North of Donetsk—about the same time
The kids thought it was a game.
That was one way to deal with it, thought Chelsea as they giggled, passing the phone back and forth. Then the smaller of the two, the one who’d gotten stuck in the window, tiptoed to it and told his friend outside to go get the controller.
“And tell him not to get caught,” said Chelsea.
Outside the house, Tolevi slid to the ground, next to the commando who’d been watching the house. The commando still thought he was on his side.
And apparently he trusted the butcher. None of this was making a lot of sense. Tolevi expected it to implode any minute.
“They’re coming in the front,” he told the Russian. “Watch this one,” he added, pointing to the butcher. “He’s nuts.”
The commando waved at him, then turned his attention down the hill, firing at something moving in the brush.
Tolevi glanced around, trying to find some sort of weapon. But it was too late; the butcher dashed across the yard, sliding next to him.
“говно!” yelled the Russian. “Shit, holy shit! What is that?”
It was one of the little bots, the Groucho, walking on six legs toward them.
The commando took aim.
Tolevi jerked around. “Duck!” he yelled to the butcher.