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American would no doubt employ, quite possibly fatal. If the Tushe Gun wanted
to join the largely futile chase, then so much the better. Maybe he would fall
victim to
Kane's weapons, and old Boro would step into the power vacuum. He was much
easier to manipulate than his crazed son.
The Russian looked with distaste at the prone form of the big black man, lying
facedown and trussed up like a sheep. He regretted pistol-whipping Grant, but
having one of his bargaining chips loose on the hoof was enough.
Like almost everyone else who had achieved a position of authority in Russia,
Piotr Sverdlovosk had come up the ranks the hard way, by tooth and claw, by
knowing when to combine opportunity with profit. The only people he had ever
cared about were dead, and though he mourned their loss, he had no intention
of joining them anytime soon. At fifty-seven, he had outlived most of his
peers and he planned to do more than simply survive in the amount of time left
to him.
The situation in Kharo-Khoto offered too much opportunity and far too much
profit to allow himself to be distracted either by grief, respect or even
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sexual attraction. As darling Lenya had been attracted to Kane, Sverdlovosk
was drawn to the Baptiste woman. She was naive, true enough, almost innocent,
but she possessed a remarkable intellect and an inner reserve of strength that
aroused him.
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He knew that by appealing to her intellect and taking advantage of her
endearing naivete, he could manipulate her to support his plan to wrest away
the Tushe
Gun's dreams of empire and turn them into his own reality.
A harsh breath rasped out of the unconscious Grant. Sverdlovosk eyed him
doubtfully, then he knelt down beside him, keeping his gun in hand. If loyalty
was one of Baptiste's failings, then it wouldn't be to his advantage to allow
both of her companions to die particularly if he could save one of them from
suffocating by simply turning him over.
Grabbing a handful of the man's coat, Sverdlovosk heaved him over onto his
back so his breathing wouldn't be obstructed. The eyes were closed, and he
leaned forward, placing a forefinger on his neck to time the pulse. It was
steady and regular. A sudden sound outside the tent commanded his attention, a
crumping of an explosion, intermingled with a whooshing clap of displaced air.
He wryly noted the noise as characteristic of an implode grenade, one of the
death-dealing devices he had allowed the outsiders to keep in order to earn
their trust. He could hear cries of anger and pain and what he thought was the
Tushe
Gun's voice raised in a flurry of furious commands. Sverdlovosk reached for
the buttons of Grant's coat to relieve him of his combat harness.
Grant's eyes suddenly snapped open. He hissed "Survival and success" just as
his upper body jackknifed from the floor, his head thrust forward.
Like a battering ram, the crown of Grant's skull smashed into Sverdlovosk's
forehead. Grabbing at air, Sverdlovosk toppled over on his back, his blaster
flying from his hand. Before his body settled on the floor, Grant's legs
darted
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Axler, James - Outlanders 02 - Destiny Run forward, hooking around his throat
in a scissors hold.
Teeth bared in a grimace of fury and exertion, Grant applied the pressure,
devoting the strength in his powerful leg muscles into choking the life out of
the man. Knots, lumps and ropes of sinew rippled along his massive legs.
A drawn-out, gagging gasp burst from Sverdlovosk as he clawed frantically at
Grant's boots, then grasped his ankles and tried to wrench them apart. When
that failed, he swatted out for his handblaster, but it was far out of his
reach. His legs thrashed as if he were running in place.
Grant continued the relentless pressure. Sverdlovosk's eyes distended, his
tongue slowly protruded, his face darkened. At the precise moment his clawing
fingers went slack, Grant disengaged the scissors hold, lifting one foot and
pistoning it full into the Russian's face. The man flopped over, limbs
boneless and motionless.
His face bathed in perspiration, chest heaving, Grant glared around the yurt,
saw the sword lying beside the black-robed, throat-slashed corpse and scooted
over to it on the seat of his pants. By feel alone, he plucked the weapon from
the carpet and used the blade to saw through the thongs binding his wrists. He
kept an eye on Sverdlovosk while he did, his ear pitched to the sounds of
distant tumult outside the tent.
He managed to slice through the rawhide with only a couple of nicks and he
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immediately lunged for the Russian's handblaster. It was a Tokarev 9 mm, with
a full eight-shot clip in the magazine. He cycled a round into the chamber,
then gingerly explored the tender place on the back of his head. He cursed
when he saw blood shining on the fingers of his glove.
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Axler, James - Outlanders 02 - Destiny Run
Sverdlovosk's blow hadn't rendered him senseless, but the gun barrel had
lacerated his scalp and put him in a daze for a couple of minutes. Grant stood
over the prostrate Russian, prodding him with a foot. A moan bubbled up past
his cyanotic blue lips. His lower lip was cut and bleeding, and the stain of a
bruise was slowly spreading over his face. But the treacherous bastard was
still alive.
Grant aligned the man's curly-haired head with the bore of the Tokarev, finger
tightening on the trigger. As he did, a shadow of motion slid over the open
portal of the yurt. Grant whirled, leading with the blaster, flame, noise and
a copper-
jacketed bullet blooming from it. He had only the briefest of impressions of a
jade face before the Tushe Gun hurled himself backward.
A loud shriek erupted outside the tent. With the short sword in hand, Grant
bounded to the far wall, kicking the plush cushions aside. He slashed the hide
covering in a two-stroke X pattern and ripped his way out of the yurt. He
thought about tossing one of his grens behind him, just to test them, but he
decided to exercise discretion and run.
He stayed in the shadows as he sprinted into the roofless palace, leaping
across exposed areas. The sun was almost down, and the moon was nowhere in
sight, so he fumbled in his pocket for his dark-vision glasses. Though he
heard a lot of yelling, it was on the opposite side of the courtyard, outside
the gates.
He encountered none of the Mongols, and he wasn't ashamed of his relief.
Though small in stature, they were powerful and bred for war, not like the
slagjackers and jolt-walkers he had dealt with back in Cobaltville.
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