Page 4

CHAPTER 4

I was shivering because in my haste to quickly evade, I had violated a cardinal rule of cold weather operations: I’d sweated. And now that dampness was turning icy in my inner clothes. I was also melting into the snow and frozen ground. Five minutes had passed since I’d taken up my ambush position and there was no sign of my pursuers.

Had I overreacted?

Had I made a mistake in stopping?

I shook my head. Second-guessing led to more mistakes. I had to trust my instincts based on the simple fact that doing so had kept me alive this long. Of course, all it took was one screw-up to wipe out all those attaboys.

I caught a flicker of movement among the trees to the left of the trail. A man dressed in overwhites to blend in with the snow was moving cautiously through the trees, right at the edge of the drop off. Between the overwhites and the assault rifle he was carrying, my instincts were proven correct.

Sometimes I hate being right.

Then I felt something I hadn’t experienced at this intensity since my first foray into combat in the Army decades ago: I was suddenly gut-wrenchingly scared. Terrified of getting killed. It shocked me in its intensity, raw and unexpected. I realized I might never see Rose and her real smile again. Poppy laughing in the sunlight as she combed out Maggs’ knotted fur. Their bright kitchen and the shop full of junk and Rose’s warm bedroom.

It was momentary; my experience allowed me to shove it away, push all extraneous thoughts aside—those get you killed—and focus on the immediate.

I looked to the other side of the trail, but there was no sign of the second one. I had to assume he was in overwatch. Which meant if I shot at the first guy, the second would know where I was, and it would be lights out because he probably had a long gun with a scope. Or he’d keep me pinned down long enough for me to freeze to death.

Just great.

Rose had been right. I could be lying in her warm bed right now, her arms around me, my somewhat faithful dog lying at the foot of the bed in peaceful Rocky Start, instead of freezing here in the middle of nowhere. I could imagine Rose, having just gotten up and dressed and taken Maggs out for a brief walk, now enjoying a nice, safe cup of tea next door in Ecstasy, chatting with Coral, while Pike sipped on a cup of coffee, everyone serene and safe and content and eating warm German pastries Coral had baked earlier in the morning. Probably discussing what a dummy I was.

And there I was, once more, off-mission.

Fuck.

Focus.

The guy I could see was moving very slowly. I imagined they’d checked the satellite imagery on their digital maps and knew there was a large open space ahead. And had looked through optics and not seen my tracks crest it. Thus, they knew I was either waiting for them or going around. This was a game of chess and I was being outplayed, mainly because I didn’t have many moves.

I mean, through-hiking the Appalachian Trail was hard enough. Doing it off-season was really, really hard. Doing it during a once-in-a-century blizzard sucked. Did I really need two people out here tracking me down?

The man was ten meters away, the stock of his weapon tight to his shoulder. The muzzle was tracking with his eyes, finger on the trigger. He was a pro, which meant the other guy was also a pro.

Pros always recognize other pros.

I scanned the area, trying to get a glimpse of the second shooter because he was the one I had to worry about. The first was now about five meters away. I was perfectly still, blending in with the rocks and snow because I had two weeks’ worth of beard that was now white due to the frost frozen in it, along with a disconcerting amount of gray I had never noticed before. I was covered by a dusting of snow. I could barely feel my exposed finger on the trigger.

But enough to be able to pull it.

That’s when I heard whistling. It was so incongruous that for a moment I thought I was hallucinating. Especially when I recognized the tune. Most people knew it from the movie The Bridge On the River Kwai , but its title was the “Colonel Bogey March.” Very catchy, but who the hell was whistling it up here in the mountains? The second shooter?

The one in front of me didn’t seem to think so. He positioned himself behind a tree, facing the way he’d come. His back was a perfect target, but shooting someone in the back was just plain wrong. It wasn’t a rule, more a guideline. Besides, there was the whistling. And the hidden shooter.

This was what was called a developing situation.

A man high-stepping on snowshoes appeared on the Appalachian Trail. He was better prepared for the conditions than me or my pursuers. He was wearing a fur coat and a cap made of the same, and I didn’t think either were fake. He was also the whistler. He moved smoothly on the snowshoes, obviously experienced with them because that’s hard to do, using poles to keep his balance. He wasn’t the second pursuer because of the snowshoes, the lack of a weapon, and the way he was dressed.

When the snowshoer was opposite the tree the shooter was hiding behind, the shooter stepped out and said something to the man, brandishing his weapon. The snowshoer lowered his face mask, revealing an older man with a well-clipped short white beard. He held up his hands, the poles dangling on loops from his wrists.

He was gesturing broadly with his hands, smiling, as if explaining himself. I noticed the shooter look past him, probably for his partner. Which should have been a warning sign. For him.

Because then the shooter simply collapsed to the snow.

The snowshoer turned in my direction. “Max Reddy?” he called out in a loud voice, with an unmistakable Russian accent.

A Russian.

And he knew my name.

Great.