“I am Major Gregori Zimyanin, and I bring greetings from the party.”
The accent was heavy, but Ryan found it easier to understand than Uchitel’s
garbled words. He bowed slightly to the Russian.
“I take prisoner this mans,” he said, waving with the book at Uchitel and the
other three.
“Let him,” hissed Finnegan.
“No,” said Ryan. “They’re my prisoners.”
Zimyanin glanced through his book as if he wasn’t sure he believed what he said.
“Nyet. I take. He Russian. I take.”
“No,” repeated Ryan, conscious of the others spreading out behind him
supportively.
The officer pored over his book, lips moving as he rehearsed what he wanted to
say. “You are four. We are many. We kill.”
“We kill many of you,” answered Ryan, trying to show a confidence he didn’t
truly feel.
“He Russian,” the major said, pointing at Uchitel again.
Ryan made his move. Taking care not to spark off a firefight, he stepped in and
moved Uchitel and the woman to one side with the barrel of the Heckler & Koch.
Then he pushed the other two prisoners toward the man on horseback.
“I’m a great believer in compromise,” he said, knowing that the soldier would
not understand; knowing as well that the gesture was obvious.
Zimyanin hesitated. He could see that these Americans were not helpless
peasants. They could only be some sort of unofficial militia, roaming the land
to repel invaders. There weren’t many of them, but their guns looked more lethal
than anything he’d ever seen before. And they’d blown that huge dam.
Ryan faced him, raising his eye questioningly. “Yes, my friend?”
“Da.”
The smooth, gray rifle slipped inside the long coat. Ryan drew the SIG-Sauer
P-226 9 mm pistol, relishing the familiar weight in his hand. Standing three
paces from Uchitel and the blubbery bulk of the woman, he fired three spaced
shots.
The first two entered the woman’s chest between her sagging breasts. The impact
sent Bizabraznia staggering backward, and Ryan put the third bullet carefully
into the middle of her face.
The entrance hole of the final shot was lost in the pasty expanse of her round
face with its layers of jowls. It hit the center of the upper lip and exited
near the top of her head, removing a chunk of skull as large as a grown man’s
fist.
Instantly there was some talk among the watching horsemen, but Ryan couldn’t
tell whether it was from approval or anger. He stepped toward Uchitel, who faced
him impassively.
“Nyet,” Zimyanin called then rattled off a string of commands in Russian. He
pointed toward Zmeya and Krisa, who fell to their knees and began to babble
their pleas for mercy.
The Americans watched as six soldiers swung down from their horses. One man took
Zmeya’s left hand in both of his while a second cavalryman took the other hand.
They tugged as hard as they could to get the kneeling guerrilla to rise. While
they pulled him, a third soldier took a short length of waxed rawhide from his
belt and looped it around Zmeya’s neck.
The other trio of cavalrymen treated Krisa to the same, then looked toward the
commanding officer for a signal. Zimyanin favored Ryan with a thin smile, then
nodded to the troops.
The nooses of thin cord tightened, vanishing into the necks of both condemned
men. Zmeya tried to cry out, but the sound was strangled, caught in his throat.
The soldiers holding the prisoners struggled to retain a footing on the slippery
pebbles. Krisa died first, his red eyes protruding so far from their sockets
that it seemed they would burst. Blood came from his mouth and nose, then from
the corners of his eyes. His body went suddenly slack.
Zmeya, the Snake, fought harder, and his passing took longer. Blood was jetting
from a severed artery under his ear before he finally became limp, slumping in
the arms of the two men gripping his wrists.
At a gesture from Zimyanin, the corpses were dragged by the ankles to the river.
One of the soldiers drew a steel knife from his belt and sliced the ears off
both bodies and tucked the ears into a pocket.