Ratcatcher - By Tim Stevens Page 0,59

pockmarking the ground around him.

In his ear Kendrick’s shout sounded distant in the aftermath of the shots. ‘Let’s go.’

Purkiss blinked, looked round. Kendrick’s left leg was black with blood below the knee, the trouser cuff shredded. The sleeves of his bomber jacket too were ripped, though his arms looked relatively unscathed. The collar of the jacket appeared to have protected his neck. The gun was an assault rifle, Purkiss saw, a Russian AK-74. Near Kendrick’s feet was the bloodied club he’d used to despatch the dog, which itself lay several feet away, its head almost flattened.

They sprinted back into the copse, Kendrick lurching, his injured leg dragging him back. When Purkiss showed signs of slowing Kendrick yelled, ‘Run, you idiot.’ Through the trees loomed the shape of the other man with the rifle, approaching from the opposite side, weapon raised. The clattering began an instant after Purkiss saw him, the man’s rifle switched to fully automatic fire rather than single-shot mode, and around them gouges and chocks were blasted out of the trunks and a shower of splinters erupted. Kendrick paused behind a tree, stepped out and quickly raised the rifle. He loosed off a burst of three shots. The man bellowed and dropped.

Purkiss reached the wall and his hands slapped against its hard smooth surface at the very moment the approaching group of men opened fire from the other side of the trees. The rain of gunfire smashed and chopped through the trees, making the whole copse shake and hiss like a single animate being. Ricochets whined off into the night like tiny fireworks. Purkiss jerked his head away as a stray shot sizzled past his face and chinked off the wall, sending slivers of stone across his cheek. He looked back and Kendrick crouched, waiting, the rifle in his hands. When two men appeared round the side of the copse he opened fire, fully automatic now, the impact flinging the men backwards and into one another. Another man had appeared round the other side and the man got a burst off which came close, so close, causing Purkiss to drop flat to the piney carpet at the foot of the wall. Kendrick threw himself flat on to his belly and fired from the ground. The man danced away in a grotesque pirouette and fell.

With a short run Purkiss leaped up and gripped the top of the wall and hauled his torso over the edge. He folded himself belly-down so that his legs were hanging over the outside and reached down to grab Kendrick’s hand. Kendrick passed up the AK-74 and Purkiss took it. With one hand he pulled on Kendrick’s, while with the other he pointed the rifle, all eight-plus pounds of it. Just as Kendrick was at the top of the wall and able to support himself another two men appeared round the trees, firing in mid-run. Purkiss squeezed the trigger, the recoil almost too much for him to control in a single-hand grip. The bursts went wild, over the men’s heads and into the trees, but it was enough to make them drop back. Purkiss flung the gun down to Kendrick who was already on the other side. He dropped down himself.

They ran, plunging into the mouth of the forest, lashed by branches and grabbed at by roots and cannoning here and there off trunks but not caring. They ignored the pain, oblivious to everything but the need to get away from the noises behind them, the shouts of the remaining men as they mounted the wall and gathered in pursuit.

*

Venedikt dragged a sleeve across his forehead, the sweat stinging in his eyes. From his right a man sobbed, one of the few hit who was alive. Another, more terrible sound, a low primeval howling, rose from further away, breaking off sharply as a shot came. One of the dogs, hanging on despite everything.

The air was hazed with the stench of blood and ordure and the muzzle gases from the weapons. In front of Venedikt the last two men clambered up the wall. Six of them. In a straight firefight it would have been enough. Now, in pursuit of two men through terrain in which agility and the ability to hide were important, they no longer had the upper hand.

He forced down the rage and thought quickly. Dobrynin was heading towards him at a lope, pushing his own gun into his belt with his undamaged hand.

‘We have lost four, Venedikt Vasilyevich.’

Venedikt listened to the dwindling clamour