The Carnival Master

11.

Buslenko and Belotserkovsky had been lying flat, scanning the forest fringe for fifteen minutes. The sky was now dangerously light.

‘We’re going to have to move on…’ said Buslenko.

‘We can’t just leave Stoyan behind,’ protested Belotserkovsky.

‘Stoyan’s dead,’ said Olga Sarapenko with sudden authority. She was below them, down by the river, watching the opposite bank. ‘And so will we be if we don’t get out of the wilds. There’s a reason why Vitrenko’s targeted us here… either he is simply making sport of us as if we were a herd of wild boar, or he’s decided that we represent too much of a threat to him if we get to Germany.’

‘We’ll never make it to Germany,’ said Belotserkovsky dully.

‘He’s not going to get us here,’ said Olga defiantly. ‘I’m going to watch that son of a bitch die.’

Buslenko smiled. He turned to Belotserkovsky. ‘You ready to roll?’

Belotserkovsky nodded. Something drew his attention upwards to the brightening sky.

‘Take cover!’ he screamed.