North of Donetsk—about the same time
The UAV struck the Spetsnaz truck with a loud crash. The commando at the door of Chelsea’s van jerked back, looking to see what had happened. Chelsea reached for Peter’s control, hoping to tell the robot to grab the Russian.
The commando got to her first, pulling her out of the vehicle and throwing her on the ground. He yelled at the children, who lay frozen in fear on the floor of the van. Then he pointed his gun at them.
Chelsea jumped up.
“No! No!” she screamed.
He tossed her down again. Then he reached in and dragged out the first child. The other followed meekly. The commando shouted something at them, waving with his hand. He wanted them to move.
Chelsea’s body trembled. Her brain froze.
And then her father spoke to her, as he had so often before, voice calm but firm.
Protect the children. Keep your head.
“Grazhdanskiy,” she said, trying to tell the soldier they were civilians. But either her pronunciation was so bad he couldn’t understand her, or else he was too concerned with getting away from the now smoldering Gaz that he didn’t pay any attention. Chelsea grabbed the children to her, shepherding them up the road.
One of the kids smelled; he’d wet himself from fear.
The soldier yelled, then pointed off the road. Chelsea thought of bolting for a moment, then saw that there was another commando sitting on the ground a few yards away. He had a gun cradled in his lap; his pants were red. Obviously he’d been wounded.
Where was Bozzone? Watching, she hoped. Ready to come to their rescue.
Or dead.
There was a building beyond, an outbuilding that belonged to the neighboring farm. The soldier who’d captured them pointed to the building and reeled off a command that could only mean, Inside!
Chelsea stooped toward the wounded man, intending to try and help—and maybe get his gun. But the other soldier ran up and pushed her away, shoving her toward the children.
With no other option open, she put a hand on the back of each child and helped them inside the building.
Tolevi grabbed the butcher by the arm and tugged him to the back of the house. The kitchen window had been shattered. Outside, two Russians crouched by the van he’d been in the first night. One was firing into the woodline—aimed shots, so obviously he had at least a vague idea where his target was.
The other was looking back at the house.
“You know how to work this?” Tolevi asked the butcher. “I don’t know how many bullets are in the magazine.”
“Give me.”
“Here. I’m going to see if they have other weapons.” Tolevi handed the gun over, then started to leave.
“American!” yelled the butcher.
Tolevi looked back. The bastard was holding the gun on him.
“What?”
“Hands up or I fire,” said the butcher.
Tolevi started to raise his hands. The butcher pressed the trigger anyway.
Borya, thought Tolevi. Borya!
Nothing happened. Either Tolevi had picked up the wrong gun in the confusion, or both magazines had been emptied.
I’m nothing if not lucky, thought Tolevi, rushing the butcher.