Chapter Sixty-Three
“Let her go,” Nate growled.
The man shook his head and made a tsk sound. He wiggled his hand slightly to signify that he had his own pistol pressed against Ana’s head, and if Nate didn’t do as ordered, the man would kill her.
The implication was clear. Nate could kill him, but not before the man killed Ana. It was now a battle of wills, and looking at the man’s hardened face and cold eyes he knew it wasn’t a bluff.
“Put the gun down, Mr. Wilde. We both know you won’t risk Miss Metry’s life,” the man said.
Nate was confused. How the hell did the man know their names? He sounded as if he was Russian, which didn’t make any sense. Still, there was something familiar about him. The build. The eyes.
“You’re the one who attacked me in Germany,” Nate said coldly.
“Bravo. You were lucky, but it will not happen again.” His eyes shifted toward Shane and Wally. Shane had kept his hands up but was creeping ever closer with the intent of taking action. But the man was switched on and had caught it.
“The gun, Mr. Wilde. Or I will kill your girlfriend in three, two…”
“Alright, alright!” Nate said, stopping the countdown. He lowered the gun before dropping the magazine and racking the slide back, ejecting the round from the chamber.
“Toss it here,” he said, and Nate did as instructed. Without another word the man turned and shot Shane in the chest.
“You bastard!” Nate made a move as if to rush him, but the man pointed the gun in his direction.
Wally wasted no time. He closed the distance and caught Shane as he fell. “You’re alright, mate,” he said, gently lowering him to the ground. “I’ve got you.”
Nate could tell that Wally was going into medic mode.
If anyone could save Shane right now, it was him.
Nate had seen him do more with less. Wally unslung his medical bag and began taking out occlusive dressings, bandages, and a needle decompression kit.
The man flicked his eyes toward Wally, amusement on his face, and Nate understood the source. None of them were leaving here alive.
“I’ve suffered that wound before,” the man said, casually nodding toward Shane. “You might want to stay on top of it or your friend will die.”
“Who the hell are you?” Nate asked, his eyes still locked on their attacker.
“My name is Aleksandr Novikov, not that it is of any importance. I am like you, former Special Forces. Spetsnaz. Unlike you, I have made good decisions in this life.”
“And why are you hunting us? Is this about the city? Is this about Ubar?”
“Ubar.” Novikov rolled the name around in his mouth as if examining it. “No. I did not know about this city before today. I am here because of that.” He pointed the gun behind Nate.
Nate followed the direction of the barrel and looked over his shoulder at the thick black liquid. “You’re here for oil?” Nate asked, confused.
“Yes and no. It is, how you say, complicated.”
“Seems pretty simple from where I’m standing,” Nate said, his fists clenched.
“Indeed. You found a report about water that would have led the Saudi government to discover the lake we passed outside.” Novikov jerked his head toward the shoreline outside the walls of the city.
“Water is much more important to the Saudis than oil. They would have reneged on their commitment to sell the land to my employers for oil drilling.”
“So they paid you to kill anyone who found out about it,” Nate stated, the sound of gunfire outside raging closer.
“Correct.”
“Richter?” Nate was seething.
“Yes.”
Tears were flowing from Ana’s eyes. She looked down at the ground. “My father?” she asked quietly.
“Unfortunately yes, my dear,” Novikov answered softly but emotionlessly.
Ana began sobbing, and Nate felt the rage once again building inside him.
He glanced over and saw that Wally had applied an occlusive dressing to Shane’s chest, effectively sealing off the wound and stopping air from becoming trapped in the chest cavity and collapsing his lungs.
He was currently in the process of applying a needle decompression, a small needle inserted into the third intercostal space of the rib cage, which would relieve the air pressure. He turned back to Novikov.
“You son of a bitch.”
“Perhaps. But in a few minutes your friend outside will be dead, and you will follow. But first, I need to know who else you told about the report.” He brushed a strand of hair away that was matted to Ana’s face, which was moist with tears.
“Do not mourn your father, my dear,” he whispered. “You will soon be joining him.”
The rage must have been building in Ana as well.
The tears suddenly stopped, and Nate saw her eyes turn to steel.
In one smooth motion she snapped her head back, her dark hair flying with it.
She was at just the right height to hit Novikov in the chin, and he stumbled back as Ana wrestled out of his grasp and flung herself to the floor.
She had remembered Shane’s self-defense lesson from the boat and executed it perfectly.
Nate didn’t hesitate. He launched himself into Novikov, and the two men flew to the ground.
The Yarygin pistol came loose from the Russian’s hand and clattered across the stone floor, sliding into the dark pool of oil.
Novikov was momentarily surprised, but his experience kicked in and he rotated on top of Nate, who quickly wrapped his legs around him to put him in the closed guard.
Novikov threw several punches at Nate’s head, and he covered up to block his face and neck.
Ana had recovered and moved in to help, and she grabbed one of the Russian’s arms and yanked, trying to pull him off.
In turn he grabbed her by the neck, pulled her close to his face, and delivered a vicious headbutt.
Ana slumped to the ground, and Nate’s anger boiled over.
Her distraction had created an opportunity, and he managed to escape from under his foe and get to his feet. Novikov did the same and pulled out a wicked-looking blade from a sheath on his belt.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” he said, venom dripping from his voice. “You have cost me time and money. Now, I will make you suffer.”
Nate reached down to the back of his own belt and withdrew the Yarborough knife, finding it odd that this was the first time he had ever used it in combat. It felt comforting for some reason to be holding the knife that had been awarded to him for becoming a Green Beret, all those years ago.
Wally made a motion to stand, and Shane started coughing. Nate waved him off.
“Stay with Shane. Keep him alive.” He looked Novikov in the eyes. “I’ve got this.”
Wally returned and released the air valve on the catheter in Shane’s chest, allowing him to breathe again, but a puddle of blood was slowly growing. It seemed that there was a bleeder somewhere, and Wally furiously set about trying to find it.
Meanwhile, the two men circled each other, knives in hand.
Nate once again recalled the first rule of knife fighting: no matter what, you were going to get cut.
Then he thought about the second rule: control the knife hand.
He focused his peripheral attention on the blade in his opponent’s hand, while keeping his gaze locked on the dark eyes.
The former Spetsnaz soldier moved with powerful athleticism, and Nate knew he was in for a fight. This man was a trained killer. But then again, so was Nate.
Novikov lashed out with a downward stroke, aiming at Nate’s collarbone area, but he managed to jump out of the way. In return, Nate made a backhand upward slash that caught Novikov on the forearm, creating a thick red line. The Russian swore and yanked his arm back.
Each man made several more attempts at wounding the other, with upward and downward slashes and short, quick jabs at sensitive areas.
It was a zero-sum game, and the more they lashed out and countered, the more they learned about each other.
It would only be a matter of time before one of them got lucky with a strike and then had the advantage.
Using a short, powerful burst, Novikov rushed him, staying low and sweeping his blade left to right near his abdomen.
Nate waited for the sweep of the arm to pass and then lifted his leg and nailed his opponent with a front kick to the shoulder, which sent Novikov stumbling back.
This only seemed to make the Russian angrier, and he lunged forward with tremendous speed, narrowly hitting Nate’s left flank.
The knife cut shallowly into his skin, and he felt oozing blood instantly moisten his shirt.
Nate took advantage of the maneuver and trapped Novikov’s arm.
He now had him bent over and stretched out, and he delivered an upward knee strike to the Russian’s face.
Novikov threw his other hand up and blocked it, minimizing the impact.
Nate twirled his knife in his free hand to grab it with a reverse grip and moved to bring it down into the back of his opponent’s neck, but Novikov anticipated this and drove Nate forward with his powerful legs, knocking him off balance and pushing him toward the oil pit.
The hell with it, Nate thought. Novikov was stronger than he was.
It was time to use technique over brute strength, and for that he needed him disarmed.
He went high risk/high reward and dropped the Yarborough.
The former Green Beret used the now free hand to reach over and grab Novikov’s trapped wrist, absorbing vicious blows to his stomach from Novikov’s free hand.
With the wrist of Novikov’s knife hand in both of his, Nate stepped back, extending his opponent’s arm, and then twisted up and to his left, bending the man’s arm in an unnatural position. The knife fell from Novikov’s hand as he fell back onto his rear.
Nate thought he had him, but as soon as Novikov made contact with the ground, he continued rolling and flipped Nate over. Once again they were in an unarmed struggle, which Nate spent several hours practicing every week. But it was likely his opponent did as well.