One of his men was down, now little more than a piece of meat pierced by countless nails and screws. Flames from the house would soon consume him, making extraction more complicated. Normally, that would be an issue that demanded his attention, but now it rated no consideration at all.
Pushkin stepped into the flickering shadow of a palm and went completely still. There was little of importance to see from this position, but a great deal to think about. If Azarov’s woman was alive, then he was gone—running through the jungle in an effort to get her to help. If she was dead, though, the situation changed significantly. He would be standing similarly motionless just beyond the firelight. Waiting. Watching. Making those famously precise calculations as to how he could inflict maximum damage on the men who had taken his American girl from him.
Azarov’s location, though, was only one of a number of deadly mysteries. What had happened to Pushkin’s sniper? Who was the man that had appeared in the house at just the critical moment? What was the strength of his team and what were their orders?
The first—and perhaps least critical—question was answered when his earpiece crackled to life.
“We’ve located sniper one, sir. He was killed by what appears to be a single shot to the head. We’ve also found the fifty-caliber rifle placement that was used to fire down on our team.”
“And the man responsible?” Pushkin prompted.
“There’s no sign of him. We can’t even find tracks in or out.”
“Do we have any information on Azarov’s position or the position of the man who went into the jungle with him?”
“Negative. We have a drone in the air, but the jungle canopy’s too thick in the general vicinity of the house.”
Pushkin considered retreating to his vehicle, but the idea didn’t last long. He’d enjoyed the advantages of an overwhelming force, the element of surprise, and a power outage that covered a full third of the country. There was no way he was going to stand in the middle of Krupin’s office and make excuses as to why Azarov was still alive. To see the disappointment in his eyes and watch the knowing nods of the men who trained him. To hear how they’d never really expected him to be capable of defeating the infamous Grisha Azarov, even now that he had retired to a soft life in the tropics.
No. He’d rather die here and rot.
Pushkin began moving again, searching the perimeter of the jungle. If he found the woman’s body, then the battle lines were drawn. If he didn’t, then she was alive and Azarov would be on the run, hampered by her dead weight.
“Converge on the house,” Pushkin said into his throat mike. “I’ll need two men with me to pursue the target. The rest will remove our casualties before the authorities arrive.”
“In order to collect our dead, we’ll have to expose ourselves,” came the hesitant reply over his earpiece.
Pushkin didn’t bother to respond, instead slipping into the jungle and paralleling the intensifying fire. It was impossible to know how many men his team was up against, but he was less concerned than his subordinate.
It was clear that the opposition was highly professional and that would play to his advantage. Their mission, for whatever reason, was likely to protect Azarov and they’d focus entirely on that. Using resources to harass the retrieval of casualties would be a waste of resources.
He heard movement ahead and crouched, concentrating on the rhythm of the jungle and crackle of the flames behind him. A second rustle of leaves was followed by a gurgling moan.
Pushkin crept forward, finding one of his men dangling from the branches of a tree, nearly three meters from the ground. His arms and legs were grotesquely broken and his body armor glittered with partially penetrated metal. A rusty bolt was lodged in the side of his neck.
His head moved in Pushkin’s direction, though the clear face shield attached to his helmet reflected only flames. The young Russian felt his anger flare—at the disaster that this simple operation had become, at the deference and respect that Azarov commanded but that always seemed just beyond his grasp. At the uselessness of the soldier suspended above him.
Pushkin raised his weapon and fired a silenced round that penetrated beneath the man’s chin. Blood spattered the inside of his face shield, distorting the reflections on the glass as he went limp.
Keeping him alive would have been little more than a distraction for the extraction team. And what if he survived to return to Russia? What would he be capable of? Warming a cot in some forgotten military hospital, straining the military’s already disastrously tight budget?
A voice came to life over his earpiece. “Our drone has picked up a single man approximately half a kilometer down the draw leading southeast, Major. He’s moving fast, but stopping periodically.”
Pushkin tapped his throat mike in acknowledgment and penetrated deeper into the jungle, scanning the slopes on either side of him as they rose and steepened. With only one man accounted for, he moved slowly, feeling the heat from the fire subside along with the illumination.
It was in that twilight that he came upon an empty metal crate with a bloody rag and other first aid implements next to it. But no body. And while it was impossible to know the girl’s current status, she appeared to have been alive as recently as a few minutes ago.
The fact that Azarov was carrying her physical and emotional weight was good news but not so much so as to overcome the existence of the crate. It was now certain that he was armed, wearing full camo and boots, and had access to food and water. His mysterious companion was likely similarly equipped.
“We’ve picked up the lead man,” came a voice over Pushkin’s earpiece. “Approximately three quarters of a kilometer down the same draw. He appears to be carrying the woman.”
In light of that, Pushkin felt comfortable responding verbally. “And the second man?”
“He was keeping an interval of about two hundred meters when we lost him beneath the canopy.”
“Understood. And my backup?”
“Currently approaching the southeast side of the house.”
Pushkin lowered the night-vision monocular attached to his helmet and gazed down the loosely defined path in front of him. It was unlikely that there would be booby traps. Azarov would be reluctant to put anything on his property that his woman or staff could stumble upon and there were too many animals deeper into the wilderness. That meant Pushkin could move fast, catching and killing the trailing man before intercepting Azarov.
He activated his throat mike. “I’m in the jungle approximately fifteen meters down the draw, preparing to chase. Have the men follow me and protect my flank. We’re not leaving this place until we have Azarov’s head.”
? ? ?
Rapp kept an easy pace, taking care to avoid the endless vines, roots, and rocks on the jungle floor. No reason to push—he didn’t want to run up on Azarov until he was just about to break out onto the road where they were to rendezvous with the chopper.
He looked up at a steep slope to his right and examined the mudslide that had at some point collapsed it. The strip of empty dirt was open to anyone watching from the sky but was also the first practical path he’d seen leading to high ground. After a brief hesitation, he turned up it, dropping to all fours as he scaled the loose, damp earth. At the top, he flipped down Azarov’s night-vision monocular and set it to maximum magnification.
He’d almost decided that he wasn’t being followed when he spotted movement approximately two hundred yards to the northwest. Whoever he was, he was moving with improbable speed over the steep, unpredictable terrain. Could it be Nikita Pushkin? The man he’d been warned about?