Hendricks found his voice. “Stop!” He waved up at them frantically. “I’m—”
The two Russians fired. Behind Hendricks there was a faint pop. Waves of heat lapped against him, throwing him to the ground. Ash tore at his face, grinding into his eyes and nose. Choking, he pulled himself to his knees. It was all a trap. He was finished. He had come to be killed, like a steer. The soldiers and the woman were coming down the side of the ridge toward him, sliding down through the soft ash. Hendricks was numb. His head throbbed. Awkwardly, he got his rifle up and took aim. It weighed a thousand tons; he could hardly hold it. His nose and cheeks stung. The air was full of the blast smell, a bitter acrid stench.
“Don’t fire,” the first Russian said, in heavily accented English.
The three of them came up to him, surrounding him. “Put down your rifle, Yank,” the other said.
Hendricks was dazed. Everything had happened so fast. He had been caught. And they had blasted the boy. He turned his head. David was gone. What remained of him was strewn across the ground.
The three Russians studied him curiously. Hendricks sat, wiping blood from his nose, picking out bits of ash. He shook his head, trying to clear it. “Why did you do it?” he murmured thickly. “The boy.”
“Why?” One of the soldiers helped him roughly to his feet. He turned Hendricks around. “Look.”
Hendricks closed his eyes.
“Look!” The two Russians pulled him forward. “See. Hurry up. There isn’t much time to spare, Yank!”
Hendricks looked. And gasped.