Riders of the Pale Horse by T. Davis Bunn Page B

week,” Robards commanded. “But if they’ll help us load the trucks, each will receive a two-week bonus, cash, when we pull out of here. Tell them our destination is the highlands and we’re racing the clouds.”
    The news of a bonus satisfied all but one burly man with bad teeth and a wandering eye. He gestured threateningly with his rifle, stationing himself between the trucks and the schoolhouse.
    Reverend Phillips said worriedly, “Perhaps it would be best if we went inside and discussed this a bit longer.”
    â€œThat’s a great idea,” Robards agreed, his eyes on the man blocking his way. “You go right ahead, Reverend. We’ll be along directly.”
    The parson took a step, realized no one was following his lead, and stopped.
    The courtyard grew very still. Robards stared at the truculent man, and for a second time Wade saw the casual veneer stripped away. So did the man, and for a moment his resolve weakened. He cursed the other guards for leaving him isolated. Then he swung his rifle around to the ready.
    Robards held out a hand toward Wade without taking his eyes off the resistant guard. “Give me the warehouse keys,” he said quietly.
    The keys danced slightly in Wade’s trembling hand, sounding like little bells in the suddenly still air.
    The guard’s gaze slid away from Robards at the sound, a glance lasting less than half a heartbeat, but it was all Robards needed. He moved so fast that his actions melted into onecontinuous flow. Suddenly he was standing with the rifle in his hands, and the guard was lying unconscious at his feet.
    The elder laughed a creaking bark and clapped his hands at the feat. Robards tossed him the rifle, which he caught one-handed, as though expecting it all along. Robards said, “Tell the old man he’s welcome to join us if a guide’s pay would interest him.”
    â€œTruly I could find the passes in fog or blinding snow,” the tribesman replied smoothly, and swept a hand out to include all his clansmen. “Alas, I must see to the well-being of those who rely upon me for bread and hearth.”
    â€œHe’s just upping the price,” Robards said when Wade had translated. “Tell him we’ve got to get these trucks loaded. Then we’ll get down to brass tacks.” He pointed to the clouds gathering among the high peaks and said, “His first duty is to make all these guys understand that we’re racing the wind.”
    Once the loading had begun, Robards had settled himself on one of the trucks and directed traffic, sending his chosen band out on a score of errands and in the process firmly establishing himself as leader. Mikhail had been persuaded to join them as guide. The other guards had been paid off and sent packing, with Mikhail standing next to Robards to back him up. The taxi driver, Anatoly, was summoned and then dispatched again—first to collect Robards’ belongings from the hotel and then to purchase food—before receiving final payment. Wade was sent to set up a rendezvous with the Chechen trader, then to buy maps, and finally to purchase a money belt for all the remaining dollars.
    The parson was loathe to see the Red Cross funds drive off into the hazy distance with a total unknown, but Robards was insistent. If there was trouble, he explained, either for themselves or the ones they were being sent to supply, their only hope of escape might well be a ready fund of valuta, or hard currency. Wade ended the hand-wringing argument by simply walking away from it, the cash strapped to his waist in his newly acquired money belt.

    The caravan passed the blockhouse apartments ringing Grozny just as the sun touched the horizon. As promised, the Chechen trader was waiting for them in an outcrop of trees beyond the only petrol station on that side of the city. They topped up one truck from the fuel cans strapped above the rear wheels. Mikhail took the other truck