The New Adventures of Jim Anthony, Super-Detective Page 9

  Anthony tugged experimentally at the cords that bound him. He eyed Koschei balefully, but said nothing. Koschei smiled coldly. “I would cut out your tongue, but you do not seem inclined to wag it. Besides, I think I will enjoy your screams, as they mingle with those of your woman.” Koschei dropped onto all fours, his mouth close to Anthony’s ear. “I will throw her into the pit. She will freeze in those waters, as I did in the snow. I do not think she will come back, though. You and she shall cross the river of death together. That is my gift to you.”

  He flipped the knife around and rammed it into the roof, mere inches from Anthony’s ear. Koschei rose to his feet and turned away without a second glance, dropping off of the roof of the temple onto the top of one of the trucks. He began to bark orders.

  Anthony cocked his eye at the circling eagles, and then craned his neck so that he could see the barest edge of his hunting knife, where it stood quivering slightly next to his head. Koschei had rammed it down into the ancient stone, and a series of cracks spread out from the blade. The roof was weak; Anthony gave another tug of his bonds, and felt the curve of the dome beneath his back shift, ever so slightly.

  Below, he heard Dolores’ curses as she was manhandled toward the pit, the growl of the trucks’ engines, and the cough of the train, somewhere out on the tracks, as it prepared to move. Overhead, the eagles shrieked and began to drift downwards, great wings carrying them gracefully on the wind. He didn’t have much time. Anthony closed his eyes. He relaxed, and rotated his wrists. There was barely a half inch of slack, but it would have to do.

  He took a breath, and using his heels and palms, levered himself up as far as he could go. Then, with as much force as he could muster, he slammed himself back against the crumbling stonework. Pain shot through him, and his eyes sprang open. The eagles had grown closer, and their shadows passed over him, blotting out the sun for a moment.

  The roof shifted beneath him as he repeated his action. The eagles swooped lower, their cries stinging his ears. His mind flashed back to Shooter’s Island again, and the ragged red mess of Sergei Sirko. He struck the roof again, ignoring the pain, ignoring everything but the slight shift of the surface beneath him.

  The talons and hooked beaks of the eagles grew larger and larger, occupying the scope of his vision, and his heart hammered in his chest as he gave one final, convulsive heave. The crack of the stone filled his ears, drowning out the frustrated shrieking of the birds. They hurtled upwards and away as Anthony tumbled down in a shower of stone, dust, and support timbers. He didn’t have far to fall, but the landing wasn’t the softest he’d ever had.

  Fighting to pull air into his bruised lungs, he rose from the rubble after retrieving his knife from where it lay amongst the stones and staggered through the cloud of dust. His body was streaked with blood and his clothes with grime, and every joint ached with a dull pain. He stumbled out of the ruin, and caught sight of Dolores being hoisted up by her shoulders and ankles. She had been gagged and bound, and her eyes widened at the sight of him. Her captors swung her back and forth as she began to kick and squirm.

  “Dolores,” Anthony roared. As he ran, he hurled his hunting knife like a spear. It skidded across the hip of one of the men, and he staggered into the pit with a yelp, dragging Dolores with him! Anthony cursed himself as he sprinted forward. The remaining man turned and spread his arms, as if to grapple with Anthony, but the force of the latter’s charge carried them both over the edge of the pit and into the rising water below.

  The water was cold enough to steal Anthony’s breath, and his bare flesh prickled and went numb. Cold as it was, the Russian still had plenty of fight in him, however, and he drove blow after blow into Anthony’s sides and belly, working him over as they struggled in the water.

  Anthony got a grip on his opponent’s throat. Normally, Anthony did everything he could to avoid taking a life. But sometimes, there was no other option. With a single flex of the cable-like muscles of his forearms, he crushed the man’s trachea and wrung his neck. He shoved the body aside and rose to his feet. Water from the river filled the pit, but it was only waist height. He swiped water out of his eyes. “Dolores,” he shouted, “Dolores!”

  “Here!” she spluttered, splashing. She was sitting in the water, her chin barely clearing the line. Her teeth chattered. She raised her still bound hands. “Jim, I—look out!”

  Anthony twisted about awkwardly as the second Russian, trailing blood, lunged at him with his own knife. Anthony clapped his palms together on the blade, trapping it. His leg shot up and he drove his foot into his attacker’s belly, knocking him back with a splash. Anthony flipped the knife up and caught the hilt even as the Russian rose to his feet with an inarticulate cry and came at him again. Anthony ducked under the wild blow and drove the knife into the man’s ribs, angling the blade upwards toward the heart. The Russian collapsed atop him, coughing and shaking. Anthony stepped back and allowed him to slide off of the blade. He stared down at the body for a moment. Then, almost absently, he wiped the blade of his knife clean on his trousers and turned back toward Dolores. “Hold on, I’m coming,” he said.

  Quickly, he cut her bonds and swung her up onto his back. “I’m f-f-freezing,” she muttered into his ear. “G-get me out of here.”

  “Working on it,” Anthony said as he sunk his knife into the dirt wall of the pit. “Enjoy your vacation?”

  “Not in the least. Remind me to complain to the travel bureau,” Dolores coughed. Anthony smiled. If she was joking, then she was all right. He concentrated on climbing. Even with Dolores’ added weight and the ache in his limbs, he managed to scale the pit and clamber out. Dolores rolled off of him, but froze before she could get to her feet. Anthony looked at her, and then around. Two of Koschei’s men stalked slowly toward them from either side of the car Anthony and Gentry had arrived in, rifles levelled. “I take it back,” Dolores muttered, “Drop me back down in the hole.”

  The men readied their weapons. Anthony tensed, ready to hurl himself over Dolores. He was muscular enough to absorb most of the shots, if he angled himself correctly. He lunged for her as the guns barked.

  Anthony cracked an eye. He looked down at Dolores. “Are you hit?”

  “No, but I think you squashed me,” Dolores wheezed. Anthony quickly checked her over, and saw that other than the bruises and scrapes he’d noticed earlier, she was unhurt. Relief flooded through him, and he pulled her to him.

  “Better than the alternative,” he said shakily. He looked up. Both gunmen were down and dead, their blood pooling between them. Gentry stepped around from behind the car, and lowered his smoking pistol. He pulled open his coat, revealing the armored vest that had stopped the bullets meant to kill him. He coughed and leaned against the car. His face was pale as he rubbed his chest beneath the vest.

  “That hurt,” he croaked.

  “Would you rather be dead?” Anthony said. He sheathed his knife and helped Dolores to her feet. He had insisted that Gentry wear an armored vest, on the likelihood that Koschei would decide to shoot one of them. He’d worn one himself, though it was lighter than Gentry’s, and designed so as not to impede his reflexes.

  “Well, when you put it like that,” Gentry said. He rummaged in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. “What now?”

  Anthony started to trot toward the gateway. Both trucks were gone, but he could smell the stink of their exhaust on the air. Barely twenty minutes had passed since he’d freed himself. The train wouldn’t be that far away. “Now I go after them. You two gather up the weapons our friends there dropped, and follow in the car. I’ll stop the train, or I won’t. If I don’t make it—”

  “Hell with that,” Gentry said, lighting a cigarette. “What, you’re going to run after the train when we got a perfectly good car here? This heap’s still got a few miles left or I’m an Englishman.” He climbed into the car and cranked it. The engine stuttered and growled to life. Gentry grinned. “We’re lucky that Cossack decided not to fill this heap full of l
ead out of spite.”

  “Why bother? As far as he was concerned, we were all as good as dead.” Anthony turned. “And it’s not just the train. There’s two trucks full of Koschei’s men out there.”

  “That’s what guns are for,” Dolores said. She had torn a strip from her coat and tied her wet hair back out of her face. As Anthony watched, she pried a rifle out of the hands of one of the men Gentry had shot and then began to strip him of his bandolier of ammunition. “Catch, Jim,” she said as she tossed him the rifle and the bandolier. As he scrambled to catch them, she was already hefting the other dead man’s weapon. She recovered the second corpse’s bandolier and pulled it on. Then she stripped the body of the pistol holstered on its waist. Rifle cradled in the crook of her arm, she checked the ammunition cylinder of the scavenged revolver. She slapped the cylinder back and into place and looked up, to see Anthony staring at her in bemusement. “What?” she said.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever loved you more,” he said. Tossing the rifle to Gentry, he took her in his arms and kissed her deeply, and passionately. Dolores didn’t resist, and she flung her arms about his neck. Heat filled the small space between them as he felt every worry and fear that had weighed him down since Dolores had been taken in New York evaporate. He crushed her to him, and he felt her respond. Her lips bruised his as her eyes burned into his own. They stood that way for some time, until Gentry coughed politely.

  Anthony pulled away from Dolores reluctantly. “Come on,” he said, “We’ve got a train to catch.”

  13.

  The car shot out of the courtyard of the ruined temple, Gentry behind the wheel. Anthony, crouched on the back, held tight to his perch with one hand and pointed toward the train track. “Follow the track, Tom!”

  “This ain’t my first rodeo,” Gentry said, forcing the accelerator down as far as it could go. Dust billowed up from around their wheels. Dolores sat in the front seat, a rifle in her lap.

  As Anthony had thought, Koschei hadn’t gotten far. He could see the train crawling down the track, heading north. There was no telling where Koschei was going. A heretofore unknown airfield, perhaps—there were any number of bush pilots in this part of the world. He reminded himself to beat an answer out of the madman, when he got his hands on him.

  Where he was going wasn’t as important as what he intended to do with his recovered gold once he got there. A man like Koschei with as much money as Anthony suspected was in that train car could do a lot of harm in the world.

  But the train wasn’t the only thing ahead of them. The two trucks Koschei had brought were rumbling alongside the slower moving train. One was clearly empty, its passengers likely now on the train. The other had what looked to be two men in the back, both of whom were gesticulating at the approaching car in obvious agitation. “Dolores,” Anthony began as they drew close to the trucks.

  “Rear wheel,” Dolores said, rising from her seat and balancing the length of the rifle on the top of the windscreen. She fired and worked the bolt, expelling the spent casing. The left rear wheel of the empty truck burst with a loud sound. The truck veered as the driver momentarily lost control. Dolores fired again, taking out the right rear wheel as well. The truck rattled over the train track, out of control. It toppled onto its side as it cleared the track and slid to a halt in a cloud of dust.

  Bullets spanged off the hood and passenger side door of the car as the second truck slowed. The duo in the back fired again, and the windshield became a spider web of cracks. Dolores yelped and hunkered down in her seat as Gentry fought with the wheel to keep the car from sharing the first truck’s fate. Anthony hunched forward, his muscles quivering like plucked piano wires. “Get us close, Tom!” he shouted.

  “Your wish is my command,” Gentry roared, spinning the wheel. The car nosed forward, bumping up onto the railroad track and off again as it closed in on the truck. Anthony climbed over the seats and vaulted the windshield. His feet barely touched the hood of the car before he was hurtling into the back of the truck as if fired from a cannon. He caught one of the men around the throat as he landed, hooking him with his forearm. He pivoted and sent the hapless gunman flying out of the truck. The second man lashed out at him with the stock of his rifle. Anthony caught the blow on his palm and wrenched the weapon from the man’s hands. The gunman gawped in shock and Anthony seized the opportunity to knock him senseless with a hard right to the jaw. He stepped over the unconscious man and tore aside the tarpaulin that separated the driver from the rear of the truck.

  “Good afternoon,” Anthony said, as the edge of his hand chopped down on the back of the startled driver’s neck. “I’m commandeering this truck. I’ll only be a moment. Thank you.” With one hand he hauled the unconscious man out of the seat and hurled him into the back, even as he caught the steering wheel and sent the truck drifting toward the train.

  When he judged that it had drawn close enough, he kicked open the driver’s side door. A moment later, Anthony sprang from the open door toward the rear of the train. Every muscle in his mighty frame strained to propel him toward his destination. His hand stretched out and, at the last possible moment, he caught hold of the boxcar and swung himself up. Behind him, the truck spun around as its front fender was caught a glancing blow by the train, and it careened in the opposite direction.

  Without pause, Anthony climbed up to the top of the car, moving smoothly now. He drew his knife and crept across the vibrating roof of the train. The cold air slashed at his bare flesh, but he ignored it. Hunting knife in hand, he made his way toward the gap that marked where the car containing the gold had been hooked to the fuel car. It would be a matter of moments to release the locking mechanism and separate the cars.

  As he reached the gap, a revolver barked. Anthony staggered back, and was nearly whipped from his perch by the motion of the train. He hit the roof and was forced to anchor himself with his knife. The train was picking up speed. Koschei strode awkwardly across the top of the coal, causing tiny black avalanches as he moved. He took aim with his pistol and fired again. Splinters of metal peppered Anthony’s face. Koschei smiled at him and shouted, “You are stronger than I gave you credit for, Mr. Anthony!”

  “Happy to disappoint you,” Anthony said. He readied himself. One quick lunge, and he might be able to make it. It’d be a risk, but if he could take Koschei down, it was worth it. Before he could do more than ready himself, however, a bullet struck the roof near his foot. Anthony rolled to the side and looked back the way he’d come. A trio of men were climbing up onto the car. One carried a rifle, while the other two had only knives.

  “Take him,” Koschei snarled.

  Anthony tore his blade free of the roof and bobbed to his feet as the first of the men reached him. His opponent’s knife slid perilously close to his ear as he weaved aside and caught the man’s wrist. With a simple squeeze, he rendered the man’s arm a numb lump of meat. His foot lashed out and caught a bent knee, dislocating the kneecap. Anthony gave the wounded man a gentle shove. He fell with a shriek and, in falling, he tangled up the feet of his knife-wielding companion. Both men tumbled from the roof of the train, vanishing with barely a whisper of a scream.

  The gunman set himself to fire, but Anthony was on him in a moment. His blood was like ice in his veins now, and he could feel his perceptions narrowing to a sharp point. He slapped the rifle barrel aside and drove an elbow into the man’s face. He heard the crack of a nose breaking and then the man was gone. Anthony heard the scrape of boot leather on the metal roof and whirled.

  Koschei came in low, with lupine grace. He seemed to flow across the roof of the car, knife extended. Anthony jerked aside, and the keen blade barely missed carving a red canyon across his shoulder. His own knife found nothing but cloth as he slashed at Koschei’s belly. The Russian stepped back and then lunged forward. He wove a glittering web between them, striking like a snake. Anthony parried a blow and edged back. Koschei came on again and again, attacking ceaselessly. He showed no fear, no worry, and
his face was a placid mask.

  They circled one another, the roof of the car shuddering beneath their feet. Anthony could hear nothing save the pounding of his own heart and the clack-clack-clack of the train. The wind caressed him with chill talons. Koschei’s eyes held no hint of his next move. It was as if Anthony were staring into a black mirror. Physically, they were too evenly matched. Koschei had reach on him, but his footing was less certain on the attack. Anthony needed to distract him, to move the fight to another level. “What now?” he said, pitching his voice to carry.

  Koschei cocked his head. “Now? Now I kill you,” he said.

  “And then what? A quiet retirement to Guatemala with your gold?” Anthony asked. Koschei was too much like his eagles—he moved too quickly not to be acting on instinct. Everything he had done to this point spoke of a strong, murderous intuition the likes of which Anthony had, thankfully, encountered only rarely in his career. Even Rado Ruric, at his worst, had had goals and plans beyond the immediate. Koschei drew strength from his single-mindedness, like a train powering down the track. He was a juggernaut of hatred and obsession. But, if he could be forced to jump his track, he might falter.

  “What matter is it of yours, dead man?” Koschei said.

  “If I’m going to die, I’d like to at least know in what cause,” Anthony said.

  Koschei licked his lips and chuckled. “What cause? Why, in my cause—what other could there be? What better cause than to die for me?” He spun the knife across his fingers in a display of skill that made Anthony’s gut tighten. “I will use this gold for the purpose it was destined for—to set a Tsar upon the throne of Russia once more. But I will not be a placid, naïve Romanov… no! I will be an Ivan, terrible and all powerful. The continent squirms under the tread of jackboots, and while Stalin’s eyes are drawn west, I will ride from the east with fire, sword, and shot. I will break the Bolsheviks, and shatter their petty state, to replace it with something as cold, hard, and wild as the land into which I was reborn—a red Shambhala, where tranquility is bought in blood!” He stretched to his full, impressive height. “I will build my Shambhala on bones and gold, one city at a time, until none is left to gainsay me. And your bones, Mr. Anthony, will be but the first!”