They stopped at the edge of the forest, not coming out into the open. Shatun raised his hand — a signal. Two separated, went forward. Reconnaissance. Smart. Not charging headlong, probing.
I waited. Finger on the trigger. Breathing steady. Like in competitions, only the price of a miss is life.
Scouts reached the first tripwire. One noticed, crouched, pointed to his partner. He nodded. Carefully bypassed. Found the second one too. The third — no. Flash, crackle. Red fire soared into the sky. One of the scouts recoiled, cursed. The second fell, rolled to the side, raised his rifle. Too late.
I shot. First bullet into the shoulder of the one with the exposed weapon. He spun, fell. Alive. I saw him clutching the wound, trying to crawl away. Second — under the feet of the second one. Warning. He froze.
— Down! — I yelled. — Hands behind head!
He obeyed.
Then he shouted something. His people scatter, take positions. Looking for where the shots came from. Let them look. I changed position before they spotted the flash.
The next hour was hell. They attacked. Competently, in bounds, covering each other with fire. Bursts of automatic fire tore the air. Bullets clicked on the stones around my hiding spot. I replied rarely, saving ammo. Every shot — aimed. Winged another in the leg when he stuck out unsuccessfully from behind a boulder. Knocked another off a tree where he climbed to spot my position. Didn’t see where I hit, but he fell and didn’t get up again. Four out of eight taken out of action. Not bad for a start.
But the remaining four are getting closer, and my ammo isn’t infinite. I rolled behind a stone, changed magazine. Hands worked automatically. Load, rack, aim. Body remembered, even when the head shut down.
And then a new sound. A shot, but not automatic. Dry, sharp. Rifle. Bullet chipped stone fragments a centimeter from my head. Sniper. They have a sniper.
I pressed into the ground. Heart pounded. Now this is serious. I can outplay submachine gunners, but a sniper is another level. Cautiously peeked out. Where is he? On a tree? Behind a boulder? On the slope? Flash. Shot. Bullet passed right over my ear. I felt the wind. Close. Very close.
Spotted. Opposite slope, behind a large pine. Good position. Both view and cover.
I aimed. Waited. Second. Two. Three.
He leaned out. For a split second, to look into the scope.
I fired.
Hit. Saw him jerk. Drop the rifle. Then slide down, leaving a dark trail on the bark.
Shatun. It was Shatun. Grey head. Fish eyes. Done.
After that, everything kind of blurred. The remaining three mercenaries retreated. Fast, competently, not exposing themselves. Dragged the wounded with them. Those who could move. Left the dead. I didn’t pursue. No strength. And almost no ammo left either.
When shooting died down, I tried to stand and couldn’t. Left arm didn’t obey. Sleeve soaked with blood. Wounded. Didn’t notice when. Adrenaline dulled pain. Now it rolled in. Dull, throbbing, sickening.
— Gromov! — Vera.
Running to me from up the slope. My spare carbine in her hands. Unclear where she got it.
— Gromov, are you alive?
— Alive… I think.
She squatted nearby, examined the arm. Face — pale, but calm.
— What?
— Through and through. Bone not touched. Lucky.
— Uh-huh. Very lucky.
She tore the sleeve, bandaged the wound from Mikhey’s kit. Hurt. like hell. But bearable.
— How many left? — she asked.
— Three. Maybe four. Laid the rest out…
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