Chapter Thirty-six

 

 

Outskirts of Buinosky, Dagestan

December 6, 4:50 a.m.

 

An AK burst erupted from the left while Justin’s truck rounded a curve, the last one before a straight section leading to the bridge. The rounds pierced the door of the truck and one struck his bulletproof vest.

Justin felt the jackhammer punch of the bullet. The truck’s door and the vest absorbed some of the impact, but the bullet still hurt. He gasped for air and felt the copper taste of blood in his mouth.

He twisted the steering wheel and the truck slid on an ice patch. Its right rear wheel sank into the ditch just as it had happened moments ago to the other truck. But Justin was not able to regain control of the vehicle, which made a semi-circle spin.

Timofey fired his machine gun. His bullets began to tear up the thicket, stripping bark off the pine trees and cutting down branches. Still, occasional staccato AK gunfire shots came in between the machine gun bursts.

“We’re stuck,” Justin said.

He crawled out of the truck and got to the front wheel. He took a quick peek and noticed a muzzle flash near the edge of the thicket, very close to the end posts of the bridge. Justin fired a short burst and prayed the rounds hit his target.

Timofey ended his long volley and shouted, “I’m out.”

“I got you,” Justin replied.

Timofey crawled next to him and rested his back against the truck. “They’re all dead?” he asked.

“It’s quiet,” Justin whispered.

They listened for a few moments. Justin turned down the volume on his earpiece. No gunshots, no other sounds, just the river gurgling very peacefully underneath the shattered bridge.

“Grenades?” Timofey brought up a fragmentation grenade in his hand.

Justin shook his head. He kept listening. His hand went to his left side where the bullet had struck his vest. His fingers found the bullet lodged about two inches away from the strap of the bulletproof vest. Two inches higher and I could have been . . .

He dismissed the morbid thought with a stern headshake and handed his AK over to Timofey. He took out his PP-19 submachine gun. He double-checked the weapon to make sure nothing had gotten inside the barrel during the times he had crawled through snow, mud, and dirt. Then he unfolded its metal stock.

“I’m checking it out,” he said. “Cover me.”

Timofey got up and fired two- and three-round bursts. Justin popped out at the back of the truck, holding his gun at eye level. He took a few paces toward the truck about a hundred yards away, on the other side of the thicket.

He felt a stabbing pain in his left side. I think I’ve got a bruised rib. He coughed and felt his entire chest seize up. He took a couple of shallow breaths as he moved slowly toward the truck.

A single gunshot came from the thicket. The bullet hissed past Justin’s head just as he saw the spark from the muzzle flash. He fired a three-round burst at the target.

Timofey opened up with a long barrage. He must have also seen the shooter.

Justin reached the truck without anyone else firing at him. He inspected the cabin and found a dead insurgent with a large bullet wound in his back. A briefcase was on the floor near the back seats.

Timofey squeezed off two more quick bursts.

Justin thought they were unnecessary, since there had not been any return fire. “Truck’s clear,” he said on his mike. “Advancing to the thicket.”

“Roger that,” Timofey said.

“And cease fire.”

A sigh, then a hesitant and crackly, “Roger . . . roger that.”

Justin crossed the road. He brushed back the braches with his left hand and shoulder while aiming the gun with his right. The snow was thicker and it was easy to follow the gunmen’s trail left by their footsteps.

A pop came from the right. Justin turned his gun. It sounded like a branch snapping. He took a couple of steps. A large pine trunk was bullet-ridden, probably by Timofey’s barrages. There was a large blood splatter on the snow.

Justin stepped around the tree. A man was lying on his stomach with his arms stretched to his sides. He was missing a large section of his lower back. One of Timofey’s 12.7mm machine gun rounds had done more than taken him down.

The other man was in a half-sitting, half-lying position. His head was tilted to his left. He had three bullet holes in his chest in a triangular pattern. Justin recognized his signature shots and the dead man. He was Kaziyev.

Footsteps cracked behind him.

“It’s me,” Timofey said before Justin could turn his head.

“They’re all dead,” Justin said.

“Great shots.” Timofey pointed at Kaziyev’s body.

Justin shrugged. “Blind luck.”

He pulled a small Maglite from one of his chest rig pouches and searched Kaziyev’s coat pockets. He found a cellphone and a few scraps of paper with some notes. He shone the bright light and read the words scribbled on one of them.

“Oh, no,” he muttered. “I hope we’re still on time.”

“Bad news?” Timofey asked.

Justin handed him the note.

Timofey cursed a stream of obscenities. “This is extremely bad news.” His stern face had formed a deep frown as he handed the note back to Justin.

Justin nodded. “I’ve got to call Carrie right away.”