First, though, he put four bullets into the wall just next to the door toward which he was diving. He did this because he had seen, in his peripheral vision, someone furtively poking his head around the corner and then drawing it back: behavior that triggered whole networks of neural circuitry built up in his brain during his work in Afghanistan and Chechnya.
How could he put four bullets through a wall when his hand was empty? The answer was that he had a pistol in his hand, with a round chambered and ready to go, before he was consciously aware of it. Though his employer would have bought him any sort of fancy gun and holster he had asked for, Sokolov had elected to stay with a Makarov: the standard-issue Russian sidearm, which was a smallish and rather simple semiautomatic pistol that lived in an odd and ingenious type of holster. Unlike most holsters, which were dead ends—you could only get the weapon out by pulling on it, butt first—the Spetsnaz holster was a sort of rail that the pistol moved through. When bad things were not happening, you inserted the weapon into the top of the rail, where it stayed, safe and secure. When bad things started to happen, you brought your hand down onto the butt of the pistol and pushed it down and through the end of the device. As you did so, lugs built into the rail engaged the slide of the pistol and pushed it back, chambering a round, so that by the time the weapon was free of the holster it was ready to fire. About a tenth of a second after the black man said “Allahu akbar,” Sokolov discovered his pistol in his hand in exactly that condition. He aimed it just to one side of the door frame and fired four rounds as quickly as that was possible while initiating a dive and roll. A burst from the AK-47 might have passed through the general area where he had been standing, but it was hard to tell; the apartment had become rather noisy, and all he could hear was ringing in his ears. He tumbled fluidly into the next space, which turned out to be a sort of back storage room, perhaps a pantry, with a sleeping bag, now empty, on the floor. The former occupant of the bag had gotten stealthily to his feet, picked up an AK-47 of his own, and made that furtive glance into the room where the black man had been mixing up the ANFO. Now he was slumped on the floor, not doing much. Sokolov could not see where bullets had gone through him, but he could tell from the sheepish, glazed look on the man’s face that he was hit. While making these admittedly hasty observations Sokolov began firing back into the room from which he had just escaped, but the black man had had the presence of mind to change his position and so nothing was there. Sokolov, now lying flat on his back in a spreading puddle of the other man’s blood, holstered his pistol and took the AK-47. It was a bit large and cumbersome for these environs, but its bullets would penetrate brick walls and it had a larger magazine.
Some idiot was spraying AK rounds through the wall above him, causing shattered plaster to rain down into his face. Sokolov verified that his rifle was ready to fire, then rolled into the doorway and discharged three rounds at a man—not the black man, but a Central Asian type with a beard—who was doing the spraying. The man went stiff and just as quickly went floppy, and Sokolov hit him with one additional shot, more carefully aimed at his center of mass. The Central Asian went down. There was no doubt in Sokolov’s mind that he had been stationed at that position by the black man with orders to cover Sokolov. This implied that the Negro was, (a) in charge, and (b) trying to make his way out of the apartment. A very deeply buried instinct, the lust for the hunt, made Sokolov want to go after him. Then some higher part of his brain weighed in. Thirty seconds ago he had been in the hallway getting ready to scare the hell out of a Chinese hacker and now he wanted to pursue a black Islamic militant through the middle of a pitched AK-47 duel in a bomb factory?
Looking past the supine body of the Central Asian, Sokolov could see one end of a larger room that looked almost like a disco because of the muzzle flashes. Whatever was going on there—and he could see very little of it—could not possibly last for very long. He could already see the feet of one of his men lying motionless on the ground, sticking out into the doorway.
The light was brightening and flickering.
From where Sokolov lay he could have belly-crawled like an infantryman across the ANFO-mixing room, but this would have made him easy prey for anyone who happened to step into the doorway. So he pushed himself up and crossed the room with a dive and a roll and came up just short of the doorway with his rifle at the ready.
He was greeted by a tongue of yellow flame reaching across the floor. He flinched back, not before some of it had lapped around his boot and set it on fire. He stomped his boot on the floor and managed to get the fire out, and a powerful smell of acetone came into his nostrils. A can of the stuff had been punctured.
Four completely motionless bodies—two of them Russians—were sprawled on the floor. Three wounded men—one of them Russian—had given up all thought of continuing the fight and were trying to roll or crawl clear of the rapidly spreading lake of burning solvent. The exit lay on the opposite side of the flames; Sokolov was trapped in this end of the apartment. All the gunfire was happening at the other end. Through the rippling air above the fire, Sokolov saw men on their feet and knew them as enemy, since his Spetsnaz boys would never expose themselves so stupidly. Aiming and firing over the flames, he brought down five with as many shots. But the mere fact that they were standing there in that attitude all but proved that Sokolov’s men were either dead or had withdrawn into the corridor.