He checked his watch… twenty minutes had passed.
Have to get moving…
He gathered what was left of the burned branches, and tossed them over the burning embers. Then he swept snow and ice into the pit, extinguishing the fire with a loud hiss. He covered all traces of the burning wood under the snow, then stood up, and trudged deeper into the forest.
The extra insulation helped, and bought him more time. But only a little.
He had to find shelter. The armed men chasing him were now a secondary concern. The cold was a far deadlier enemy, one that no diversion could outsmart or defeat.
It was the cold that would kill him.
Suddenly, he heard the crack of splintering wood. He froze in place, a familiar tingle on the back of his neck. The same instincts that drove him forward into the icy wasteland now warned him of danger. He could feel it… He was being watched.
The Russians would have found his trail by now. He no longer had time to wipe away his tracks with the parachute cloth or stray branches. But if they were closing in, he would have heard their vehicles approaching. He doubted they could have caught up so quickly on foot.
He listened, but heard nothing more. The powdered trees stood silent and motionless in the forest. He looked up. The sun was a few inches lower, the sky a shade darker.
Rubbing his shoulders for warmth, he set off once more through the forest. If he was being followed, so be it. He had to keep moving, and find shelter by nightfall.
Otherwise, he would join the trees in their stark, frozen vigil.
Chapter Ten
The cabin lay in the shadow of the frozen trees and a mountain ridge above.
Caine hunched behind a snow bank, peering at the rickety structure with narrowed eyes. He had been watching the site for twenty minutes. In that time, he saw no one come or go from the tiny building. There were no tracks in the snow surrounding the area, and no signs of food or water left out for dogs.
Trapper’s shelter, he thought.
Fur trapping was a major source of income for locals in the smaller towns and villages of Siberia. The men who pursued such a trade left the safety of their homes for weeks at a time. They built cabins in remote, forested areas like this, situated along their trapping routes, providing shelter for the cold nights during high season.
But this deep into winter, even the trappers would be home, safe and sound in their villages and towns. Their temporary shacks were boarded up, and stood empty and abandoned until the next season began.
Empty and abandoned, like the shack below.
Caine weighed his options. He had no idea how long his distraction might delay the men on his trail. After stuffing his clothes with makeshift insulation, he’d taken a circular path down the mountain. He kept to the rocks and hard ice whenever possible to reduce his tracks.
Along the way, he found a sheer rock cliff that cut down the side of the mountain. Using the remaining paracord and some scavenged metal from the landing site, he fashioned a crude grappling hook. After descending several hundred yards to a frozen stream, he trekked across the ribbon of ice for miles, further obscuring his trail.
None of that matters if you die of hypothermia, he thought.
Night would be upon him in a few hours. To build his own shelter would take time, and use up critical energy. Energy he needed to keep his temperature up. To stay alive.
The wind picked up, sending a bitter chill through his parka. Even with the extra insulation, he knew he couldn’t survive out in the cold much longer. The temperature had already dropped into the negatives. It would fall even more after nightfall.
Decision made.
He slid down the embankment, making as little noise as possible. When he hit level ground, he moved at a slow pace, to minimize the crunching of his boots across the snow.
Finally, he reached the door of the rickety wooden structure. He put his ear to the warped wood beams, but heard no sounds from inside. He creaked open the door and stepped into the cabin.
The low sun cast long shadows across the dark interior of the shack. The windows were open holes, cut into the pine logs that formed the walls. Each was covered with thick plastic sheeting, nailed into the frames. Glass panels were too heavy and fragile for a trapper to lug this far out into the wilderness.
The sparse furniture looked as if it was handmade. A cot stood at one end of the square room, covered by animal skins and a thick fur blanket. Despite his exhaustion, Caine ignored the bed and continued searching the cabin and its grounds for supplies.
Outside, a few yards away from the tiny shack, he found a storage box built from smaller timbers. The wooden pen was about the size of a refrigerator, with a hinged lid. Inside, he found a few blocks of ice, three bottles of filtered water, and a plastic bag full of preserved meat, jerky of some kind.
Must be where the trapper kept his kills before he skinned them, he thought.
Back inside, he slid a small wooden chest from under the cot. Lifting the lid, he found a collection of saws and tools nestled under a folded paper map.
Caine took a sip of water, forcing himself to slow his drinking. This would be all the water he might find for several days... he had to conserve his supplies.
He sat down on the bed, and chewed on a piece of jerky. Unfolding the map, he set it down and carefully studied the area. He traced a line that ran south from the mountains.
Railway tracks… Freight line running timber and supplies.
The line intersected the Norilsk mining train route that led south to the port city of Dudinka. From there, he knew he could arrange passage to a larger city. Then, with a little luck, he could make his way out of Russia.
No!
The voice clamped down on his thoughts of escape, as cold and unforgiving as the bitter frost outside.
Rudov, Zasko… they know your name. They know Mark Waters is a ghost, a convenient fiction.
They know who you really are.
He chewed another bite of jerky, pondering the unpleasant thought. The intelligence community believed he was dead. After his old handler, Allan Bernatto, framed him for treason, he had disappeared. He assumed an old cover identity, and sank into the criminal underworld of Pattaya. It was safer to let the world believe the lie.
He hated himself for giving in, for allowing Bernatto to go on breathing. Most of all, he hated himself. He had allowed himself to believed that all the killing and violence, the bloodshed that stained his soul, had been justified. Now he knew the truth.
He was merely a weapon. A tool, used and discarded by powerful men with dark and secretive ambitions.
And then there was Rebecca...
A young Operations Officer at the CIA. Someone he had grown close to. Someone he had developed feelings for. Like Naiyana, Rebecca had peeled back the darkness that surrounded him, if only for a short time. She had come closer than anyone to seeing the man inside.
If Bernatto found out that Caine was alive and living off the grid, he wouldn’t hesitate to act. Caine was a loose end. And loose ends were to be eliminated, by whatever means necessary.
Rebecca, anyone close to him, would be in danger.
He couldn’t allow a man like Sergei Rudov to know his secret. It was too dangerous, the threat of exposure too high. Once again, the shadowy tendrils of bloodshed and violence had reached out from his past, grasping at those he cared for with a cold embrace.
Rudov and the Iron Wolf… they would have to be dealt with. Before he could crawl back to his meager, lonely existence, he had loose ends of his own to take care of.
He put down the map and rummaged through the other tools in the chest. He found a collection of chipped old saw blades, awls, and other small tools. Then his fingers wrapped around the smooth wood handle of a field shovel. He hefted it from the box and held it up in the dim light.
He whistled in appreciation. The short handle and flat metal blade of the shovel were expertly crafted. He recognized its shape… It was a Spetsnaz GRU shovel.
The pointed metal head was sharpened to a razor’s edge on each side. The tool could be used as a fearsome weapon, and was capable of looping an opponent’s head clean off.
For a moment, Caine wondered who exactly had built this cabin. How had they acquired such a lethal instrument? Then he shrugged, tossed the shovel on the cot, and huddled under the furs. Whoever owned this place, he would be gone long before they returned. He could only allow himself a short rest, just long enough to recharge and regain his lost energy.
After that, the hunt would resume.
His hunt.
Chapter Eleven
The tiny cabin glowed a pale green in the amplified moonlight of the nightvision scope.
Yuri’s breath was slow and rhythmic. He kept the crosshairs steady over the shack’s front door, and did not shift or waver. The drooping branches and clumps of hanging snow from a nearby tree masked his position on a rocky ridge.
The sniper hide was closer than he would have liked. At only 500-meters or so, the distance was less than a quarter of the powerful rifle’s maximum accurate range. Still, nestled in the darkness and shadowed by the branches of the trees, he was confident he would not be spotted from the cabin's grounds.
With Leonid in the forest below, he was operating without a spotter. Once he began firing, he would have to spend precious seconds reacquiring the target before firing again. Assuming the first shot missed, of course.
At this range, Yuri did not plan to miss.
The red light on the walkie clipped to his belt blinked on. Static crackled in his earpiece. It was Leonid.
“I am approaching the cabin. There are tracks in the snow, about one hundred yards out from the perimeter. No sign of target.”
“Copy that," Yuri answered. "I see smoke coming from the roof. He must have a fire burning inside, over.” He spoke in a low monotone. His attention was laser-focused on the nightvision scope mounted above the rifle's barrel.
“I copy. Poor little lamb must be cold. I will warm things up for him, over.”
Yuri ignored the man’s boast, and kept his aim steady. This man they were chasing had already taken out one of their number, and managed to delay Zasko and the others. All with only a scavenged shotgun and some strips of cord.
Yuri had never participated on one of Zasko’s hunts before. He considered himself a soldier, not a plaything for the demented desires of wealthy oligarchs like Sergei Rudov.
Lying prone, the chill of the frozen ground pressed up against his body. He felt the wallet in his breast pocket digging into his chest, pushing against the slow, rhythmic beating of his heart.
Before coming to this frozen wasteland, he had slipped a picture inside the slim leather fold. He could see it in his mind’s eye… A woman, looking over her shoulder at the camera. He could picture her face, visualize the slightest detail… the sunlight streaming from the window, the sparkling glint it cast in her eyes. The corner of her mouth, tugging her lips into a sly smile.
He wondered what she would think of his activities tonight. Was she awake? Did she dream? Or did she slumber in a drug-induced haze, unconscious in her hospital bed?
It does not matter what she thinks, what you think, he told himself. You are doing what you must. For your survival… and for hers.
He forced the doubts from his mind. It was obvious that this man they were chasing was not some business rival, or a snitch who had broken the Vor code. This man was dangerous. The commander was rattled, he could tell. Zasko and the others had underestimated their target.
Yuri vowed not to make that mistake.
“Don’t get too close,” he answered back. “All you need to do is flush him out. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Da. I’ll flush him out all right. I am in firing position. Stand by. Over and out.”
WHUMP!
The thump of the GM-94 grenade launcher echoed through the frozen forest. Yuri watched through the scope as the bright projectile streaked towards the cabin. The grenade tore through the plastic covering one of the windows, and landed inside the tiny shack.
A brief explosion rattled the cabin's timbers. White-hot flames erupted from the opening. The thermobaric grenade acted like a miniature fuel-air bomb, using oxygen from the surrounding air to create an incendiary blaze.
Yuri heard Leonid fire again. The cabin door collapsed as another explosion shook the building. The shack was engulfed by flames now, and appeared as a flickering white blur in Yuri’s scope. He saw no other movement… If Caine was inside, it did not look like he would make it out.
“Leonid, I do not see any movement… do you have anything on the ground?”
“Negative. I think he is, how you say… extra crispy, over.”
Yuri blinked, as the blaze grew hotter and brighter in his scope. The white-hot blur obscured his view of the ground surrounding the cabin.
His earpiece cracked to life again. “I’m moving in,” Leonid said. “Zasko wants this asshole’s head… can’t let him burn up— Urgh!”
The transition was cut off by the strange, muttered groan, followed by a burst of static.
“Leonid, are you there? Come in, over!”
No response. Yuri pivoted the scope away from the burning shack. He scanned the white, glistening ice beneath the dark forest. He saw nothing. No signs of movement. No sign of Leonid.
And no sign of the target.
Caine heard footsteps crunching closer across the ice. The night breeze carried the man’s whispering voice through the trees. The words were indistinct, but it did not matter. Armed men were closing in on his position, as he had known they would.
He lay nestled in the darkness, wrapped in the thick furs from the bed. He clutched the deadly shovel in a white-knuckled grip. Every muscle in his body tensed as he prepared for action.
Not yet, he thought. Let him get closer. Wait for it…
He heard the twin explosions of the grenades as they detonated inside the shack. He grinned in the darkness. The heat bloom from the explosions would drown out most nightvision optic systems. His enemies would be overconfident and moving blind, if only for a few seconds.
It was time.
He burst from the ice box and leapt into the snow. He’d removed the ice and supplies from the wooden pen earlier. Next, he had lined the cramped space with furs and pillows from the bed inside. It was not as warm as the interior of the shack, but it was enough to protect him from the elements for a short time.
More importantly, it was not where his attackers expected him to be. And in this game, misdirection was one of the few weapons at his disposal.
He darted into a grove of trees and froze, listening for movement. Behind him, the burning cabin lit up the night sky. The crackling flames cast the trees and snow banks around the blaze into deep, dark shadow.
He ducked low and scurried to another group of trees, farther away from the fire. He heard more footsteps. Someone was moving toward the burning cabin. A figure dressed in white tactical gear emerged from the shadows. The commando stalked closer to the burning structure. Caine watched as the man lowered the grenade launcher, and surveyed the area. He held up a radio, and spoke in Russian.
Caine leapt from his concealed position and charged across the snow. Swinging the shovel like a baseball bat, he cracked the metal tip into the back of the man’s head.
The man grunted, and stumbled forward. He lurched around, but staggered from the force of the blow.
A second was all Caine needed.
As the man’s hands dropped to the rifle slung under his shoulder, Caine snapped the handle of the shovel forward. The wood cracked across the bridge of the man's nose. Without pause, Caine sidestepped and swung the tool in a low arc. The razor sharp edge of the shovel cut into the man’s thigh. He screamed in pain as the metal sliced through his clothes and tore into his flesh.
He stumbled forward and collapsed into the snow. Caine clamped the handle of the shovel over his neck in a choke-hold, and dragged the body into the trees. He gra
bbed the man’s rifle, and slung it over his shoulder as he hefted the heavy grenade launcher in his hands. The man groaned slightly, but did not move. Caine stripped off the man’s parka and draped it over his own shoulders.
The man groaned again. Caine glanced down at the AK-74 rifle he held in his hands. A gunshot would give away his position. He stood up, and raised the shovel over his head.
CRACK!
The explosion of the gunshot echoed through the trees. Caine dropped to the ground, as wood splintered and cracked above his head. The bullet shot straight through the tree, and buried itself in the snow a few feet from his position.
Sniper, above the trees… have to keep moving!
Keeping low, Caine raced towards another shadowy grove a few yards away. The explosive fire of the sniper roared again. Caine kept running, as another bullet screamed past his ear, missing his head by inches. It buried itself into another tree, sending a hail of wooden splinters whipping through the air. Caine grunted in pain as he felt a sharp fragment tear through his parka and pierce his side.
He made a beeline for one of the larger trees, a towering larch with a trunk over three feet thick. Skidding to a stop in the snow, he panted for breath. Whoever was targeting him, they had to be using a nightvision scope of some kind.
You can use that against him. But first you have to figure out his position.
The angle of the last two shots indicated the shooter was aiming from higher up the mountain, the ridge-line of the cliff he’d descended earlier.
The wind picked up, whistling through the branches of the trees. It sent a light dust of white powder cascading from above. Caine fished the other soldier’s mask out of his pocket.
One more shot, he thought. One more shot, and I can narrow down his position. Assuming he doesn’t hit me first…
Cold Kill Page 6