Patriots & Tyrants (18 page)

"I am Igor Dratshev, commander of the Alpha Group. Did you know that you had men hiding in your barn?"

Irina Tumanova regarded the ranking commander suspiciously, seeming to choose her words carefully. "No. My daughter left the house against her father's rules and came back saying she heard men in the barn. My husband is outside, he can tell you."

The stubborn expression she wore melted away as Dratshev gave her a knowing look. She breathed in deeply and gripped the stone countertop behind her for support, trying to hide from her child the knowledge of her father's death.

"We did not know they were there," she said as tears gathered at the edge of her eyes, a look of hatred spreading across her face.

"The harm done to your family," Dratshev said, "was not done by my soldiers, but by the men in your barn as they attempted to escape." Looking down to the small child that clung to her mother's leg, Dratshev continued, "Do you know how many were in there?"

The girl sniffed away tears and said, "Two, sir, I think."

Dratshev nodded and looked over his shoulder to Alexei. "Inform Commander Rhyzkov that they are looking for two men."

"Yes, Comrade," Alexei said, turning one hundred and eighty degrees on his heel and opening the door.

Dratshev turned back to the Tumanov family only to turn away again suddenly as a fearful shout erupted from the doorway. Alexei plunged backwards into the house landing on the stone floor, a large knife buried to the hilt in his stomach. Reaching for his sidearm, Dratshev looked to the doorway as a hulking figure stepped in with an assault rifle in his grip and fired a single shot, the bullet hitting Dratshev in his abdomen and driving him backwards towards the cabinets where the Tumanovas had been standing. The women scrambled away into the house through a narrow doorway as Dratshev landed with a thud against the cabinetry.

Eyeing the commander as he struggled to sit upright against the cabinet, gripping his wound, Ruslan Baktayev reached down for his knife. Swatting Alexei's hands away from the blade, he pulled it loose and gripped the young man by his sandy blonde hair. The soldier cried out in pain.

Dratshev pulled the sidearm from the holster on his leg. Quickly, Baktayev stood upright leaving the knife and gripped his Kalashnikov tightly, aiming at Dratshev's head. "Don't even think about it," he said looking at the Makarov in the commander's hand.

"You'll never get away," Dratshev breathed. "There are fifty men outside."

"All a long way from here and heading in the opposite direction," Baktayev sneered. "By the time they figure out that I've doubled back on them I'll be long gone in your transport having taken my pleasure with the women and with the head of a Spetsnaz commander as a trophy. I'll arrive back in my country like a conquering hero by sundown."

"You'll never make it across the borders."

"We made it across just fine three days ago!" Baktayev yelled, a triumphant sneer on his face.

Dratshev coughed painfully, tasting blood. He looked towards Alexei on the ground. The boy's eyes opened and closed slowly, staring hard at his commanding officer as if to communicate that he was still in the fight, but Dratshev knew otherwise. Within minutes, the boy would die of his wounds if he didn't receive medical treatment. Dratshev too needed treatment or else he would succumb to the wound inflicted by the AK-47's bullet. He steeled himself against the thoughts of defeat, he was Spetsnaz. He had to find a way to put an end to the grinning monster that stood over him. These Chechens were a disease, a filthy cancer that inflicted the southern steppes of his country. He'd die a thousand times over again by his own hand rather than accept a single death at the hands of one of their murderous rabble.

Baktayev sauntered forward, chuckling to himself with a satisfied grin. As he neared Dratshev's outstretched legs Alexei suddenly drew in a loud breath and leaped at the Chechen's legs catching him off guard. Baktayev stumbled and Dratshev raised the Makarov in his right hand and began firing repeatedly, most of his shots missing and colliding with the stone wall behind the killer but one tearing through his thigh and another impacting his shoulder, driving him backwards with a howl of pain erupting as he gripped his leg. The AK-47 fell away, secured to his body only by its shoulder strap. As the Makarov made a metallic click signifying its eight round magazine was empty, Dratshev allowed it to fall to the floor. He coughed again and felt himself weakening, a stream of blood stretching across the dusty stone floor from his position.

Baktayev growled as he transferred his weight to one leg, raising his rifle in one hand to finish the Spetsnaz commander with a head shot. As he closed his finger around the trigger, Konstantin Rhyzkov rushed through the open door striking him on the side of the head with the butt of a rifle, driving him to the floor with repeated strikes until he lay still.

Kicking Baktayev's rifle away with his foot, Rhyzkov spat at him and said, "You missed me!" He raised the wooden stock of the assault rifle in his hands and again drove it down into the right side of the Chechen's face making certain he was unconscious.

"Commander!" Rhyzkov said dropping (he rifle and rushing towards his fallen superior who was quickly losing consciousness. "I'll radio medical."

As Rhyzkov rushed from the one story farmhouse, Dratshev looked at the scene before him and smiled.
A thousand times by my own hand
he thought to himself as he closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing.

Lake Novozer
o
— Vologda Oblast, Russia

The only sound Ruslan Baktayev could hear was the sound of two oars skimming the top of the water. A bitter cold clung to his damp clothes, the only warmth on his body being the grip of the two soldiers holding him, one on each arm. He didn't know where he was. The last month had been a blur created by the heavy medication given to him by the Russians as they interrogated him over and over again. He could still hear their questions hollowly in his mind as he raised his head to look about. It was no use; he couldn't see anything through the thick blindfold. Suddenly the boat jerked to a stop and he heard the sound of its bow grinding against dry land.

"Bring him here," a heavily accented voice said from the shore.

Baktayev did his best to struggle as he was jerked upright by the two soldiers holding him out his muscles were useless, atrophied from the lack of use and the lingering effects of the drugs. Slowly he was drug ashore and the blindfold ripped off. As his vision adjusted in the low morning light, his eyes settled on a tall fence covered with a dark canvas. Beyond it, through the thick fog, he could make out the tall spires of a building.

"Welcome to Fire Island," a uniformed man standing in front of him said with a sneer. "This is the last home you'll ever know."