The Wolves of Chernobyl Are Hungry
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The rotor noise makes it impossible to hear each other, despite the fact I was promised we'd be traveling in one of those stealth helicopters.

Hell knows I paid a fortune for the damn perk. "Oh yes, Mr. Lawson. This is stealth," the pilot had assured me and my group before we took off from the rundown airport just outside the containment zone. "They will not hear us coming." I have serious doubts about that, as I watched two of my colleagues struggle to hold a conversation. We weren't even offered headphones so we could talk over the radio or comms or whatever they call it.

We've spent maybe two hours in the air when the pilot shouts something and gives us all a thumbs up. "What did he say?" Torsten Collins asks as he leans across the bench seat to shout close to my ear. "I don't know!" I shout back, then pat Torsten's arm and lean across the small gap between the two bench seats that make up the passenger hold of the helicopter. Our guide, Mikhail Goronski, has his eyes closed and I go to tap him on the knee.

His hand shoots out and grips my wrist just as my fingertips are about to touch his fatigues. "He said we will arrive shortly," Mikkel says without opening his eyes. He lets go of my wrist. "Sit back, relax. You have nothing to worry about." "Never said I was worried!" I shout over the rotor noise. His eyes open and he fixes me with a hard stare. The ice blue of his irises catches what little light the hold has and I smile at him.

giving him that grin that has won me hundreds of court cases back in Connecticut. Mikel doesn't grin back. "You sound worried," Mikel says. "How can you tell over all this stealth?" I laugh. He doesn't laugh. Mikel's a tough cookie, that's for sure. But so am I, and so are my colleagues. Collectively, we have over 75 years of legal experience and are the partners of one of the most successful litigation law firms in the tri-state area.

None of us even flinch when we go on head-to-head with the big Manhattan firms. And between us, we've gone big game hunting on every single continent in the world. I've personally bagged two bull elephants, and both of them were probably bigger than the house Mikel lives in. So, tough cookie or not, he's picked the wrong group to try to intimidate. "You said you served," Randolph Black says from the same bench seat as Mikel.

He leans in close to the man, a move I've watched him do a million times during depositions. "Why aren't you serving now? Your country's at war with the Russians, are we?" Mikhail responds, twisting his neck slowly so he faces Randolph head on. "I had not noticed." To his credit, Randolph does not ease back even a millimeter. He simply nods and waits. Mikhail waits as well.

and I'm busy watching this standoff when the helicopter suddenly lurches to the right. Randolph grabs a strap that hangs from the ceiling. I brace my arm against the door on my side. Mikel sighs and stands up. He pushes past Randolph and squeezes his bulk between the gap in the pilot and co-pilot's seats. Randolph gives me and Torsten that look he gets when he's annoyed by a waiter or dealing with a new caddy. Torsten leans close to me again.

"Randy is out for blood!" he shouts in my ear. "Mikhail better get back on his good side." "Yeah, it'd be a shame if there was an accident." We smirk and laugh. Randolph purses his lips and nods. He may not be able to hear us, but I can tell he knows what we're saying. Getting on Randolph's bad side is not a smart move for anyone. While hunting in Madagascar, Randolph pistol-whipped a teenager for sneezing just before he was going to take a shot.

He yanked that .45 from his hip and slammed the butt into the kid's temple like he was trying to crush a roach. We all heard the crunch just before the kid collapsed into the dirt. The other guides were like his uncles or something, who knows with these people. And they picked that kid up and walked him the mile or so to the waiting trucks. It set us back three hours that day, and you can be sure I deducted that from our payment, plus a little extra for the blown shot the kid caused.

I never did find out what happened to that teenager. He's probably drooling into a cup in some thatched hut while pissing his pants every time someone reaches for their hip. Maybe he learned his lesson, I hope so. Otherwise he needs to just call it a day and give that drool cup to someone worthwhile.

"What's so funny?" Randolph yells across from me. "Madagascar!" Randolph smirks, then looks at Mikael as he retakes his seat. "But," Mikael asks, seeing Randolph staring at him, "do you have more insight into my country's troubles? That's why they called the fight between the Protestants and the Catholics in Northern Ireland!" James shouts. I lean forward so I can see him past Torsten.

He's wedged himself into the corner by his door and looks pretty damn comfortable. I swear, that man can look relaxed anywhere in the world, no matter the circumstances. "What the hell are you talking about?" I yell. "The IRA! The Irish! They call the war the Troubles!" "I am not Irish," Miguel says. "No, I suppose you aren't." James responds with a nod. "Just making a comment on your comment."

"Comments on comments," Randolph says and pumps his fist in the air. "Comments on comments!" The rest of us shout and pump our own fists. Except for Torsten. He's half a second late. "What was that?" Mikhail asks, looking back and forth between us. He doesn't look confused. He doesn't even look interested in our answer. For my decades of observing human behavior, I'd say he's the kind of guy who doesn't like to be left out of something.

"It's an inside joke," I tell him. He frowns. "A joke only the four of us understand, although Torsten always fucks it up." "A waste of a joke, then, if only four people know it," Mikkel says, and closes his eyes as he leans back against the seat. "We will land very soon." "How soon?" Torsten asks. "Very soon," Mikkel replies. "Do not worry. No one is worried." I snap. Randolph frowns at me.

I roll my eyes. He rolls his. "Good," Randolph says to Mikel. "We didn't pay for a helicopter ride. We paid to hunt some wolves." Mikel doesn't respond. "Hey, did you hear me?" Randolph says louder. "We're paying to hunt wolves, so we better get to that sooner rather than later." Mikel holds up his right thumb, then lets it fall back into his lap. Randolph and I roll our eyes at each other again.

Some people inflate their place in life, and Mikael seems to be one of the unfortunates who believes his place is on equal footing with those who pay for his services. It'd be awful if he accidentally found out how wrong he is. The rotor noise changes, and the smooth but loud whirr turns to a high-pitched whine. "See?" Mikael says. "You get your sooner rather than later." "That's not exactly the correct response to that phrase," Torsten says.

Mikel shrugs. The helicopter banks to the right, then begins to slowly turn until we are over what looks like an empty field. It's hard to tell in the darkness. My assumption is proven correct the moment we touch down, and Mikel rushes to open the passenger hold and drops a set of steps for us. All I can see is dead grass lit up by the almost full moon above. I hop out and stay low until I'm free of the rotor space. Then I straighten up and look around.

"Yep. Nothing but an empty field." "I wonder what grew here?" James asks, sauntering up to me. "You know, before." "Before the nuclear plant went boom?" Randolph asks, joining us. "It didn't go boom," Torsten says from right behind Randolph. "It melted down, causing a chain reaction, which did in turn cause several large explosions. But it wasn't like the nuclear accident was an explosion itself. There was no mushroom cloud.

"How many of us here asked for all that useless information?" I reply, looking at my colleagues. "Raise your hand if that's what you care about right now." "I only care about bagging some mutant wolves," Randolph says. "Same!" James says. I make a sad, mocking face and look at Torsten. "Sorry, Torsty, but no one gives a shit about trivia time," I say. "You guys are assholes," Torsten responds, but not in a hurt way.

"And they aren't mutants. They just live in a high radiation zone." "Good to know," Randolph replies. "I still only care about bagging mutant wolves. I swear," Torsten says with an exaggerated sigh. "Torsten's used to getting picked on. There is always one in a group, and Torsten's our one."

The helicopter completely powers down, and we wait out in the middle of the empty field for Mikel, the pilot and co-pilot to unload our gear. We all check our watches, any one of which costs more than the helicopter we flew in on. "Six minutes," Randolph says. "Four," Torsten says.

"I'll go with 4-2," I say. "You can't do that," Torsten protests. "Pick your own damn number, Tim." "Fine," I say and flip him off. "Four minutes, thirty seconds." "I'll take five," James says. We continue to stare at our watches until the last of our bags are placed in front of us.

"I win," Randolph says. "Six minutes and eight seconds. You would time us?" Mikael asks, not even close to out of breath from hustling back and forth from the helicopter with our hunting gear. "You think we are a game? Everything is a game," Randolph says. "Especially you. I see," Mikael says, then kneels next to a ratty old canvas duffel bag that is definitely not owned by any of us.

The man unzips the bag and carefully pulls out a rifle wrapped in an oilcloth, which he sets in the field's damp, dead grass. We all share a look. "You hunting with us?" Randolph asks. "With you?" Miguel replies. "No. And what's with the rig?" James asks. Miguel doesn't respond. He unrolls the oilcloth and reveals an immaculate Winchester .308. "Nice looking gun," Torsten says. "Is it enough for wolves?"

I'd want a little more punch. The .308 does what it needs to do," Mikkel says as he slowly and carefully inspects his weapon from stock to barrel. "Jesus, are we playing bet the rifle or are we going to hunt some goddamn Chernobyl wolves?" Randolph snaps, then steps past Mikkel to his gun case. "Temp is fugit, people. That means time flies," Torsten says to Mikkel. Mikkel looks up and raises an eyebrow at Torsten.

"Yes, I speak Latin," Mikkel says. "Omni bonum lis qui expectant." "Yeah, well, we didn't pay to wait for the good to come to us, did we?" Randolph says. "In fact, we sure as hell did not pay to wait at all. Let's get a move on." "Of course," Mikkel says and stands up. With his rifle slung, Mikkel bends and rolls up his oilcloth.

He holds it out, and the co-pilot runs over and picks up the duffel bag then takes the oilcloth from him as he gives Mikel a slight nod. We all share another look, but none of us say anything as we quickly move to our respective gun cases. I place my thumb against the first lock pad and it flips open. I do that three more times along the front of the case, until I have the entire thing unlocked and opened.

Inside sits my baby. Originally, it was a stock Azur Safari Luxe, but I have added a few special modifications making the gun one of a kind, in my opinion. Both James and Torsten use a version of the Krieghoof Classic. They've modified theirs too, but for Randolph, who just can't be run-of-the-mill, as he likes to say, he sports a Rigby Rising Bite double rifle that he had custom fitted.

He traveled to and from his gunsmith in Vienna for over a year before they had the measurements precisely dialed in. From the distance between his cheekbone to the end of his chin, to taking a silicone mold of his shoulder in various outfits. He made sure the gun fit him and him alone. Then, even after all that, it was another 18 months before the gun could be built.

Then, and I'm not shitting you, he spent six more months of back and forth travel as they made sure the build was completed to specifications. And the Rigby company is in the UK. He could have gone directly to them in London. But that's not Randolph. Nope. Randolph has a gunsmith in Vienna. So he flies to Vienna. And we're talking Vienna, Austria, not Vienna, Virginia. In case there's any misunderstanding.

"What do you like to kill with that?" Mikhail asks Randolph. "Anything in my sights," Randolph replies, standing up with the rifle casually hanging from the crook of his right arm. Then he slowly brings it up so the barrel is aimed dead center on Mikhail's chest. Our guide says nothing. "How much do we need to carry in?" Torsten asks Mikhail. "None," Mikhail says without turning away from Randolph. "The helicopter will meet us at our first stop."

"They will carry everything for you." "Finally, some service worth our money!" James says and laughs. "So we bring nothing?" Randolph asks, still facing off with Miguel. I can tell the other two are getting uncomfortable with Randolph's brazen disregard for Miguel's safety. I don't blame them. So am I. It's a little early to shoot the help. We need to at least bag a wolf first. But that's Randolph for you.

"How about we practice some firearm safety and aim at the ground, Randy?" I suggest. "Mikhail has nothing to worry about," Randolph says. "I'm a professional. Have you been paid to kill before?" Mikhail asks. "Only in the courtroom," Randolph says.

He waits a beat, then bursts out laughing and moves the barrel's aim away from Mikkel. "I'm just fucking with you. I'd never shoot our guide before the hunt begins." "But the hunt already has begun," Mikkel responds, his eyes still on Randolph and the rifle. "How do you mean?" Torsten asks. Mikkel shrugs. "Follow me." Then he sets off at a fast clip across the dark field.

Behind us, the helicopter starts back up and preps for liftoff. "Hey, I only have about two dozen rounds," Torsten says to Mikkel's back. "Hello? I said I only have about two dozen rounds. The pilots took the rest when they loaded up the cases." We wait for a response, but the only one we get is the dim sight of Mikkel's back receding into the darkness. "He said the helicopter will be going ahead," James says and pats Torsten on the shoulder as he steps away from us.

"I think I'll stick with the guide in the meantime." "Okay, sure," Torsten says and follows James. They get about ten yards away when Randolph steps up next to me. "Who recommended this guy?" Randolph asks. "Torsten," I say. "Seriously?" Randolph asks and laughs. "He asked around and Nolan told him," I reply. "Apparently, Nolan says he's the best hunter in this part of Ukraine and knows the patterns of the Chernobyl wolves better than anyone."

"Nolan's a prick," Randolph says. "You trust him?" "Not a bit. But he's our highest paying client, so I trust his money," I say, and point at the barely visible outline of Mikel way up ahead. "And if Nolan's willing to pay what this asshole charges, then it's gotta be worth it." "Then we better catch up," Randolph says and starts walking. "I'm going to get my money's worth one way or another on this trip." And across the field we go, right into a thick, dark treeline.

We spend about 45 minutes navigating the thick woods before we come to a decent-sized creek. "What's the name of this creek?" Torsten asks. "Irrelevant," Mikkel answers. "Weird name," James says with a chuckle. "Might be good to know in case we get separated," I say. "Devant," Mikkel responds, then walks a little faster till he gets a couple yards ahead of us.

"Nolan is fucking with us," Randolph says as he gets close to me on my left. "He set us up." "What do you mean he set us up?" I ask. "What the fuck are you talking about? That guy," Randolph says and nods at Mikel. "There has been something off about him ever since we met him. I think he's working for Nolan." "What? That's crazy," I say. "I paid this guy myself. I checked him out. He's fully bonded by Rutherfordton and McGuire. They don't fuck around, Randy."

"Doesn't matter," Randolph says. "I smell a setup, and I'm never wrong. Especially when it comes to dangerous pricks like Nolan." "Yeah, but why would he do that?" I ask. "Why would he set us up for anything?" "Because of the Krakauer deal going south," Randolph replies. "He said he didn't blame us for that," I say, and look at Randolph. Randolph shrugs. "His secretary says he was rage-pissed at us for days after the deal fell through.

"His secretary?" I ask, and it hits me. "Jesus, Randy, are you banging her?" "Every Thursday at the Omni," Randolph says proudly. "Can you blame me? Getting a woman like that into bed is why we do what we-" Randolph stumbles, then reaches out and grips my shoulder. Then a far-off crack reaches my ears. "Is that a gunshot?" Torsten asks from up ahead where he's walking with James. "You okay, Randy?" I ask as I stop and steady him. I pat his chest,

Tell me you just got a stitch in your side or something. He turns his body to me, and even in the darkness, I can see there's something wrong with the side of his neck. Randy? I put my hand to his neck, and he comes away wet and warm. I don't need to put my hand up closer to my eyes to know what I'm dealing with. I've seen and smelt plenty of blood at night. Randy's been hit! I call out.

What the fuck do you mean he's been hit? I knew it! That was a gunshot!

Randolph falls to his knees. I drop with him and hold my hand against his neck as I try to put pressure on the wound and stop the bleeding. "Is that blood? Is he bleeding?" Torsten asks, his voice pitching into panic territory. "Yes, he's fucking bleeding! That's what happens when someone gets hit by a bullet, you fucking dipshit!" I snap at him, then look ahead for Mikel. He's nowhere to be seen. "Motherfucker!" I shout. "Mikel! Mikel, where the fuck are you?"

"I told you the hunt had begun," Miguel's voice calls out from the darkness. "Good luck, gentlemen!" "No shit," I say just as Randolph's eyes roll up into his head and he collapses against me. "I think Randy was fucking right. About what?" James asks. "Nolan, set us up," I reply as I check for a pulse, but there's nothing there. Randolph is gone. Without saying a word, I ease Randolph to the dirt and slip his rifle free from around his shoulder.

Then I go through his pockets and take all the ammunition he has on him. "What are you doing?" Torsten asks. "Making sure I have enough firepower to win this shit. Did neither of you hear Mikkel? We're the prey, you fucking idiot!" I say and quickly step off the creek path and into the cover of the trees. "Why in the hell would Nolan go after us?" James asks with a chuckle. "Was it something we said? Are you fucking high?" Torsten asks James.

"Of course," James replies. "Wait, Tim? Where the fuck did you go?" Torsten calls out. I don't answer him. I'm already out of his sightline. Three makes for easy targets. One is harder to spot. Plus, Torsten really is an idiot, and James is just a dumbass most of the time.

I'm neither of those things. What I am, now that Randolph is dead, is the best fucking hunter in our group, and I have no plan on becoming prey even if someone as powerful as Nolan is after us. It does make me pause and wonder if Nolan is hunting us because of our fuck-up with the Krakauer deal, or if he's hunting us because maybe he wasn't so keen on Randolph banging his favorite secretary. Knowing Nolan, it could easily be both or neither.

Billionaires are a strange breed, even if they are quickly becoming a dime a dozen nowadays. I move swiftly between the trees, and Torsten's shouts grow quieter and quieter. Foreign land or not, I know my way around woods, deserts, swamps, alpine peaks, anywhere. And the number one rule in all environments is to never stop moving. If you stop, you die. A scream echoes through the woods, and I know Torsten has taken a round.

James would have just mumbled some witty regret and died. Torsten's the screamer, and he's still screaming as I put more and more distance between us. It isn't until I'm a quarter mile from the creek before the screams finally stop. Off to my left is a rocky outcropping covered in moss and ferns. I tuck under the outcropping and crouch down so I can take my phone out of my pocket with a little cover around me. No point in lighting up the entire forest and giving my position away.

The second my phone is out of my pocket and on, I dim the screen as much as I can and bring it up close to my face. No cellular service, of course. But that isn't a problem. I swipe a couple of screens over, then activate the satellite connection. My phone chimes over and over as message after message and email after email load into my phone. I scramble to mute the sounds and tuck the phone into my coat, then just crouch and wait.

when no gunshot takes off part of my head. I bring the phone back out and scroll through the messages. What I expect to be there isn't there. I mean, I highly doubted Nolan would implicate himself by sending me an elaborate explanation via text or anything.

But I expected something cryptic at least, that would have a double meaning. Something like, "It should have been Poland, but Ukraine will do." Because Krakauer is Polish. It's not the best barb, I know that. But Nolan isn't known for his wit. He is known for holding a grudge forever though. Still, it is surprising that there isn't even one message or email from the man or one of his underlings. He's really keeping his hands clean on this one.

Or maybe this isn't about the Krakauer deal or Nolan at all. Except, why would this backwoods Ukrainian yokel be trying to kill us? We're Americans. We're on the same side as Ukraine. Makes no sense. As I think about the possible explanations for this shitstorm I find myself in, my phone's screen blinks a few more times, then warps and goes black. I was warned this might happen so close to the old reactor.

I try every trick I know to get it to come back on, but the piece of tech in my hand is as useful as a brick. Oh, now I get why it's called that. I've never had a phone go out on me before. I pay to make sure that never happens. A phone to a lawyer is as important as a… A chip of rock slices across my left cheekbone, making me cry out in surprise. Then I flatten myself on the ground as several more rock chips shatter around me.

I wait for the echoes of gunshots but hear nothing. The shots aren't coming from someone far off. They're coming from someone close by, using a suppressor on their rifle. Shit. I squeeze myself as far under the rock outcropping as I can, until the rock chips stop flying around me. "Okay, Timothy, think this through. Think, dammit!" Shots in the dark require some sort of visibility. Doesn't matter if they are up close or far off. The shooter needs to see their target.

That means night vision goggles or an NVG scope. My money is on goggles since we're talking close range suppressed fire. In other words, I'm trapped where I am. If I stick even a toe out, I'm gonna lose that toe. So how do I get out of this shit alive? That's the question that runs through my mind just before a second question slips in. Mikel was close to us, but Randolph was hit from around that was shot long range. The delayed crack of the gunshot told us that.

So the second question is, who shot Randolph? Then a million other questions flood my brain. Does Mikel have a whole team out here? Or could the shooter have been either the pilot or co-pilot of the helicopter? If there is a team, how many are there? And why are they shooting at us at all? Randolph's Nolan theory isn't feeling right. Not after the lack of a taunting message on my phone. I press my forehead into the damp earth. I've got to think this through.

Long range shot in the dark through trees. That's an expert shot. Maybe. The shot nicked Randolph's artery and he bled out. That's how he died. Not really from a kill shot, which means maybe the shot was meant for either of us or even Torsten and James who were both ahead of us. And it was sheer luck it even tagged Randolph. Now, couple that with a bunch of close range suppressed fire. Yet I don't have a scratch except for where the rock chips hit me.

If a pro is after us, Randolph's head would be gone, and I'd be dead under this outcropping. Not pros. Geared up, yes, but not pros. Jesus H. Christ. This has nothing to do with Nolan. This is all Mikel. He set us up. I hired him to guide us on a hunt, and instead, he guided us into an ambush.

He said the hunt had already begun, we just didn't realize we were the prey, and Mikel had another group out here that paid him a shit ton more so they could hunt people, not wolves. Well, fucking hell, I would have paid more if I knew that was an option. Quiet voices reach my ears, and I slowly roll over so my rifle is free. Randolph's rifle is pinned under me, but that doesn't matter. I'm only going to get one shot anyway.

The voices get closer and I instantly can tell they aren't American. Maybe Ukrainian? The language sounds familiar except... Fuck. No, it's Russian. The language is Russian. I know a little from some of my work back home and it's definitely Russian, but not prose. So not Russian soldiers. Although, maybe Russian soldiers are shit shots anyway.

Slowly, so I don't rustle any leaves. I adjust my position and brace my back against the rock while I bring my rifle up further. The world around me is almost pitch black. Almost. Just ahead. Possibly about 6 yards from the outcropping. There's a break in the trees above, and the hint of moonlight filters down into the forest. If they aren't pros, then they'll avoid that because of the light.

NVGs seem self-explanatory, but I've watched honest-to-god geniuses temporarily blind themselves by looking in the wrong direction. I could get lucky and maybe that will happen, but I'm more so banking on whoever it is to come around the moonlight. I adjust my aim and wait. A twig snaps to my left and I fire. The sound is deafening in the close space, so I have no idea if I hit someone or not since I can't hear any screaming.

but I have no choice except to flee since I just gave my position away. With my rifle in one hand, I scramble out from under the rocks and crawl my ass as far and fast as I can into the shadows before I get to my feet and run. Something hits my neck and I almost fall on my face, but my feet stay under me so I keep going. After a few seconds of still being alive, I reach up and barely feel any wetness. Most likely I caught some tree bark, as whoever is back there fires after me.

And I say fires because I can see bark ahead of me chipping off trees and turning into woody shrapnel. For sure not pros. I'd have more than a few rounds in the dead center of my back if they were pros. And from the amount of gunfire coming at me, I am more than certain it is a they and not a single shooter. The trees thin and the moonlight grows stronger. I begin to weave in and out of the trees instead of running straight out. I need the cover now that I'm even more exposed.

I skid to a stop just before I tumble over the edge of a steep drop. Down below is a river whose name I can't remember. Privet or Privyat or Prinyat or who cares. Dirt kicks up at my feet and I can hear the gunshots now. My ears are still ringing pretty bad, but sounds are finally getting through. Sounds like shouting from at least three different men. Shouting in Russian for sure.

I turn and run alongside the edge of the drop until I reach a good-sized thicket of bushes. Slipping in there, I sling my rifle over my shoulder and switch it out for Randolph's. It may be fitted to him, but it's still the best rifle I have, better than mine, which has always bugged me until now. Squeezing myself between the tangled branches of the bushes, I try to make myself as invisible as possible.

The fact that the bushes aren't being torn to shreds by gunfire means they lost sight of me at some point. They must have still been back in those trees a ways when I ducked in here. Minutes fly by, then I hear whispering. I angle my view and can see four men come out of the woods. Two stay back and it looks like one is helping the other stay upright. Maybe I did hit someone when I fired blind back at the outcropping. Two men break from the group and follow my tracks to the edge of the drop.

They kneel, talk to each other, then point to where the tracks lead, which is me. They talk loudly, almost like they want me to hear them, and they both laugh. A taunt. My Russian is minimal, but I can make out some of the words and phrasing. They certainly aren't trying to stay quiet. Their voices easily carry to my hiding place, if it can still be called that.

My blood runs cold at what I think they are saying. If I'm right, then Torsten and James are dead too, having been run down or caught or shot or something like that. Both men stop talking, stand, point at my hiding place, and raise their weapons. I have seconds to do something, but before I take aim and fire, several things happen all at once. A wolf howls from not too far away.

One of the four men drops to a knee and slumps low as he clutches his side. His buddy, who had been helping him stand, crouches next to him, asking him questions in Russian. The man shakes his head and cries out. "The two men that were about to open fire on me, lower their weapons as they walk back to check on their friend." Then a chorus of wolf howls fills the air and the two men pause, their weapons back up and now swinging back and forth as the howls echo around them.

Then Mikhail steps out of the woods about 30 yards away from them. I can tell that none of the Russians have a clue he's even there, though he isn't trying to hide himself and he's walking straight at them. Finally, one of the Russians notices Mikhail and calls out to him. Mikhail raises a hand in greeting but doesn't respond. The Russian calls out again, and Mikhail shakes his head as he points at his ear. The Russian looks annoyed at the gesture and stomps toward Mikhail, closing the distance between them.

The Russian on the ground cries out again, then fully slumps onto his side. The moonlight illuminates the man's blood-soaked shirt. Yeah, I definitely got him. Good for me. With obvious panic in his voice, the Russian kneeling by the wounded man calls out to the one walking toward Mikel. That Russian pauses and looks back over his shoulder then nods. When he turns back, Mikel is right there in front of him.

The wolves howl again, and before any of the Russians can move a muscle, Mikhail grabs the Russian in front of him and yanks him closer, sinking his teeth into the man's neck. Blood spurts high into the air, looking like a black geyser in the moonlight. The Russians, not wounded, stare at the scene for a second, then they scramble for their weapons. But they are too late. A dozen massive wolves break from the treeline and attack the Russians with a ferocity that makes my knees weak.

I've seen some shit, I've done some shit, but what the wolves do to those Russians is beyond description. I know wolves, and these do not act like regular wolves. There is no circling, there's no testing their braised defenses, there's no communication or coordination between them. All I see is raw, brutal violence as the wolves take down the Russians and tear them limb from limb.

The dead grass at the edge of the drop is stained deep black by the time the Russians stop screaming. With his chest coated in blood, Mikkel walks away from the Russians he killed and over to the feeding pack. One of the wolves breaks off and approaches him. It's hackles up. Mikkel shows empty hands and slowly bends a knee. He holds his empty hands out to the approaching wolf and lowers his head.

Growling deep in its throat, the wolf gets closer and closer to Mikkel, then finally places its nose to one of Mikkel's hands. With a yip and a sharp bark, the wolf stops growling, then runs past Mikkel to the dead Russian. Two other wolves join the first one and they tear into the body with enthusiasm. I just wait here in the bushes and try to keep from pissing myself.

Not because of embarrassment or even discomfort, but because if I let my bladder loose, those wolves will smell my urine instantly. And considering the smallest of the wolves is bigger than me, I do not want them getting curious about my location. 30 minutes slip by as the wolves continue to feast, then an hour, two hours, nearly three hours go by before the wolves have satiated their appetites and, one by one, they slip back into the forest.

Across the river, a sliver of light appears. It's already nearly dawn. Daylight is not going to be my friend. I need to move and get back into the cover of the trees before the sun fully rises or I'll be the easiest thing in the world to spot. My only problem is Mikhail is still here. He's slowly going through the Russians gear and consolidating everything he wants into one of their packs. What I need is for him to turn his back so I can get away.

But no matter what he does or how long he takes, he's always facing in my direction. Could I put a round between his eyes at this distance? Not even a question on that one. Can I do it silently and fast enough that Mikkel can't defend himself? Yeah, that's the real question right there. And considering my luck so far in this trip, I'm not pushing it. Finally, as pinks and purples and oranges light up the sky across the river, Mikkel finishes scavenging the corpses.

He stands, stretches, and unslings his rifle. Slowly, like he's in a dream, he puts the rifle to his shoulder, sights down the barrel, and takes aim right at my position. Then he fires and a branch about two inches from my head snaps in half. "Come out, Mr. Timothy Lawson," Mikhail says as he lowers his rifle. "I do not ask twice."

Without even having to think it over, I extract myself from the bushes with my hands up and a rifle hanging from each shoulder. "I don't know what your deal is, but there has to be a way to work this out!" I shout. "There is," Mikhail says and walks toward me. "Come closer." I hesitate. "I do not ask twice," he says again. I walk closer to him, my hands still up.

When we are about a yard apart, he stops and gestures for me to stop as well. Then he looks me up and down and smiles. "You survived well," he says. "I am surprised. I'm surprised to have a bunch of fucking Russians shooting at me," I shout. He cocks his head and I calm myself down. I need to remember what situation I'm in and not let my anger get the better of me. "How much did they pay you?" I ask, once I know I'm under control.

Mikhail laughs. "You always ask that." He must see the confusion on my face, because he continues, "The men like you, the men like these Russian pigs, the men who believe money solves everything, always asking how much I get paid. May I ask you a question?" "I'd be a fool to say no," I reply. "Is it a game, all this money?" he asks. "A game? No, it's life."

I answer as I start to lower my hands. He shakes his head and I keep my hands up. "But yes, in a way, it is a game. Money tells us who is winning." "Winning what?" Mikael asks. "Life," I say. "Money equals status and power. It gives you access to places you wouldn't normally get to see. It allows for experiences others do not get to enjoy."

"Like this experience?" Mikhail asks. "Are you glad you get to enjoy it while others do not?" "To be honest, no, I'm not glad at all." He shakes his head and laughs. "Americans, Russians, you are all the same," he says. A silence falls between us, then I clear my throat. "May I ask a question?" I say. He nods. "The wolves," I say slowly, trying to find the right words.

"You led them to the Russians. Why?" "Is that your only question?" he responds. I shake my head and he smiles. "Good," he says. "The answer, it is simple. The wolves of Chernobyl are hungry, very hungry. But as the land has changed them, their appetites have changed as well. I understand, because I was one of them once." Not what I was expecting him to say.

He shakes his head and laughs again. "No, no, I am not wolf monster man," he says. "I was small child and lost when the wolves found me. They saved me and kept me fed for months before I was found by my family. But I learned a lot of their ways during that time. I also learned what they eat." He spreads his hands out to indicate the nearly picked clean bodies of the Russians. Then he hooks a thumb over his shoulder toward the forest.

I bring them food now, Mikkel continues. If I do not, then they will eventually sneak into the villages and farms close by and detect the people there. The wolves of Chernobyl are hungry and they must be fed. Why not kill the wolves and be done with all this? I ask and almost regret it instantly as a dark cloud of emotions covers Mikkel's face. I am smart man. I am skilled man.

"I man with the plan, as you Americans say." "You con rich men like me into hunting trips, then let the wolves kill them," I say. "I let men kill men, then let the wolves kill the ones remaining. Except for you. You are a survivor. You may be useful." "I don't understand." "You have connections. You know other rich men. You can help feed the wolves." "I'm not going to help you," I say.

"What are you even thinking? That I tricked my friends and family into a hunting trip where I know they'll die? You're fucking insane!" "And you are idiot," he replies. "Not friends and family. Enemies. You suggest to enemies that you have done something they cannot do. That makes jealous. They want more than anything now. Then, you give my number and I do rest." "What makes you think I'll help you?" I snap. "You do or you die," Mikael says.

No. I mean when I get home. Why would I help you? Why not just forget all about you and live my life? You'll be here and I'll be safe in Connecticut. But what story do you tell? Mikhail asks me. The one with crazy Ukrainian and giant wolves eating Russians after you ran away and let your friends die? Or the one where you survive a helicopter crash that your friends do not, leaving all of that law firm to just you?

"No questions will be asked because I can make sure no questions can be answered. You get more money, you win the game of life." I open my mouth to argue at the absurdity of his proposal. No words come out. Mikel does have a point, and if he can pull off things on his end, then I know I can pull off things on my end. "What's my cut?" I ask and nod down at the Russian corpses. "I know what I paid for this trip. What did they pay?"

Whatever it is, I want a percentage of this whole operation." "So you will consider an arrangement?" Mikhail asks. "Yeah," I say, and can't believe I'm actually considering it. "I tell you percentage when we get back to helicopter," Mikhail says. "We need to leave before sun all the way rises or we become target for Russian missiles." Then he turns for me and walks off into the woods. I struggle to keep up but manage it for the most part.

I only stumble and trip a couple of times along the way. Mikel never pauses to see if I'm following or flat on my face. When we arrive at the field, I almost want to cry at the sight of the helicopter. It never left. That was all part of the ruse. But then we cross the field and as we get closer, I realize I can see legs dangling out the side of the passenger hold door. I stop and Mikel stops without looking back. He's testing me, seeing if I'll break.

Fuck that. This Ukrainian prick can't break me. I walk again and Mikhail walks again. Then we reach the passenger hold and I see Randolph's body stacked on top of James' body. Where's Torsten? I ask. Here, Torsten says from behind me. I whirl around and come eye to eye with the barrel of his rifle. Torsten, I ask, looking down the barrel at his scrunched up face. What the fuck, man? Did he ask for a percentage like I told you he would? Torsten says. What are you talking about?

"Yes," Mikkel says, and I realize the question was for him and not me. "But it got him to walk here like you also said it would. Better than carrying his sorry ass," Torsten says with a smirk. "Torsten, what is happening?" "I'm taking over the firm. It took me a long time to find Mikkel and his operation, but I did, and it's all gone exactly to plan. I said it would," Mikkel says.

"So all of this was bullshit?" I snap. "Mikhail's story about the wolves? Him needing someone to introduce him to Rich Marx? All of that was so I'd walk back to this helicopter on my own two feet?" "All of it, true," Mikhail says. "All of it," Torsten agrees. "Mikhail's story really moves me. I like wolves." "You like wolves?" I nearly shout. "You fucking have your partners murdered, and that's what you say? That you fucking like wolves?"

"Yes," Torsten says. "Why are you surprised? You guys have been making fun of me for years. You have always thought of me as the weak one. You have always shit on me. Well, fuck you, Tim. Fuck Randy and fuck James. Maybe I am weak, and maybe stories about wolves move me. But guess what? Fucking what? I don't have to take your shit anymore," he says. "And the wolves of Chernobyl are very, very hungry. So I'm thinking they still need some food.

The muzzle flash comes before I can respond.