A shot would give away her position instantly. The others would fire on the sound.
No. She puts the pistol away and draws a knife. The same knife she used on the squirrel.
Her jump is as quiet as falling snow. One hard strike with the knife handle to the base of the skull, just below the helmet line.
The man drops without a sound. Katya catches him so his weapon doesn’t clatter and lowers him into the snow. She takes the submachine gun.
Heavy. Full drum. Now the conversation changes. She checks it quickly.
Safety off. Round chambered. Good. The weapon will work in any weather. Two enemies left: the machine gunner and the second man with the submachine gun. And somewhere, Ivashin.
Below, the locomotive sounds its whistle again. The ground begins to tremble under the weight of the train.
It’s close. Katya moves lower. The fog starts to thin in the wind.
Ahead, maybe forty yards away, she sees the machine-gun position. The gunner is smoking, cupping the match in his sleeve. Beside him stands a man in an officer’s coat.
Ivashin. Alive. And standing between her and the tracks.
Katya presses herself against the rock. Forty yards. Easy range with the submachine gun.
But if she opens up, the machine gunner may swing and cut her in half. That gun will chew through rock. The gunner has to go first.
She aims. The sights are crude, but her hands remember. Short burst. Three rounds.
The gunner jerks and folds over his weapon. Ivashin reacts instantly. He dives behind a rail cart and draws his pistol.
“Contact!” he shouts. “She’s left of the rocks!” The second gunman opens up on Katya’s position.
Bullets spark off stone. Rock chips sting her face. Katya flattens herself behind cover.
She’s pinned. The train is in sight now, a black mass coming around the bend, headlamp cutting through the fog.
The clatter of wheels nearly drowns out the gunfire. It’s a long freight train. Open cars piled high with coal.
It’s moving maybe fifteen miles an hour on the grade. Slow enough to jump. Perfect.
But between Katya and the train are thirty yards of open ground and Ivashin with a pistol. “Melnik!” he shouts from behind the rail cart.
“Give it up! This train won’t stop! You’re not getting out!” Katya rolls to another rock.
She has no intention of stopping. She fires a long burst at the second gunman, forcing him flat into the snow.
Then she swings the weapon toward Ivashin and pulls the trigger. Click.
Jam. Or empty? No—the drum is still mostly full. Feed problem. Even good weapons can choke in the cold. Katya curses and throws the gun aside.
She pulls her pistol. Ivashin sees it and understands she’s in trouble. He raises his own weapon and takes careful aim.
“That’s it, sniper. Game over.” Katya looks straight into the muzzle of his pistol. Time slows again.
The train roars past. Car after car. The noise is deafening. She sees Ivashin’s finger tighten on the trigger.
Then something happens that nobody expects. From one of the passing coal cars, a shovel comes flying out. A plain steel coal shovel, thrown hard by a strong hand.
It smacks Ivashin’s gun hand with a clang. His shot goes wild. He cries out and grabs his wrist.
Standing in the coal car is a soot-black fireman. He’s staring at the scene in disbelief. He just saw a man with a pistol aiming at a woman.
And he did the simple thing. “Grab on!” he yells over the train noise, reaching down with a blackened hand.
Katya doesn’t think. She runs. Ivashin, staggering, tries to raise the pistol with his left hand.
“Stop! I’ll shoot!” he yells, firing. One bullet kicks snow at Katya’s feet. Another whistles past her ear.
Katya jumps. Her fingers catch the icy metal edge of the car. Her boots skid on steel.
For one awful second she hangs over the wheels. Then the fireman grabs the back of her coat and hauls her over the side into the coal.
Katya lands face-first in black dust. Alive. She lifts her head.
The train is already pulling away around the bend. Down by the tracks, Ivashin is a small figure on his knees, clutching his injured hand.
He watches the train go. He has lost. Katya pulls out her pistol. There are still rounds in it.
She could shoot him now. Maybe. The distance is still possible. But the train is carrying her away into fog.
“Who in God’s name are you?” the fireman shouts, wiping sweat from his face. “You got the whole army after you?” Katya rolls onto her back and looks up at the gray sky.
Then she laughs. Hoarse, ugly, half-hysterical. The laugh turns into coughing.
“I’m a passenger,” she says through the cough. “And I’ve got a ticket. All the way to the end of the line.”
A working man has just saved an escaped prisoner without knowing a thing about her. Katya lies on the hard coal and feels the train rocking under her.
Clack-clack. The sound of freedom. And the sound of pursuit.
Ivashin is alive, and he likely has access to a radio or station line. He’ll alert the next stop. The train will be searched.
She cannot ride into town. She’ll have to jump again. Into whatever comes next.
The train pounds through the dark. This is no passenger coach with soft seats. It’s a dirty coal freight.
Katya lies on a mound of anthracite. Black dust gets into her nose, ears, teeth. Her face, hands, prison coat—everything is black within minutes.
She no longer looks human. Just a shadow. A lump of coal that somehow breathes.
Beside her stands the man who pulled her aboard. About forty. Face pitted from old smallpox and stained with soot. He smokes a hand-rolled cigarette, shielding the ember from the wind.
His name is Gleb. He has kept quiet for half an hour, letting Katya catch her breath. Now he starts asking questions.
“Who’d you kill?” he asks without looking at her. His voice is calm. “A guard? Some camp boss?”
Katya sits up, brushing coal dust off herself. She keeps the pistol in her hand. Gleb sees it and doesn’t flinch.
“The camp commander,” Katya says, lying now as easily as breathing. “And his dogs.”
Gleb nods slowly, blowing smoke. “That serious, huh? Then they’ll be waiting at the first station with dogs.”
“They’ll tear this whole train apart. I’ll jump before then.”
“No, you won’t,” Gleb says, spitting over the side. “Bridge ahead. Guarded. Then a straight run to the junction. More military there than fleas on a stray dog.”
“They’ll pull you off. And they’ll pull me off as your helper. Put me against a wall, and I’ve got three kids.”
Katya grips the pistol tighter. He’s right. She has just dragged a working man into a firing offense. “Stop the train,” she says. “I’ll go back to the woods.”
“And die there. Look at you. You’re barely standing.”
Gleb flicks away the cigarette and finally looks at her. There’s no fear in his eyes. Just tiredness.
And something like recognition. “You serve at the front?” “Sniper. Third Front,” she says.
Gleb gives a crooked smile. “Tank crew. Burned twice. Once in the big push west, once near the end.”
He is quiet for a second, then waves a hand. “All right, infantry. I’m not turning you in. We don’t hand over our own.”
“Get into the tender. In the water tank.” Katya frowns. “Where?”
