The Kill Switch (Page 25)

Tucker refused to give him another chance.

Stepping sideways, he took aim and fired once. The bullet drilled a neat hole in the soldier’s right temple. His body went slack.

“RELEASE,” Tucker rasped out.

Kane obeyed and backed away a few steps.

Tucker placed his boot on the Makarov, which lay half buried in the snow. There was no sense in checking the man’s pulse; he was dead. His mind switched to their next worry. The gunfire would have carried through the trees.

But how far? Who might have heard?

Tucker took a moment to double-check Kane for injuries. Finding none, he gave the shepherd a quick neck ruffle, then pointed in the direction the man had come.

“QUIET SCOUT.”

He had to know if reinforcements were on their way.

As Kane moved off, he pocketed the Makarov, stripped off the man’s camouflage suit, and stuffed it into his own pack. Though pressed for time, he spent a minute hand-shoveling snow over the corpse. The grave wouldn’t stand close scrutiny, but it might buy him precious seconds.

Finally, Tucker retrieved his rifle and moved deeper into the trees, where he found a tangle of fallen logs. If necessary, it would serve as a good sniper’s roost.

He checked Kane’s camera, but all seemed quiet out there. Satisfied for the moment, he radioed to his partner.

“RETURN.”

Thirty seconds later, Kane crouched next to him, panting.

“Good work, pal.”

Kane licked Tucker’s cheek.

Using the momentary lull, Tucker pulled on the camouflage suit.

“Now we wait.”

4:39 P.M.

After several long minutes, the snap of branches alerted Tucker. Someone was approaching from his eight o’clock position. As he listened, the plod of footsteps grew louder, distinctly different from the soldier’s cautious approach.

Not Spetsnaz.

A moment later, Dimitry appeared, lumbering through the forest.

Still, Tucker stayed hidden, waiting, suspicion ringing through him.

When Dimitry was ten feet away, seemingly alone, Tucker called out to him.

“Stop!”

Dimitry jumped, genuinely startled. He lifted both arms, showing empty hands. “Is that you, my friend?”

Tucker kept hidden. “You’re making a lot of noise.”

“Intentionally,” Dimitry replied with a half smile. “I didn’t feel like getting shot, da? I heard the gunfire.”

“We had a visitor,” Tucker admitted, relaxing somewhat. “Spetsnaz.”

“Is he—?”

“Dead. Dimitry, did you turn us in?”

“Nyet. But you are smart to ask. I swear I have told no one about you.”

“And Fedor?”

The old man shook his head. “He has his flaws, but he has never betrayed me or a customer. Besides, you must trust someone or you’ll never get out of here.”

Tucker both believed him and knew he was right. Even Kane wagged his tail, wanting to greet Dimitry. He finally stood up out of his blind.

Dimitry joined him, eyeing his winter suit. “New clothes, I see.”

“Someone no longer needed them.” Tucker pointed toward the air base. “Is Fedor ready to fly? Matters are getting a little tense out here.”

“I think so. When I called him, he had just finished making some adjustments to the plane’s propeller. Fine-tuning, he called it.”

Tucker smiled, remembering the crude hammering. “I saw.”

Together, they headed past the cabin and across the air base. Dimitry took him along a circuitous path that mostly kept them hidden, working their way toward the hangar.

“I am glad you are safe,” Dimitry said. “At the church, when I left you in that tunnel—”

“What exactly is that tunnel?” Tucker interrupted, remembering the fresh boards shoring it up.

“I found it by accident one morning. I felt a strange draft coming up from the floor and started prying up boards.”

“And you’ve been maintaining it?” he asked.

The suspicion must have been plain in his voice.

Dimitry smiled. “Myself and Fedor. I told you he was a smuggler.”

Tucker raised an eyebrow toward the town’s old bishop, suddenly remembering how deferential everyone in the bar had been toward Dimitry, more than could be explained by religious affection.

“Okay, perhaps Fedor has a partner,” Dimitry admitted. “It is hard to maintain my flock on faith alone. But, mind you, we don’t smuggle anything dangerous. Mostly medicine and food, especially during winter. Many children get sick, you understand.”

Tucker could not find any fault in such an enterprise. “It’s a good thing you’re doing.”

Dimitry spread his hands. “Out here, you do what you can for your neighbor. It is how we survive, how we make a community.” He pointed ahead. “There is Fedor’s hangar. I will check first. Make sure it is clear, da?”

With Kane at his knee, Tucker waited while Dimitry went ahead. He returned two minutes later and gestured for them to follow.

“All is good.”

Dimitry led them through the main hangar doors. Lit by a lone klieg light, a single-engine prop plane filled the small space. Tucker couldn’t make out the model, but like everything else at the air base, the craft seemed a hodgepodge of bits and pieces. But at least the propeller was in place.

He found Fedor kneeling beside a red toolbox on the floor.

Before they could reach him, Kane let out a low growl. The shepherd still stood by the door, staring out.

Tucker hurried to the shepherd’s side, careful not to show himself. He drew Kane back by his collar. Across the base, a pair of headlights passed through the main gate, turned, and headed in their direction. It was clearly a military vehicle.

He drew his pistol and crossed to Fedor. He raised the gun and aimed it at the man’s forehead. “We’ve got visitors. No matter what else happens, you’ll be the first one to go.”

Fedor’s eyes got huge, and he sputtered first in Russian, then English. “I tell no one! No one!” He stood up—slowly, his palms toward Tucker. “Come, come! Follow. I show where to hide.”

Tucker weighed his options as the grumble of a diesel engine grew louder. He remembered Dimitry’s earlier words: you must trust someone or you’ll never get out of here.

With no choice but to heed that wisdom, Tucker pocketed his weapon. “Show me.”

Fedor hurried toward the rear of the hangar, towing everyone with him.

The big man led them to a giant orange storage tank, streaked with rust, that sat on a set of deflated rubber tires. A hose lay curled next to it. Tucker recognized an old fuel bowser used to fill the tanks of planes.