Warriors (9781101621189) (19 page)

Nikolas kneeled, rested the AK on the stone sill. He popped off two shots on semiauto, and the second round connected. Another hit the same leg, and the wounded officer screamed again.

“Help me, for God's sake!” he shouted. “I'm bleeding out.”

The wounded man's partner, who had taken cover behind the open driver's door of the same car, lunged across the front seats and pulled him inside. One of the injured officer's boots remained visible. Blood trickled off the heel and onto the grass.

His partner's head and shoulders bobbed in and out of view behind the windshield. Presumably the partner was trying to render first aid, perhaps apply a tourniquet.

Stefan shifted his aim, waited. Pressed the trigger.

Gases spewed from the end of the noise suppressor. Straw stirred on the floor beneath the rifle barrel. The bullet punched a white-rimmed hole through the windshield. Something spattered inside the police car. The policeman who'd tried to help his wounded partner collapsed and did not rise again.

Unintelligible cries emanated from the police car, probably the wounded man crying out over his partner, now dead, who had likely fallen on top of him. After a few seconds the cries grew weaker. That did not surprise Dušic. Back during the war, his platoon medic told him that if a bullet severed a major artery, a man could bleed to death faster than he could suffocate.

From the other car, Dušic heard voices. Not panicked wailing but focused conversation. These are trained lawmen, not amateurs, he reminded himself. Do not get careless just because you have the upper hand. Dušic asked himself what he would do in their situation.

“Men,” DuÅ¡ic called to his team, “the other two will try something, maybe launch tear gas. If they come from behind cover, I want you to pour fire on them. If they get off a tear gas round, hold your breath and hold your position.”

Dušic didn't know if his
razvodnik
s could manage that kind of discipline, and he hoped he wouldn't find out. One of the officers appeared to grab something from inside the car. Stefan followed the movement through his scope and even put his finger to the trigger, but he did not fire. The policeman had not exposed himself long enough for Stefan to get a shot.

When the officer appeared again, he came up from behind the car, holding some kind of launcher. He rested his elbows across the trunk lid and fired. Stefan fired, too.

The bullet knocked the officer backward, and the tear gas canister flew wild. It bounced off the barn's stone wall and ricocheted into the grass. Most of the white chemical blew harmlessly with the breeze, but enough of it drifted into the barn to burn and sting. Dušic's eyes streamed, and the
razvodnik
s hacked and cursed.

“Hold your breaths, idiots,” DuÅ¡ic ordered. “It will clear in a moment.”

Rifle fire chattered from outside. Dušic heard the policemen's bullets slam against the stone wall. He ducked beneath the window, held his pistol with both hands. The air, still tainted with tear gas, felt like barbed wire going down his trachea. It hurt, but he knew if he broke and ran from the cover of the barn, the bullets would hurt more. He cleared his throat, spat phlegm into the straw.

“Stay put,” DuÅ¡ic ordered. “If you run now, they will kill you.”

Andrei placed the barrel of his weapon across a sill. Without aiming, head down and exposing only his hand, he unleashed a burst on full auto. Dušic started to yell at him for wasting ammunition, but he saw how the fusillade made the policemen stay down. That gave him an idea.

“Stefan,” DuÅ¡ic said, “if they give you covering fire, can you make some hits?”

“Absolutely.” Stefan took two extra rounds from his jacket pocket and held them between the fingers of his left hand for quick reloading.

“Razvodnik
s
,”
DuÅ¡ic called, “do what Andrei just did. On my command, open up on them and keep them pinned down.” More bullets from the policemen's weapons tore into the barn. Several rounds zinged through the windows and impacted the opposite wall. Flying chips of stone peppered DuÅ¡ic's cheek.

Stefan kneeled once again with his rifle across the scythe. “We will have only a few seconds for this to work,” he said. “Our men have just one magazine apiece.”

“I know it,” DuÅ¡ic said. He thought for a moment and altered his plan slightly. “Nikolas,” he said, “trade weapons with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dušic handed his CZ 99 to Nikolas and took the AK-47. He pulled back the bolt enough to confirm that a round was chambered, smacked the magazine to make sure it seated. He took a position by the barn's open side door. From there he saw the police car where the two uninjured officers were firing. One of them ejected an empty magazine and slammed home a full replacement.

“Stefan, are you ready?” DuÅ¡ic asked.

“Ready.” Stefan sighted through the scope. The two extra cartridges between his fingers looked like the brass spikes of some ghastly medieval weapon.

“Fire!” DuÅ¡ic shouted.

The
razvodnik
s spewed a hail of bullets from their AKs. Nikolas pumped shot after shot from Dušic's handgun. Recoil jolted Stefan's shoulder. He racked his bolt to fire again.

Dušic charged from the barn. As he sprinted, he angled away from the line of fire. But he ran in a direction that brought the rear of the police cars into view. His vantage point also brought him within good distance to hit the two policemen still standing. He lifted the AK to his shoulder and held down the trigger.

Dušic's bullets stitched across the nearest officer. Rounds struck the man's hip, his armor-protected torso, and his neck. He never saw Dušic until he lay dying.

A round fired from the barn, probably by Stefan, struck the other officer in the arm. The man fell backward from his crouched stance, dropped his assault rifle. He twisted to place his right hand over the wound in his upper left arm. And he looked right into the muzzle of Dušic's rifle.

“Cease firing!” DuÅ¡ic shouted. He kept the AK leveled at the officer's head.

“Please,” the officer said. “Please.” Blood streamed across his fingers and dripped into the dirt.

Dušic held his fire.

AT THE SARAJEVO HOLIDAY INN
, Parson paced the lobby. Cunningham drummed his fingers on the armrest of a leather chair. Dragan kept checking his watch and looking at his mobile phone. The day had begun well: Gold and the Rivet Joint crew left to go fly. Almost as soon as they got the landing gear up, they received a solid hit on Dušic's phone. That luck reminded Parson of wading a stream and catching a salmon on the first cast. Police had been dispatched from a station somewhere up in northern Bosnia. They must have found something; they'd called for backup. But after that, nothing.

“Did they ever get any help?” Cunningham asked.

“I don't know,” Dragan said. “I want to get my guys up there, but it's out of my jurisdiction.”

“Can you get somebody to give you clearance?” Parson asked.

“Yeah, that's what I'm waiting for. My boss needs to get a green light from their boss.”

Their boss better get off his ass, Parson thought. When you lost contact with a unit, it usually meant very bad things. Just like when you lost contact with an airplane.

Finally, Dragan's cell phone chimed. He spoke for a few seconds in Serbo-Croatian. Then he closed the phone and said, “Let's move.”

Parson and Cunningham climbed into one of the two vans that carried Dragan's de facto SWAT team. They had come for a meeting, not an op, so Parson guessed they didn't have all their usual gear. But he watched with interest as they set up what equipment they did have. Parson compared their effort to stop some crazy son of a bitch from reigniting a war to aviators working to prevent an accident: If you took out one error, one link in the chain that led to disaster, then the disaster would not happen. In this case, the error that needed taking out was named Viktor Dušic.

Dragan sat in the back of the van across from Parson. He barked an order in his native language, and the driver pulled out of the parking lot. Four other Serbian police officers rode in the van. Two of them nodded to Parson and Cunningham, said “Hello” in thick Slavic accents. Parson supposed they knew few other words in English. He regretted that he'd not asked Irena how to offer thanks and greetings in Serbo-Croatian.

A hardside case rested on the floor at Dragan's feet. Dragan opened it to reveal a stripped-down sniper rifle. Parson had never seen a weapon quite like it. The rifle looked vaguely like a Dragunov: similar shape, with a PSO-1 scope. But a much bigger barrel than a Dragunov, an AK-47, or an SKS. The magazine seemed large, built for big cartridges. If anything, the gun appeared even meaner than a Dragunov.

“What the hell is that?” Parson asked the police commander.

“It's a Vintorez rifle,” Dragan said as he began to assemble the weapon. “The Russians make it.”

“What does it fire?”

“It shoots these.” Dragan slid an ammo box from under his seat and opened it. The rounds inside were nearly as thick as a man's finger. The brass had been necked out to accommodate a good-size bullet, and the cartridges reminded Parson of the large-caliber black-powder ammunition used by the old buffalo hunters. Parson pulled out one of the cartridges. It felt substantial in his hand. He turned it over and examined the head stamp. The stamp read
9X39MM
.

“Nine millimeter,” Parson noted. Not nearly the biggest bullet made, but large for a police or military rifle. And this ammunition differed from the nine-mil pistol bullets he knew well. These cartridges were longer and heavier, designed to penetrate body armor.

“It's a subsonic round,” Dragan said, “so you don't get that supersonic crack.”

That made sense to Parson. He saw that the Vintorez's noise suppressor didn't just screw into the muzzle; it was integrated with the entire barrel. Very quiet and very deadly.

“You're loaded for bear, that's for damned sure.”

“I got this on special order,” Dragan said. “Just about had to pound my fist on the quartermaster's desk, because the police don't normally issue these. But we're going against an arms dealer. No telling what that nut job keeps up his sleeve.”

To Parson, it still sounded strange to hear a Serbian police commander speak such flawless English and even use American idioms. But then he remembered Dragan had gone to school in the United States. The 1990s upheaval in the former Yugoslavia scattered a lot of people. Parson considered it his own country's good fortune that Irena had come to stay. And Serbia benefited because Dragan had left and come back. Parson liked this well-traveled, well-educated cop.

Maybe there was hope for this place after all. It just depended on who won out—the haters like Dušic and that idiot who'd gotten a beat-down from Cunningham, or the folks like Irena and Dragan who wanted a better future.

Parson could understand the roots of bigotry. After his C-130 had been shot down in Afghanistan and all his crewmates killed, he'd wanted to blow away every Muslim in the world. He'd probably still think like that, he conceded, if Sophia had not helped him work through his rage. She'd also acknowledged the evils of militant Islam, and she'd helped him put away one militant Islamist for a long, long time.

What he could not understand was how hate persisted down through generations. Bigotry with such longevity put him in mind of the great rafts of trash that floated across the oceans. He had flown over such collections of garbage: things thrown out and discarded, yet coalescing in the eddy of a far-flung current to create a new eyesore or worse.

Dragan's driver accelerated down an on-ramp to the E73. The outskirts of Sarajevo gave way to rural hills. Parson hoped local backup had arrived for the police who'd gone after Dušic; by the time Dragan's team could get there, it might be too late.

•   •   •

DUÅ IC SLUNG THE AK-47
over his shoulder and looked down at the wounded police officer. The man breathed heavily, as if he might hyperventilate. Eyes wide with fear, he stared up at Dušic while holding his hand over the bullet hole in his left arm. Blood slicked his fingers as he kept pressure on the wound. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The injury bled heavily enough to soak the officer's sleeve, but Dušic judged that the bullet had not broken the bone.

“What are you going to do with me?” the officer asked.

Dušic ignored the question.
“Razvodnik
s
,”
he called, “check the other policemen. We have a prisoner.” He kicked away the prisoner's assault rifle, and he reached down and took the man's sidearm. The officer did not resist. DuÅ¡ic checked the pistol's safety and stuck the weapon in his waistband.

Andrei, Nikolas, and the other men ran from the barn. Stefan remained in place behind his M24, maintaining overwatch. Dušic appreciated the proper procedure; police backup might arrive any moment. He needed to get his team out of the area, but first he needed some information. And he did not want to take the prisoner. Dušic would have to leave bodies and evidence here; he could not avoid it. But he did not wish to leave another body and more evidence somewhere else.

The
razvodnik
s examined the policemen. Andrei leaned into the police car farthest from Dušic. The result of Stefan's head shot must have sickened Andrei; he placed the back of his hand over his mouth for a moment. These men were supposed to be veterans, Dušic thought, but perhaps they had grown unused to the gore of battle. They would see much more if they lived long enough.

Andrei seemed to regain his composure. “All dead, sir,” he said.

“Good,” DuÅ¡ic said. “Help me get this prisoner into the barn.”

“Yes, sir.”

Andrei took the wounded man by his good arm. DuÅ¡ic held the officer by the fasteners on his body armor, and they pulled him to his feet. The man groaned in pain. “My friends,” he said. “You have murdered my friends.”

“Can you walk?” DuÅ¡ic asked.

“Yes. What do you want with me?”

“I am asking the questions here. Get into the barn.”

Blood must have pooled inside the man's sleeve, perhaps contained by the tight weave of tactical fabric. Gouts of it flowed from underneath his cuff and spattered over his hand. The officer staggered as he walked, and he leaned on Andrei. He'd apparently suffered more blood loss than Dušic had expected.

Inside the barn, Dušic found an old milk stool lying on its side. He set it upright in the middle of the floor.

“Sit,” he commanded.

Andrei eased the officer down onto the milk stool. The wounded man looked around at his captors.

“Just leave me alone,” he said. “You can get away if you leave now.”

“Let me worry about that,” DuÅ¡ic said.

“He is bleeding, sir,” Nikolas said. “Shall we bandage his wound?”

DuÅ¡ic considered the suggestion. Not a bad idea, really. He didn't want the prisoner to pass out from blood loss before interrogation. “Yes,” DuÅ¡ic said. “Go ahead.”

“There is a kit in the back of the vehicle,” Stefan said.

Nikolas went outside, and Dušic regarded the prisoner. The man wore the emblem of the ministry of internal affairs of the Serbian entity of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Dušic did not particularly like harming an officer wearing a Republika Srpska patch on his uniform, but duty sometimes required unpleasant tasks. Besides, this policeman represented a pale version of Republika Srpska, not the Greater Serbia that Dušic envisioned. Under Dušic's leadership, Republika Srpska would be born again.

Nikolas came back with the medical kit. Evidently, Stefan had bought it only recently; it was still wrapped in a shopping bag from a Sarajevo pharmacy. Nikolas removed the kit from the bag. Inside the kit he found a small pair of scissors. He cut away the prisoner's sleeve to reveal torn muscle tissue still oozing blood. The kit contained tubes and vials of ointments and antiseptics. Nikolas began fumbling through them.

“Just put a tight bandage on him so he stops bleeding,” DuÅ¡ic said.

“Yes, sir,” Nikolas said.

The prisoner watched as Nikolas wrapped the wound in gauze. Blood soaked through the cloth even as Nikolas added layers. When he finished, he tied the loose ends together in a square knot. A blotch of burgundy spread through the bandage from the inside, creeping through the gauze strand by strand. The wounded man would interpret the medical help as mercy, Dušic knew. Good.

“So tell me,” DuÅ¡ic said, “how did you know where to find us?”

The man looked up at DuÅ¡ic. “I cannot tell you that,” he said.

“You will tell me that, and you will do so quickly.”

The prisoner made no response. He simply gazed out a window, no doubt hoping to see his deliverance arrive. Dušic slapped him. The palm of Dušic's hand stung, and Dušic liked that. Surely the man's face stung worse.

“Look at me, fool,” DuÅ¡ic said. “Answer my question.”

The man ran his tongue across the inside of his lower lip. He spat a mixture of blood and saliva. “You know I cannot do that.”

DuÅ¡ic pulled the pistol from his waistband, clicked off the safety. “I will kill you if you do not.”

“Viktor,” Stefan said, “he is a Serb police officer.”

“So are the other officers we just shot. What is wrong with you? This man has information I need.”

Stefan looked stricken, and that worried Dušic. This was no time for Stefan or anyone else on the team to go soft. True, killing Serbs brought no pleasure. But this one and several more at the Patriarchate must die for Greater Serbia. Then the real battles could begin. When the war against the Turks resumed, Muslims would die in numbers that would make the 1990s war look like a skirmish.

Dušic knew he didn't have much time. He needed to make a tactical retreat out of here, but not before he learned how the police had located him. Maybe this officer did not fear a bullet to the head. The man was a Serb, after all, and even if he served a weak government, the courage of his ancestors flowed through his veins. A fine thing, really. Dušic would just have to give him something else to fear. He pointed to the pharmacist's plastic bag, now lying discarded amid the straw.

“Give me that,” he ordered. Nikolas handed him the bag.

With one hand, Dušic snapped the bag open. He still held the pistol in the other hand. He placed the bag over the prisoner's head and squeezed it tight around the man's neck.

The prisoner gasped, and the bag collapsed around his head. Plastic took the form of his nose and open mouth. He used his good arm to claw at the bag, and he tried to stand. Dušic forced him back down onto the milk stool. The prisoner struggled and kicked as he began to suffocate, but his injury and blood loss had left him too weak to offer real resistance.

Dušic snatched the bag off the man's head. The prisoner drew a ragged breath that trailed into a spasm of coughing. Sweat dripped from his nose and hair.

“We will take you with us and continue this all day,” DuÅ¡ic said. He had no intention of taking the man anywhere, but the statement would serve its purpose.

The prisoner shook his head, kept his eyes to the ground. “I cannot,” he said. “I cannot.”

DuÅ¡ic placed the bag over the policeman's head. “No!” the man shouted. The plastic muffled his cry. Once again, DuÅ¡ic squeezed the bag closed around his victim's neck.

The man writhed, convulsed. Dušic kept his fist tight on the bag for several more seconds. When he released his grip and removed the bag, the prisoner's lips had turned blue from cyanosis. The man sucked in air, filled his chest. As he exhaled, he hacked and spat.

“Son,” DuÅ¡ic said, “you are a police officer, not an intelligence agent. You have no state secrets; you could not harm your country if you wanted to. All I want to know is a little about your police procedures.”

The man shook his head. Dušic spread open the bag.

“No,” the officer said. “Please, no.”

“Your friends would not have you suffer to protect such mundane information. Just tell me how you found me.”