Backlash: A Thriller

by Brad Thor

  The problem was whether to tie it around his waist with a quick-release knot or pull his gear along by hand.

  He still had his makeshift poles and wanted to hold on to them. Most of the river was covered with snow, and he could use them to probe the ice as he moved forward. He decided to tie the cord around his waist.

  Once it was in place and the knot secure, he began lightly placing one snowshoe in front of the other.

  The farther he got out across the river, the harder his heart pounded. The ice felt as if it was flexing underneath him. His decision to make the crossing was going to be either really smart or really stupid. He’d know in less than fifty feet.

  Like a dentist examining a mouth full of decaying teeth, he used his poles to cautiously pick his way toward the opposite bank.

  With each step he took, he reminded himself to breathe. Everything was okay. He was almost there. He was going to make it.

  That was when he heard the crack.

  CHAPTER 21

  * * *

  * * *

  It wasn’t a particularly loud crack. It was more like someone had snapped a piece of kindling. Nevertheless, it stopped him in his tracks, and he stood stock-still.

  As his eyes swept the area around him, his ears struggled to pick up any further hints of danger. It took only a moment.

  The sound resembled a string of lightbulbs being crushed, as if they were being driven over by a heavy truck. It was quiet at first, but was quickly growing louder. He didn’t need to see through the snow to know the ice was spiderwebbing.

  His mind panicked and urged him to run, but he ignored it. Instead, he listened to his training.

  Casting his poles away, he quickly flattened himself on top of the ice, arms and leg spread wide in an effort to distribute his weight as evenly as possible.

  The cracking stopped. All he could hear now was his heart hammering inside his chest.

  He tried to kick off his snowshoes, but it was no use. They were too firmly affixed. Instead, he had to turn both of his legs out at uncomfortable angles in order to belly-crawl the rest of the way across the ice.

  Using his forearms to pull himself along, he dared move only inches at a time, but at least he was moving, and fortunately, the ice was holding up.

  Arm over arm he crawled, dragging his equipment behind him. The snow piled up in front of it like a plow, making it harder and harder to tow.

  He was doing everything with his upper body. With his feet off the ice because of the sides of the snowshoes, all he could do was drag his legs behind him. It only added to the pain he was already feeling in his hip sockets, but he pushed it from his mind and forced himself on.

  Less than twenty feet from the bank, he had to stop. His lungs, seared by the arctic air, were burning. His body was out of adrenaline. He needed to catch his breath and regain his strength.

  Spreading his arms and legs like a starfish once more, he lay back down. As he did, a wave of fatigue swept over him.

  He was beyond tired. What he was feeling now might have been even worse than what he had felt in Hell Week. All he wanted to do was close his eyes.

  Instead, he forced himself to look at his objective. Even with the snow, he could see the edge of the riverbank. It was so close—only fifteen feet away. He was almost there.

  You can do this, he told himself. Just a little bit more You’ve got to get off this ice. It isn’t safe here. Start moving.

  Coming up onto his right elbow, he reached his arm out and pulled himself forward. But as he did, the ice cracked and gave away beneath him.

  Before he knew what had happened, he was fully submerged under the freezing cold water.

  Don’t lose the hole! Don’t lose the hole! his mind screamed.

  As his arms pulled in wide, powerful strokes, trying to help him resurface, the cord around his waist went taut and pulled him back down.

  His gear had fallen in too and was acting not only like a heavy stone but also like a sail that had caught the wind of the current and was now threatening to drag him downriver, beneath the ice.

  Cut it loose! his mind yelled. Hurry!

  Reaching down, he yanked the short end of the knot, and instantly the water ripped his gear and the lynx away.

  He kicked and stroked for the surface, the hole still within his grasp. The snowshoes and his heavy winter boots, though, acted like cement blocks tied to his ankles.

  Pull, damn it! Pull! his mind shouted.

  Summoning one last burst of strength, he pulled as hard as he could and broke the surface.

  Grabbing the edge of the ice, he latched onto it with a death grip. He knew that if he lost hold, he’d slip back down and drown.

  Now, all he had to do was get out—something much easier said than done.

  His snowshoes, though a latticework of cargo netting, had caught the current’s attention and were threatening to pull him back under. There was no way he could unlace his boots and slip out of them in time.

  Adding to his predicament, his clothes were soaked through. He simply didn’t possess enough strength to fight against the current and pull himself out of the hole. Something had to give, and he knew immediately what it was—his parka.

  It felt as if it had taken on an additional fifty pounds of water. He needed to get rid of it. It was the only way he was going to survive.

  Terrified of what might happen when he let go, he managed to get one arm fully up onto the ice. Wedging himself against the edge as tightly as he could, he released his opposite hand, unzipped the parka, and struggled out of the sleeve.

  As soon as he did, the current caught it and began pulling at it, trying to drag him under.

  He wanted to take a breather, to muster what little strength he might have left, but the current was relentless. He had to switch arms and let the rest of the coat free—now.

  Repeating the process, he pinned himself against the ice and allowed the river to rip the parka the rest of the way from him.

  In an instant, it was sucked down into the water and disappeared beneath the ice. He knew that if he didn’t climb out of the hole immediately, it was only a matter of seconds before he followed.

  With the current firmly gripping his snowshoes, he clamped both his forearms onto the ice and pulled.

  An excruciating pain tore through his back and shoulders—a pain that, once again, he ignored.

  He pulled and kept on pulling until he could feel his chest on the ice, then the middle of his abdomen, followed by his waist.

  Once his thighs had cleared the opening, he tried to pull himself the rest of the way out, but he couldn’t get enough purchase.

  Risking a further fracturing of the surface and the very real possibility he would end up back in the river, he rolled over onto his back and used the momentum to pop his legs out of the water.

  The gamble paid off.

  His legs, followed by his boots and snowshoes, came shooting up in an icy spray and landed hard on the ice.

  He thought for sure the force with which they struck had done him in, but nothing further happened. The ice held.

  Without energy enough to roll back onto his stomach, he started inching backward, using the palms of his waterlogged gloves to propel him.

  He didn’t stop until he reached the bank.

  Once there, it took every ounce of discipline he had not to close his eyes, even for just a moment, and rest. He knew that if he did, he would never wake up. Soaking wet, with no coat in the bitter cold, he would die from exposure right there. He had to get up and get moving.

  He could see the cabin. There was only one way he was going to make it.

  Rocking up into a sitting position, his frozen hands no better than crude clubs, he hammered away at the bindings of his makeshift snowshoes. He kept it up until the first came loose, and then the second.

  Kicking them off, he rejected a lotus-laced voice enjoining him to close his eyes, just for a moment—just long enough to regain his strength. Rather than succumb, he
forced himself to stand.

  Though he had no strength left whatsoever, he still managed to stumble forward. The snow was deep, but free of the snowshoes, his steps felt wonderful. It was a minuscule relief, but reward enough to keep him going. At this point, anything that got him to the cabin was welcome.

  Based on the feeling in his extremities, coupled with his collapsing vision, he knew hypothermia was setting in. Part of him was beginning to doubt that he could make it to the cabin at all, but he shut that part right down and banished it from his consciousness.

  He told himself that his mission was to make it to that cabin. His life depended on it. He had come too far to fail. He would not fail. He would make it. Success was the only option.

  Gritting his chattering teeth and wrapping his arms around his shuddering body, he picked up his pace.

  As the cabin got closer and closer, he spun wild fantasies of what was waiting for him inside. The first thing he imagined was a roaring fire. Next was a warm bed. After that, he saw a long wooden table set with all kinds of food. At its head, he saw Lara—sweet, beautiful Lara, wearing a sundress, with a glass of white wine in her hand, just like his favorite picture of her, taken on his dock and kept in a silver frame in his bedroom back in Virginia.

  He was well aware that he was losing his mind. But the image of her kept him going, so he allowed it to continue.

  Nearing the cabin, he saw Lara standing at the front door, smiling. Her hair was tied back, showing her long neck. He wanted so much for this vision to be real.

  He felt the ground rising beneath his boots. The cabin was uphill from the riverbank. It made the trek even more difficult. He struggled to stay upright, not to lean too far in any direction and topple over into the snow. He knew that if he did, he no longer had the energy to get back up.

  Keeping his eyes on Lara, he battled forward. She looked so gorgeous. And just beyond her, through the open door, he could see that she had a big, beautiful fire going. She had been cooking as well. He could smell it. It smelled like roast beef.

  There was also music. She was an opera fan. It sounded like “Nessun Dorma” from Turandot, which she played over and over at home.

  As he arrived at the entrance, Lara stood back and beckoned him in. The table was fully set. A bottle of wine had been opened. She loved fresh flowers, and in the center was a pitcher filled with irises. He assumed she had picked them herself from someplace nearby.

  Stepping up to the threshold, he paused for a moment to lean against the door frame and catch his breath. She stood patiently and waited for him. He had made it.

  She smiled in that way that drove him crazy. She could have been a model—tall, with a beautiful body and the most captivating eyes he had ever seen.

  She beckoned him to join her and get out of the cold. Placing his hand upon the door handle, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

  The wind rushed in behind him, chasing away the scent of cooking and extinguishing the fire. It blew away the flowers, the table settings, and the wine.

  All that remained was Lara, sitting by the hearth, wrapped in furs. He closed the door behind him to seal out the cold and went to her.

  “The fire has gone out,” she said from her chair. “You need to relight it.”

  He watched as she pointed to an old metal box. Inside were matches. From the stacks next to the fireplace, he gathered up tinder and kindling. When he had them going, he added several logs to the fire.

  “Take off your clothes,” she commanded, in that voice that drove him wilder than her smile.

  He didn’t want the dream to end, so he obeyed.

  As he removed his wet clothing, she pointed to the cot against the wall. “Wrap yourself in the blankets.”

  Doing as she asked, he wrapped them around his body and joined her at the fire.

  “More logs,” she ordered, and once again he obeyed.

  With the fire burning hot and bright, she gestured for him to sit down in front of it.

  The warmth of the flames felt good—almost as good as having her so close.

  “Close your eyes,” she told him.

  He looked up at her but couldn’t see her face.

  “You’re safe now,” she whispered. “Sleep.”

  He didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to pull her to him and breathe her in. But she had cast a spell on him, and, powerless to resist, he felt his eyelids begin to close.

  The last thing he remembered was Lara helping him lie down as he fell into a dark pit of deep and dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER 22

  * * *

  * * *

  When Harvath awoke, it was to the fading echo of Lara’s voice. “Don’t let the fire die,” she warned.

  Shaking the cobwebs from his head, he allowed his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness.

  The only light in the cabin came from the glowing embers in the fireplace. He had no idea how long he had been asleep.

  Glancing to the left of the fireplace, he saw the seated figure wrapped in furs. Even without sufficient light, he could tell it wasn’t Lara, although they both had one very big thing in common. They were both deceased.

  It was probably the cabin’s owner. Based on the way the man was dressed, as well as the rusty devices hanging on the walls, he was a trapper.

  He appeared to be somewhere in his seventies, although appearances in Russia, especially when it came to age, were often deceiving. He looked to be one of the Sámi, the collection of indigenous people sometimes known as Laplanders, who inhabit northern Sweden, Norway, Finland, and this part of Russia. Under the Soviets, they had been very badly treated, even forcibly removed from their lands. The resentment and hostility lingered to this day.

  Getting up from the floor, Harvath moved in for a closer look.

  There was no apparent trauma. The man had probably died from a heart attack. How long ago was anyone’s guess. The subzero temperatures would have helped to preserve the body.

  Turning his attention to the fire, he threw on a couple of logs. They were well seasoned and caught instantly. With the increasing heat and additional light, he could reconnoiter the rest of the space.

  The first thing he noticed were his boots and the pile of wet clothes nearby. He remembered falling through the ice, but not much after that. It was as if he had witnessed it at a distance, as if it had happened to someone else.

  He knew what hypothermia and severe cold could do to a person. He was incredibly fortunate not only to have survived the river but also to have made it to the cabin. How he’d had the presence of mind to get a fire going and get out of his wet clothes was beyond him. Somebody, somewhere, he figured, was watching out for him.

  In a space that appeared to be used for preparing food, he found a bucket of water almost completely frozen. What small portion had thawed had probably done so in response to the gradual warming of the cabin from the fireplace. Until this moment, he’d had no idea how thirsty he was.

  Raising the bucket to his mouth, he drank all of the liquid water. Then he took the bucket over and placed it near the fire so the rest of the ice could melt.

  Returning to the food prep area, he opened its lone cupboard and did a quick inventory. There wasn’t much. A few cans of what looked to be vegetables, plus a little tea and coffee, sat on the shelf. He’d lost more in the river than what was stored here. There had to be more.

  Propped next to the front door was an old pump-action shotgun known as a Baikal, along with a box of shells. He placed both down on the table and kept looking.

  He found a small toolbox, an old flashlight, kitchen items, and a few pieces of clothing, including some heavy wool socks. Tossing the blankets back on the cot, he put on the clothes and spread out his wet items to dry in front of the fire. He was almost beginning to feel human.

  Removing a hammer from the toolbox, he knocked off a piece of the ice from the pail, placed it in a saucepan he had found, and stuck it directly into the fire to boil. After everything he had been through, ho
t tea would be a welcome luxury.

  Setting the hammer down, he examined the rest of the odds and ends in the toolbox. There was a small container of oil, as well as some twine, screws, nails, pliers, duct tape, an adjustable wrench, and a screwdriver with multiple heads. What was missing were many of the tools necessary for the fur trapper to ply his trade—including skis or snowshoes.

  By the looks of the cabin, he didn’t skin any game inside. There had to be an outbuilding of some sort. At first light, Harvath would take a look around the property. In the meantime, he continued his tour of the interior.

  The one thing he hoped to find, though, eluded him. There was no map, nothing that would tell him where the hell he was. The only printed materials he turned up were two vintage Russian paperbacks and a stack of out-of-date magazines. He tried not to let his disappointment get him down.

  Glancing at his watch, he tried to estimate how much more time he had before daybreak. His best guess was that there were a couple of hours left. Once the sun was up, and he had done his quick look around outside, gathering whatever additional supplies there were, he would head out. Staying any longer was out of the question. He had to keep moving. Sitting still meant capture. And capture meant death.

  In order to keep moving, though, he needed heavy outerwear. Not only was his coat gone but there was no way his boots were going to be dry by sunrise. The trapper, on the other hand, was fully outfitted.

  By all appearances, the man had either been on his way out of the cabin or back in when he sat down by the fireplace and died. He was wearing an anorak, hat, mittens, leggings, and boots, all of them made from reindeer fur.

  As respectfully as possible, Harvath lifted the trapper from the chair and moved him to the bed. There, he worked quickly.

  While he didn’t mind stripping dead Spetsnaz soldiers, this felt different. It felt wrong somehow.