Standing beside the car, he noticed the wind had a chill to it that it hadn’t had earlier. Of course, that chill was nothing compared to the frost in Popov’s deeply hooded eyes.
Rusty recognized that look. It was the one men wore when they knew they’d be dealing in death. Without opening his mouth, Rusty let his eyes do the talking for him. I know what’s in your mind, motherfucker.
Popov’s smirking expression answered, Oh, yeah? And what do you plan to do about it?
Funny how silent eye conversations didn’t require the participants to speak the same language.
“I think they want you over here with us,” Ozzie said.
Rusty broke eye contact with Popov to see Ozzie and Ace standing shoulder to shoulder. Both had rifles aimed at their heads. Both appeared amazingly calm, given the situation.
Maybe Rusty looked calm too. But he sure as shit didn’t feel it as he slowly rounded the hood of the VW, deliberately bumping Ace’s shoulder once he’d drawn even because he needed to feel Ace standing there. Alive.
Popov joined his compatriots beside the Bug, the three asswipes lined up man-to-man in front of the three Americans. Then he snarled a few words at them.
Ace shook his head and said something that sounded like ahngleeskee, which Rusty assumed was Russian for English.
Popov’s chin jerked back, confusion contorting his face. Once again, Rusty read his expression. It said, What are Americans doing here? Then, Popov shook his head and spoke to his comrades. The slew of guttural sounding words were an assault on Rusty’s ears. Finally, Popov jerked his rifle and barked an unintelligible order.
“I don’t guess that needs any translation,” Ozzie muttered. “Let’s go.”
As a group, they rounded the small clutch of trees that had hidden them from view of the farmhouse—or, at least, they’d thought it had hidden them. Then they made their way across a fallow field toward the neglected structure, Ozzie limping slightly due to the wound he’d previously sustained from an incendiary device.
The buzz of night insects filled the cool air and competed with the babble of the river. The smell of untilled soil tunneled up Rusty’s nose.
It might have been a bucolic scene if not for the trio of gun-wielding, uranium-selling jagoffs. The threesome stayed a few yards behind Rusty and his teammates, playing it safe and keeping their weapons out of grabbing range.
When they started whispering in Russian, no doubt discussing how, when, and where they planned to dispose of the bodies, Rusty used their distraction to mumble, “They’re gonna kill us.”
“Seems likely,” Ace agreed.
“We should make our moves now, before they get us into the farmhouse.” Rusty’s muscles quivered, ready for action.
“Have something in mind?” Ace asked from the side of his mouth.
“Ozzie fakes a stumble. When they’ve got eyes on him, you and I turn and fire.”
“It’ll be tight. Two against three.”
“Semi-autos against hunting rifles. I’ll take our odds any day.”
Popov shouted something again. When Rusty glanced over his shoulder, he saw Popov drop his hand away from the trigger of his rifle, using it to cover his mouth in a gesture for them to shut the hell up.
It was their chance. “Now!” Rusty hissed.
Good, old, gimpy-legged Ozzie stubbed his toe on a clump of earth and grass and went down for the count. Before he kissed dirt, Rusty and Ace had whipped their weapons from their waistbands and turned and fired.
BOOM!
The sound of their simultaneous shots rang across the open field like the main gun on an Abrams tank. Ace’s round hit his target in the face, the bullet entering below the dude’s left eye and exploding out the back of his head. Rusty’s shot wasn’t as clean. Damnit! His round had slammed into his target’s chest, but he must’ve missed the bastard’s heart because even though the guy stumbled, he didn’t fall. Rusty pulled his trigger again, leaving it to Ace to take out Popov.
Bam! Another round, and Rusty’s guy was dunzo.
Even though barely two seconds had passed, it felt like time stood still. Rusty saw Popov swing his rifle from Ozzie, who was flat on the ground, toward Ace. But even though Ace’s semi-auto was aimed at Popov, Ace hadn’t fired.
Rusty saw why.
Ace’s handgun had stovepiped—the fired case had pulled from the chamber but hadn’t fully ejected, causing Ace’s slide to lock partially open, jamming his weapon.
