“What is it?” Kulikova whispered.
Jenkins shook his head. He was looking behind them. “I thought I saw a light.”
“I don’t see anything. Are you sure?”
“No. I’m not sure.”
“It is not likely Zhomov knows about the tunnels, and unlikely he could find the entrance,” Kulikova said.
Jenkins paused. He did not want to panic her and tell her he had seen Zhomov near the fountain before he had time to pull the grate back in.
“Mr. Jenkins?”
Jenkins kept his eyes on the tunnel walls behind them. “Let’s move,” he said. A man flashed beneath a tube of light descending from above, like a flickering image in a black-and-white film. “Shit,” Jenkins said just before a shot rang out.
The bullet pinged off the bricks, kicking up dust and nearly hitting him. Jenkins and Kulikova took off in a dead run, Kulikova turning left and right with the bends in the tunnels. When they came to a ladder, Jenkins told her to climb. He would wait until certain Kulikova reached the level above. On the ground he at least had the chance to perhaps surprise Zhomov.
Footsteps pounded the pavement.
A silhouette rushed past the side tunnel in which they had taken refuge.
Kulikova was approximately thirty feet up the ladder, climbing quickly. Then her foot slipped on one of the rungs and she dropped but managed to grab a bar and keep from falling. Her phone, however, which she had wedged in the waistline of her pants, came free. It pinged against the ladder once, then a second time, before it hit the ground and shattered.
The sound of feet pounding the pavement stopped, then started again. Zhomov returning. Jenkins looked up and watched Kulikova go through a hole. Momentarily safe. He quickly climbed. The ladder was more rusted and less stable than the one they had descended. He climbed as fast as he could, trying not to think of Zhomov shooting him. If he did, Jenkins hoped he was dead before he hit the ground.
Zhomov had no depth perception in the dark and did not know if he was ten meters or a hundred meters behind Jenkins and Kulikova. Uncertain he would ever get a clear shot, he broke his established protocol and sprinted forward, then dropped to a knee, steadied his aim, and fired at the light, someone running, their phone in hand.
The light continued to swing wildly. He’d missed.
He rose and sprinted, lost view of the light, turned, and saw it again. Jenkins and Kulikova were turning left and right, hoping to confuse him. Hoping to lose him. But he heard footsteps pound the bricks and splash in puddles of water. Zhomov stopped. Listened. Followed the sounds. Stopped again. Listened. Then ran.
He stopped a third time but this time he heard nothing. About to go forward, something metal pinged once, then a second time. The sound came from behind him. He was close.
He pivoted and ran to another T. He stopped, listened. Nothing. He stepped to his left. This time he heard metal thrumming. Someone climbing a ladder. They were attempting to exit. He ran down the tunnel. A cone of light from above illuminated Jenkins on the ladder rungs, nearly to the ceiling.
Zhomov knelt, took aim, and fired.
Jenkins was ten feet from the top rung of the ladder, moving as quickly as he dared. He briefly diverted his attention to glimpse down to the T where the tunnels met, and stepped up. The rung snapped under his weight and he slid down several rungs before his hands regripped, but not before he hit his chin hard on a rusted crossbar. He winced in pain, saw stars, and felt blood trickling from his chin. With pain in both hands, he resumed climbing, careful not to put weight on the broken rung. Kulikova leaned over the opening above him, urging him on.
“Don’t look down. Just climb. Climb.”
He looked up at her and could see her gaze focused down the tunnel. Her eyes widened again. Zhomov.
“Climb,” she urged him. “Climb.”
Jenkins reached for the top rung, and Kulikova pulled him from the ladder as shots rang out, hitting the metal rungs. Jenkins rolled on top of Kulikova in case the bullets ricocheted through the hole.
Unhit, but with blood dripping from his chin and his hands, Jenkins scrambled to his feet. “Go. Go.” He pushed her forward. The ground beneath his shoes was no longer brick but gravel. A rail track with crossbars centered in the tunnel made it more difficult to run, requiring them to pick up their feet, like football practice in high school.
This had to be Metro-2, the tunnel Kulikova said was used to transport those in authority. He hoped the trains were infrequent.
The tunnel was decidedly narrower than the lavish Metro system that transported millions of Russian commuters each day. Jenkins searched for a way out, a door or a ladder. With Zhomov armed and in pursuit, and with nowhere to run except straight ahead, it was just a matter of time before one of his bullets found its mark, or they reached a tunnel that had been sealed off. Dead end.
At a Y they took the tunnel to the left. From the condition of the rails, it looked to be older, the walls dingy and not as bright. He kept Kulikova in front of him, running behind her. He had to give her credit. She just kept motoring.
He looked behind. Zhomov emerged at the Y, paused, then started down the right tunnel. Maybe it would give them a reprieve. They continued for another minute until Jenkins reached out and grabbed Kulikova by the shoulder, stopping her. He bent over, hands on knees. Condensation clouded their faces with each breath.
“I think we might have lost him,” Jenkins said in between breaths. He looked up at Kulikova, then past her, seeing a bright light on the wall of the tunnel just before feeling a sudden rush of wind. Kulikova turned, eyes wide.
An advancing train.
Jenkins searched the tunnel walls for a doorway or cutout in the stone, anyplace where they could press their bodies.
He saw none.
With no time to consider, and no options, he grabbed Kulikova and started sprinting back toward the Y. Halfway there, he stopped. Zhomov appeared at the far end, searching. Two steps ahead, Jenkins noticed a manhole cover with holes in it. The wind behind them increased in intensity. The lights brightened on the tunnel wall. Jenkins dropped to a knee. So, too, did Zhomov. Jenkins shoved Kulikova down onto the tracks and reached into the manhole cover holes, gripping the metal disc. It lifted, then slipped back into place. Jenkins couldn’t duck to avoid Zhomov’s bullets. He needed to remain upright for the leverage. The first bullet whizzed over his head. No matter how good a shot, Zhomov was firing a pistol from a considerable distance. He would, however, adjust.
Jenkins pulled again. This time the disc budged, and he yanked it to the side so it wouldn’t slip back to its original place.