CHAPTER 19
A TRAP IN THE FOG
Nero’s plan was laid out in his mind, cold and surgical as always.
His fingers were already touching the wooden grips of his modified Colt Patersons.
Elena kept her eyes fixed on the soldier at the picket line, measuring the distance for the strike.
The fog crept between the giant redwoods, creating the perfect setting for a silent execution.
They were so focused on the four men around the fire that they forgot the golden rule of the wilderness: an experienced scout never walks alone.
The sound that broke the trio’s concentration did not come from the clearing ahead.
It came from behind. Clack-clack-clack-clack.
The dry, coordinated echo of twelve Berdan rifle bolts being worked at once froze the air.
Less than three metres from Gideon’s back the grey fog seemed to solidify. An entire line of Russian infantry, in the same heavy olive-green uniforms, appeared like ghosts among the trees.
They had not come down the mountain; they had already been patrolling the perimeter of the base.
And now twelve long, sharpened bayonets were pointed directly at the heads of the three renegades.
No way out. “Not one more millimetre, amerikantsy,” ordered a thick voice, dragged out by a heavy and authoritarian Russian accent.
A high-ranking officer in a stiff military cap and a coat with fur epaulettes took a step forward.
He held a Smith & Wesson revolver of .44 calibre aimed steadily at Nero’s chest. Gideon let the wrench drop into the mud with a dull thud, raising his shaking arms at once.
“I’m only the mechanic!” the inventor stammered, his eyes wide behind the goggles.
“I only look after the horses!” Elena locked her teeth, her knuckles white with the force she was putting into the handle of her whip.
She glanced sidelong at Nero, waiting for a miracle, an impossible movement, any signal at all to fight.
But Nero stayed still. His glacial blue eyes weighed the situation in one second: the rotating reaper was under its cover on the pack horse’s saddle, out of reach of his hands.
Twelve military rifles were cocked at point-blank range.
Any attempt to draw the Colts would end with three bodies turned into sieves before the first shot.
Slowly, with a composure that impressed even the Russian officer, Nero raised both gloved hands to shoulder height, holding them well away from his heavy holsters.
“Intelligent,” murmured the Czar’s officer, showing a cynical smile beneath a thick moustache.
“A man who knows when he has already lost.” Disarmed.
At the officer’s signal, four soldiers came forward with brutality.
Nero was the first. They tore both Patersons off his belt, along with the cavalry sabre and even the knife hidden in his boot.
Elena let out a harsh curse in Spanish when one of the men violently pulled her double-barrelled pistol away and shoved her down onto her knees in the mud.
Another group of soldiers ran to the horses.
One of them hauled the waterproof tarpaulin off the pack horse and let out a shout of surprise at the sight of the steel frame and the ten-barrel carousel of the rotating reaper.
The officer came up to the modified weapon and touched the polished bronze with gloved fingers, his eyes shining with a mixture of astonishment and greed.
“Well, what have we here?” The officer looked from Nero to Gideon. “Smugglers of American military technology. Commander Volkov will be very interested to learn how you came by this… and what you intended to do with it.”
Russian soldiers brought heavy cast-iron manacles and bound the wrists of Nero, Elena and Gideon with short, clattering chains.
The four soldiers who had been at the fire earlier now joined the main group, laughing at the easy capture.
Nero, even with his wrists chained and bayonets all around him, did not lower his head.
Under the brim of his hat, his cold eyes stayed fixed on the officer.
They had been captured, disarmed, and taken in the enemy’s own back yard.
“Tie them behind the horses,” the Russian officer ordered, putting his revolver away. “We march straight for Fort Ross. We have guests for the winter execution.”
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