right, tracking with my line of sight. My mouth forms the words carved into the hidden corners of my heart. “Be here, Faruq. Be alive.”
Bullets streak overhead and whine past. I stumble, my momentum pitched forward into a roll that takes me to the kneeling position. There’s a sharp sting in my left forearm and thigh. Sard. Pivoting hard to the left, I brace the rifle and lock on a group of radicals trying to take potshots at me from behind a wooden platform. Idiots. The weapon I carry, their own equipment, is meant for busting light cover.
The long rifle gushes fire and the screams of my enemies sing in my ears as the jacketed rounds shred the barrier in a spray of splintered wood and blood. I strip the mag free and insert the second, whip the charging handle back and let it fly forward with a satisfying crack. I forge ahead, my head filled with the violence of war. Where are my allies? Know your target and what’s beyond, Mila. Don’t hit your friends by accident.
The men without firearms charge me with their blades. My arms shake, my back protesting as the rifle comes up again, hellfire pouring forth. They die like the others, tumbling into the shallow ditches that will be their frozen graves. But their numbers are too great. No time to reload. Damnation.
Releasing the bayonet, I flick it free and hear it snap into position. “Where is he? Where is Faruq?”
From the right, there’s a flash of movement. My heart soars as Ghofaun and Husniya, side by side, leap into the charging ranks of angry terrorists, creating a wild melee of furious screams and clanging blades. Ghofaun moves with the born grace of a dancer, feigning left and spinning right. The flying heel of his foot connects with the chins of three attackers in succession, knocking them back. At close range, the deadly curved kukri blade in his grasp is more formidable than all the bullets in the world. The warrior monk intercepts a blow meant for Husniya, lopping the attacker’s hand from his wrist with a single strike. Another swipe inside and he’s severed a man at the neck, blood issuing into the snow at their feet. He ducks and rises again, the blade flashing as he completes a handless cartwheel into a group of the men. Shrieks of mortal terror fill the air.
Beside him, young Husniya is no wallflower. Fighting tooth and nail, she dashes forward, intercepting a machete. She strips the weapon from the fighter’s grasp and sweeps the man’s legs out from under him—knocking his skull against the frozen earth, before leaping into the air—her whole body a battering ram as she crashes into the next man with a brutal double knee strike.
With a ragged scream, I launch into the fray, swinging the cumbersome Draganov rifle that now feels like lifting a plank of steel. Parry, dodge, duck. I drive toward my friends, shoving the sharpened bayonet spike into the chest of a wild-eyed fanatic. Blood spurts from his mouth. I kick him free and turn, ready for the next.
A gunshot like the sound of a cannon blasts into the air.
“Enough,” a heavily accented voice screams out ahead of us.
I tear the empty magazine from the Draganov, numb fingers fumbling with the last mag in my pocket. I yank it free and snap it into the well, charging the rifle’s action in one fluid movement. Together, backs to each other, Ghofaun, Husniya, and I face down the handful of remaining terrorists.
“Logosian!”
I turn, my rifle rising. Ahead is the maddened countenance of Kapka. My stomach contorts. Enclosed in the warlord’s fist is the dark shaggy hair of a disheveled man. Kapka holds an antique gold-plated revolver to his head. Though emaciated, there is no mistaking him. It’s Faruq. The angle of his jaw, the long nose, his eyes as dark as a winter river. His hands are bound in front and he’s clothed in a burlap sack. My heart cramps.
“Faruq!” I shout.
There is no response, not a single shred of recognition on his face.
Tears well.
“Faruq! It’s me, your sister!” Husniya shouts.
The fanatics gasp for breath, grunting curses as they plot their next move.
Kapka grins, his teeth a jumble of pale yellow and shimmering gold.
“I’ll kill you, monster.” I shake with the words.
“So, you’ve finally come for this traitor? Why now? You’ve wasted your pathetic lives.” He shuffles farther behind his hostage. “I’ll execute him and my men will finish you where you stand.”
My back muscles scream and my arms quiver under the weight of the long rifle. I can’t close the fingers of my left hand. Rivulets of blood drip from my forearm and off my elbow. Down the sights, the barrel wavers. No shot.
“Can you kill me from there before I do him? Are you that good?” He taps Faruq on the head with the barrel of the old wheel gun.
Husniya steps forward, her hands up, tears streaming down her face. “Faruq, it’s me. It’s Husniya. I’ve come for you, brother. Please. Look at me. I’m here.”
The scene stirs an earthquake of such fury in my chest, I feel I might explode.
“You are an utter disappointment to me, daughter, but I am glad you are here for this.” Kapka grins. “I wanted you here to see me finish this traitorous brother of yours.” He cocks the hammer on the pistol and presses it to Faruq’s temple.
“No!” Husniya shouts.
I’ve only got one shot. Any deviation and Faruq is dead. We all are. My body quakes with fear and adrenaline. I draw the sight picture and squeeze the trigger.
The Draganov round rips through Kapka’s arm.
Faruq explodes to life, grabbing the pistol in Kapka’s hand. He wrenches it from the warlord’s grasp.
The men around us converge. I bare my teeth and unload the full capacity of my magazine into them. Ghofaun and Husniya plow into the ranks of the few fighters that remain.
The big-bore revolver booms again, blasting a hole through Kapka’s groin. The tyrant shrieks and drops to his knees. Above him, Faruq levels the wheel gun at Kapka’s head and cocks the hammer.
The last of the fanatics falls to the ground, dead or too wounded to fight.
“Your stranglehold on my people”—Faruq can hardly form the hoarse words with his cracked lips—“is over.”
Kapka begs, his bloodied hands full of the fragments of his own mangled genitals. His pleas for mercy are unheard. Faruq pulls the trigger. The blast strikes Kapka through the eye, the boom of the hand cannon exclaiming the final moment of the despot’s reign.
“Faruq!” I cry as Husniya and I run forward.
My emaciated friend turns toward us, the horrors he’s endured at the hands of his own people stitched like a permanent scar into his face. He raises the revolver and points it at my chest. His hate-filled stare never wavers.
I slow, stumble, and finally collapse. My knees hit the slush.
“Faruq? We searched for so long. We never lost hope, Husniya and I. You’re safe now.”
Husniya stands with her mouth open. “Faruq?”
His gaze sticks to me, penetrating. “You left me. You had the chance to save me once and you left me.”
Helpless, I raise my hands. “I couldn’t. I had to protect the children. I followed, tracking you for five days until the trail ended in the wilds of the Vapid, and I lost you ... again.” My head hangs, tears dripping from pinched eyes. “Please, come home.”
“I am home,” he says. “With my people is where I belong.”
“I know it’s hard, but you’re confused. Please,” I beg.
“Four long years you left me to rot in this hell.” He shakes his head. “Leave. You’re dead to me. Both of you.”
“Faruq.” My eyes flood. “They hid you from us. We did everything we coul—”
The revolver explodes, the bullet smashing into the ice before me. He points it at my chest again.
“Get out. Next time I won’t miss.”
Husniya breaks into a fit of sobbing. “How could you?”
Faruq says nothing. His face concealed in shadow, his weapon trained on us as the snow falls in clumps over the battlefield and covers the dead.
I can’t breathe. Deep inside, a light flutters and grows dark.
“Leave. I won’t ask again,” Faruq rasps.
After all we went through, this is how it ends? I give a slight bow of my head but cannot seem to find the words as I stand on shaking legs, cradling my oozing forearm. I put my good arm around Husniya and motion for Ghofaun to join us.
On our way to the gate, I give one last look toward the embattled Faruq who lowers his head and his weapon.
“I meant something to you, once,” I say, my voice trembling with emotion. Turning away and pulling a weeping Husniya along, we venture forth into the bleak, foreboding storm of unrelenting snow and ice.
