“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.
