North of Donetsk—simultaneous
The wounded Russian heard the crashing noise at the back of the shed over the din of the gunfire up the hill. It surprised him—he wouldn’t have thought a girl and two little boys could break the damn thing down.
He struggled to get to his feet. He was supposed to kill them if they escaped. Truth be told, he didn’t want to. But orders were orders.
His legs were wobbly. He’d been struck by two bullets. One had merely squashed itself against his bulletproof vest; it had given him a bruise but not much else. The other had gone into his thigh. He’d lost a decent amount of blood, though the injury didn’t figure to be life threatening.
Damn Ukrainian bastards. Damn Putin for sending us here.
An odd contraption turned the corner as he approached. It was metal, alien, something from outer space? It had claws.
The soldier raised his gun and fired. His first bullet missed. His second hit it square in the body.
The thing didn’t stop. It sped full into him, claws like spears digging into his chest.
Falling backward, he lost his rifle.
Chelsea charged after Peter as the bot pushed its “hand” down on the Russian’s chest. The kids ran in front of her and started kicking him.
“No, no,” said Chelsea, scooping up his rifle. “Leave him. Don’t kill him!”
They shouted something at her that sounded like norham jushua. She gathered they were saying he was a bad man or evil.
“That’s all right. Leave him. He’s hurt. Come on.”
She started in the direction of the van, following Peter as he headed toward the second Russian.
Someone yelled, and then there was a shot. Chelsea grabbed the children close and pushed them with her to the ground, watching Peter rush forward toward the commotion.
A second later she heard a familiar voice yelling from the woods.
“It’s me!” shouted Bozzone. “I know you’re here if Peter is. Are you all right?”
Better than all right, ballerina girl, laughed her father in her head.
Chelsea jumped to her feet.
Tolevi pushed himself up from the dirt. The butcher was still on the ground.
“Asshole,” he yelled, stomping his wrist to release the pistol. He grabbed it, then took hold of the back of the butcher’s shirt.
Something blew up in the front of the building.
“We’re here, we’re here!” Tolevi yelled, running around to the side. The last thing he needed was that idiot White shooting him. “The butcher is with me! The butcher is with me!”