The Solomon Effect

60

Stefan dove through the broken archway, his shoulder exploding in pain as he hit the litter-covered concrete floor and rolled to one side, his arms coming up to wrap around his head. A cascade of gunfire chipped the brick walls of the stables and pinged off the rusting iron columns. Scrambling to his hands and knees, he screamed, “Father!” Then, “Pup!” and provoked another volley.

Pushing to his feet, he sprinted down the long stables, beneath high-arched windows that showed patches of dull white sky overhead. He heard the voice from his nightmares shout in stilted Russian, “Nikolayev, stay outside and take the left perimeter. Zoya, you take the right. Kirkpatrick and Salinger, come with me.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” whispered Stefan, flattening against the nearest wall with a shaky gasp.

The hollowed-out shell of the stables stretched before him, long and narrow and totally empty except for the two marching rows of iron columns and the silent line of hooks that marked the center of each overhead beam. He could see a side door about halfway down the far right wall that had once opened to the pasturelands beyond. But if he tried to make a run for it, the Russian named Zoya would cut him down in an instant.

He was trapped.

The militia vans were just turning under the stud farm’s high gateway when Jax heard the distant crackle of gunfire. “Shit,” he whispered under his breath.

They’d learned from the priest’s housekeeper that the old man had bundled up some clean clothes and a slab of roasted pork, fresh bread, and apples, and set off on his motorbike for the ruins of some abandoned royal stables. But from the sounds of things, they were too late.

“Step on it!” yelled Andrei. He hit the siren, the wailing notes blaring out as they bounced and swayed over the rutted lane.

They fishtailed around a stand of pines, breaking out of the trees into a stretch of abandoned pastures with row after row of stable blocks of red brick and stucco walls and collapsing red-tiled roofs.

“There,” said Andrei, pointing to a rusty Ural motorbike with a sidecar parked in front of the relatively intact stable block at the far end. A dark mound of faded black lay halfway between the motorbike and the arched entrance to the stables.

As the wailing militia vans bore down on them, a man in a heavy gray sweater broke away from the near side of the stable block. Leaping the tumbled remnants of a fence, he bolted across the abandoned pastures toward a thicket of willows edging a distant small stream.

“Give me a gun,” Jax shouted to Andrei.

“Here.” Andrei tossed him a Makarov pistol, military issue, with a special twelve-round detachable box magazine.

Sliding on leaf mold and snow and mud, their van skidded to a halt beside a silver Range Rover and a black Durango, heat radiating off their engines to melt the surrounding snow. Andrei handed a second Makarov to October. She took it without comment.

They piled out of the vans, Andrei shouting orders, directing half the militiamen after the dark figure heading for the creek, the others around the far side of the stables.

Jax charged his pistol by pulling back the slide, then pushed down the side-mounted safety lever. “Stay here,” he told October as he and Andrei and the militia captain headed for the broken arch of the entrance in the end wall.

“Why?”

“In case they slip past us and double back around to the cars.”

A distant shout jerked their gaze toward the fields, where a second man could now be seen running toward the old riding school. “Oh.”

Jax sprinted for the stable entrance, tinglingly conscious of what a great target black leather made silhouetted against white snow and sky. He ducked left; Andrei went right.

The militia captain was a little slower.

Jax saw a flash, heard the pop of a pistol from halfway down the stableblock. Looking back, he saw a hole like a giant cigarette burn appear above the captain’s left eye. He dropped just inside the doorway.

Flattening on the cold concrete floor, Jax tightened his grip on the Makarov and willed his eyes to adjust to the sudden gloom.

Despite the row of small high windows on each long wall, the stable block was a vast haze of dusty shadows. He heard a rustling from farther down the block, but didn’t dare shoot in case it was Stefan.

Levering up on his elbows, he crept forward, the Makarov held at the ready. As his pupils dilated, features began to solidify out of the murky gloom. Rows of rusting iron columns. Three vague, rectangular shapes near the back wall. A gaping patch of white where once had stood a side door.

A light whimpering sounded at the far end of the building. From some ten feet up ahead to his left came a muzzle flash and the popping of an automatic, fired in rapid succession.

Jax fixed on the shadowy outline of a man with his gun hand stretched out, and fired. He nailed the shooter once, twice, three times. The figure cried out. Lay still.

A voice from somewhere to the right shouted, “Salinger!”

Andrei opened up, his automatic belching fire and the smell of burnt powder. Jax heard the sound of bullets striking flesh.

Then all was quiet.

His throat dry, Jax held his breath, every fiber of his being straining with the effort of listening.

A faint rustling drew his attention to the right. The indistinct shape of-a man? a boy?-rose up to make a dash for the side doorway. Without knowing which, Jax couldn’t shoot. He yelled, “Stefan?”

The figure kept running, a black silhouette that showed for an instant against the white of the fields before darting to the right, footsteps crunching snow as he headed toward the front courtyard. Then came the thunderous boom of what sounded like a Colt 45, and the answering pop-pop-pop of a Makarov.

October.

Heedless of whoever else might be lurking in the gloom, Jax shoved up. Racing toward the entrance, he heard another exchange of shots followed by a sputtering cough as the Ural roared to life.

He burst through the crumbling archway, the Makarov held in a tight two-handed grip, his body crouching into a shooter’s stance. He saw October standing in the center of the road, firing over and over at the disappearing whine of the Ural.

Jax straightened slowly.

“Who the hell taught her to shoot?” said Andrei in disgust, coming up beside him.

“The U.S. Navy.” Jax glanced at the militia vans. The guy on the Ural had shot out all the front tires. “Shit.”

He walked to where October still stood in the center of the dirt road, the Makarov held in a tight grip. “You all right?”

She nodded. “It was him. The one I saw before, in the garden.”

“Saw? Saw when? What garden?”

She glanced at Andrei, and shook her head in warning. Straightening slowly, she let the gun dangle in a loose grip at her side. “Sorry I missed.”

Jax reached out to clasp her shoulder and squeezed. “Hey. You kept yourself alive. That’s a good thing.”

A volley of shots sounded from the direction of the creek, followed by a shout, and another thunder of murderous fire.

“Think there’s anyone left alive to talk?” said Jax.

Holstering his gun, Andrei turned back toward the stables. “Let’s go see.”