by Jack Carr
Movement.
“Hold fire,” Reece commanded. “I’m hitting the light; stand by. Moving.”
“Move,” Chavez said.
Reece took a few steps into the center of the room, flipped up his NODs, and pulled down on a string attached to a single lightbulb.
The room was sparse, rock floor and walls, solid wood beams across the ceiling.
Eight prison cells were built against the opposite side of the room. The three commandos kept their weapons trained on the unknown, quickly processing the scene. Eight cells. Six occupied. Two unoccupied. No Raife. No Hanna.
The prisoners all huddled in the back corners of their cells, trying to determine if the new intruders were friends or foes.
“Chavez, Devan, clear the rest of the house with Edo. I think it’s empty but make sure. Then, Devan, you switch out with Eli. I need him in here ASAP. Take up security with Edo. I’m going to see what intel I can get from these guys. Eli and I will prep them to move. We can’t leave them here. We have to assume reinforcements are inbound. This time it’s not going to be a few contractors, it’s going to be a full-on Russian military response. Take these prisoners to extract. They might be the only witnesses to what’s happened here and if this goes public, we will need them to keep us off the noose.”
“Hey, boss,” Chavez said from the far end of the room. The change in his tone was chilling.
He was standing by a table that had been moved in front of the last cell, a cell that was now empty. A large glass jar almost the size of a water cooler jug was on top.
Reece walked toward it, a sense of dread building the closer he got. Knowing what it was even before he stopped, he knelt down and came face-to-face with Hanna Hastings.
“What are you going to do?” Chavez asked.
Reece felt the hate welling up from the deepest recesses of his soul. He looked from Hanna’s upturned eyes to those of his friend and teammate.
“I’m going hunting.”
CHAPTER 80
REECE RAN IN SNOWSHOES, finding his rhythm, the Echols Legend rifle cradled in his grasp. He had reloaded with four rounds in its magazine and a fifth in the chamber. Five additional rounds on its cheek pad gave Reece quick access to more ammunition and put his eye at the optimal height behind the scope.
He’d traded his battlefield pickup for his bolt-action Echols because he wanted a tool he was comfortable with if he had to make a long shot. According to the African prisoners in Zharkov’s dungeon, the Russian hunter and his accomplice had started tracking Raife when it was still dark, which meant he had at least a two-hour head start. In all likelihood, Reece would have to even up that distance with a bullet.
He’d thought the team might mutiny when he told them he was forging ahead without them. He’d convinced them that with his sniper rifle and with only two targets still in play, he was best equipped to handle them. Reece stressed that they needed to get back to Farkus and it would take the three of them to move him to extract. Two would carry the wounded SEAL and one would be on security while also accounting for the Africans. They’d have to rotate positions as they maneuvered overland to the Albatross and freedom. While all that was true, Reece also knew that anyone who stayed was probably not leaving the island. Going after Raife and Aleksandr meant they would surely miss the extract window. He couldn’t live with the deaths of more of his friends and teammates on his conscience. He would continue alone.
Reece had dropped most of his gear for added mobility. He needed to move. His Half Face Hunter-Skinner and Winkler Sayok RnD ’Hawk were on his belt. A SIG P320 Compact was in a Blackpoint Tactical wing holster at his side.
The path was easy to follow. The tracks were from a four-wheel drive built to crawl over the snow- and rock-strewn landscape. The snowshoes kept him from potholing into the deeper patches of snow as he gained elevation. His labored breathing and the howling wind all but eliminated his sense of hearing.
Dawn had broken to an overcast sky. It would be snowing soon. He had to catch up with Raife and Aleksandr before the weather closed in, concealing their tracks.
The jar containing Hanna’s head was seared into Reece’s memory. The man responsible was at the end of the trail. It was time for him to die.
Reece’s peripheral vision caught a blur of white to his right. On instinct born of a warrior’s DNA, he pivoted and threw up his left arm to block his face, the dog’s teeth sinking into the fabric of his jacket and piercing the skin beneath.
Dog!
Losing his balance on the snowshoes that had just turned from an asset into a liability, he dropped his rifle and spun the massive canine around into the snow. The primal growls of the beast so close to his face flipped a switch in the former commando; his “five-meter target” had just become this animal intent on killing him. Forcing the dog down in the powder, Reece took the mount position, and fired a palm strike against his own arm, slamming his radial bone deep into the dog’s mouth to take away the jaw’s mechanical advantage and prevent it from shredding his arm to pieces. Having been taught to defend against dogs bred and trained to kill, Reece shot a second palm strike into its sensitive nose before going for his pistol. With his arm blocking the dog’s face, Reece raised the SIG toward its brain. The thrashing animal was not accustomed to being on its back, which made an accurate shot difficult even at contact distance. To prevent a pistol stoppage from the mess that the animal’s hair, skin, and bones were about to cause, Reece braced his thumb on the back plate and fired one round into its head. Ignoring the instantaneous ringing in his ears from the close shot, Reece pushed clear and struggled to get the awkward snowshoes back under him while attempting to clear his self-induced malfunction from the contact shot.
Before he could rack the slide, the second dog hit him in the ribs, sending the SIG into the snow.
Fuck! How many dogs do these guys have?
As Reece reoriented toward his newest threat, he had another chilling thought: Where is his handler?
Reece adjusted to the new, larger dog and tried to rip the snowshoes off his feet. The dog lunged, its sharp teeth finding purchase near Reece’s collar bone, ripping with its head but coming away with only bits of jacket.
With one snowshoe now free, Reece swung it at his new aggressor, the terrain and the animal’s power keeping the SEAL on his knees as it charged in again. Grabbing for anything he could, Reece pushed one arm into the dog’s muscular chest and wrapped his hand around its left leg. Feeling the teeth sink into his shoulder, Reece remembered the weakest part of a multipurpose canine. He grabbed the animal’s front legs and snapped them apart like a wish bone, breaking the dog’s base. Its primal bark instantaneously became a painful whimper.
Rolling around as he would a human on the jiu-jitsu mats, Reece clinched its head and wrapped his arm around its neck, putting it in an anaconda choke. The dog thrashed and pawed in desperation before depleting the last measure of its strength and going limp in Reece’s arms.
Falling to his back, Reece sucked in precious oxygen. He took stock of his injuries while noting how much longer it took to choke out a dog than a human.
The handler! I need to find my SIG.
Reece scrambled to his feet, the one snowshoe still attached to his foot making standing a tougher proposition than usual. Scanning the immediate area, Reece froze. A sound he knew all too well permeated the ringing in his ears: the sound of an action cycling on a bolt gun. He turned toward it and found himself looking at a huge man in skins and furs. He was holding a .300 Winchester Magnum. It was at his hip, pointing directly at Reece.
CHAPTER 81
REECE WATCHED AS THE bear of a man ran the bolt, sending a cartridge into the snow. His face remained expressionless as he cycled the action once more, ejecting another round. He then moved the rifle to his shoulder.
Click.
Reece inadvertently flinched at what had just become the loudest sound in the world: a firing pin going forward on an empty chamber.
The beast smi
led as he turned the rifle around and, holding it by its barrel, swung it like a bat, letting it fly off into the snowy tundra.
Reece dropped back to a knee, fumbling with the clasp on the snowshoe in a desperate attempt to free his foot, the monster slowing his approach as if to give Reece time.
The snowshoe free, Reece went for the blade at his belt but was stopped by a spinning back kick, which sent him careening into the ground, hitting his lower back on a rock hidden just beneath the fresh coat of snow.
Who is this guy? A spinning back kick coming with such speed from a man of that size was not a good sign.
He’s comfortable here, Reece thought, getting back to his feet and shooting in for a double leg takedown.
His opponent sprawled, then spun to take Reece’s back, lifting him up until his hips were over his head, slamming him down like a rag doll.
Reece’s face met the snow, which luckily softened the impact.
Sambo, Reece thought. Russian military.
His opponent backed off, allowing Reece to start to stand.
He’s toying with me.
The Russian then moved in with an agility Reece had not seen in years, taking Reece back down with a scissor sweep, then recovering in the mount position.
Reece covered his face in a vain attempt to block the blows that rained down from above. He heard the Russian laugh, saying something in his native tongue that Reece couldn’t understand.
An image of Raife’s head in a glass container next to his sister’s appeared in Reece’s mind.
Reece thrust his hips up, surprising the gigantic Russian and moving him forward. That move gave Reece the space he needed to draw his blade. Twisting up on his left side and scooting right, Reece plunged the sharp steel into the Russian’s hip, then slammed his free hand into the back of the hilt to drive it in as far as possible.
Writhing in pain, the Koryak warrior pushed Reece away, giving them both time to stand. A mutual respect for the fighting prowess of the other caused a slight tactical pause. His smile and laughter gone, the Russian drew a large skinning blade from his belt and watched as Reece’s right hand moved behind his back, returning with his Winkler RnD ’Hawk in a hammer grip, his left hand still holding Chavez’s gift. Both men knew only one of them was leaving this desolate patch of terrain alive.
The sharp weapons felt at home in Reece’s hands, the grips designed to offer a hold even when awash in the blood of enemies.
The two fighters moved toward each other, the Russian using his reach to his advantage, attempting to slash at Reece’s stomach. The American anticipated the move. Reece’s short blade connected with the larger man’s arm, drawing a superficial wound. Reece used his momentum to swing the tomahawk at the Russian’s head. Sergei evaded by swaying left, ready to press the attack. Recovering from his missed swing, Reece bent his knees to change levels and hooked his ax behind his target’s ankle. He yanked back, sweeping the Russian off his feet. Capitalizing on his dominant position, Reece rushed in to destroy his opponent but the Russian threw up his feet and used them along with Reece’s momentum to throw the smaller man over his head.
This is why you train, Reece. Push the offensive, capitalize on his first mistake, and kill him.
The native Siberian closed the distance and reentered with a massive downward slash. Reece blocked it by striking his attacker’s forearm with the shaft of the tomahawk and, in a move he’d learned studying the Filipino martial arts, hooked his opponent’s arm with the beard of the weapon, swinging it down and away. The violent motion ripped his tomahawk down his opponent’s arm and through his knife hand in a move known as “disarming the snake.”
Sensing the Russian was both surprised and off balance, Reece swung his left hand around and planted his blade squarely in the large man’s clavicle. Reece moved off centerline and swept the Russian off his feet, which also inadvertently ripped the knife, still stuck in the Russian’s collarbone, from Reece’s hand
Finish it.
Leading with the ax, Reece moved to end the fight but was blasted back with a powerful kick from the Russian.
Don’t get careless, Reece.
Close the distance, get inside his range. Take that advantage from him.
Pushing the ax head down in his hand into a punch grip, the bottom of the ax head resting on the top of Reece’s fist, he squared off again. Sergei entered with a jab.
Mistake.
Reece used his left elbow to guide the punch directly into the spike of the hawk, splitting the Russian’s hand in two. Howling in pain, a look of madness in his eyes, Sergei fired a reverse punch at Reece’s head with his uninjured hand. Reece covered and crashed in, punching the head of his ax into the Siberian’s face, taking off the bottom of his nose and leaving part of his check dangling and exposed. The Siberian attempted another futile rage-filled swing, but Reece passed his opponent’s arm with the shaft of his ax and darted in to clutch his enemy’s head, digging the back spike of the ’Hawk into his neck. Taking his other hand, Reece clinched him close, bumped his hips, and took the huge Russian to the ground, landing with his right knee on his chest.
In full survival mode, Sergei wrapped the ax with his one massive working hand, gripping it for dear life. Unable to use his most formidable weapon, Reece reverted to a palm strike to the side of the Russian’s head and followed it with an elbow. Seeing his blade still protruding from his enemy’s collarbone, Reece grabbed the exposed hilt and ratcheted it back and forth like a joystick. Primordial screams of pain erupted from the large man as the vicious blade cut deeper. Reece pushed it downward toward the subclavian artery, pleural sack, and the top of the lungs, trying to force a tension pneumothorax.
Sensing what Reece was trying to do, the Russian moved his enormous fist to the SEAL’s left hand, which was working the blade into his body. Another target. Reece sliced through the Russian’s last functional hand. He turned the blade over and pressure-cut across his neck and throat before planting the blade into the left eye socket.
Slippery with blood, Reece drew back the ax and used his hip to bump the ax to a hammer grip. He then raised it and chopped it directly into his adversary’s skull. Quickly ripping it free, he continued to cycle full-power blows to the head and neck, driven by a vision of Hanna’s upturned eyes, her hair floating around her severed head. In one last attempt at salvation, the giant rolled over, wrapping up Reece’s ankle. This exposed his side and back, giving Reece new targets, which he attacked with a vengeance. The SEAL continued his onslaught until the ax severed his antagonist’s spinal cord with a strike to the base of the neck.
Exhausted, and steaming from the fluids evaporating into the cold air, Reece sank back on his heels, enveloped in a fog of death.
He closed his eyes and steadied his breathing before kneeling on the Russian’s face and ripping the blade from his eye.
There was still work to be done.
CHAPTER 82
ALEKSANDR DELIBERATELY FOLLOWED THE tracks, aware that he was not pursuing a sub-Saharan savage, but a highly trained hunter and man of war. He wouldn’t find Rainsford cowering in fear at the end of the trail like he did so many of those imported from the African continent, half frozen to death in a foreign land. No, Rainsford would be thoughtful, he’d be tricky.
Put yourself in his shoes, Aleksandr mused. Where would you go? What would you do?
Rainsford was a military man. What did military men the world over do when pressed? They went to the high ground and they flanked, two of the basic tenets of warfare, confirmed time and time again throughout history.
Or, would Rainsford know I know this and do something only an amateur would do because I won’t expect it?
Will he be waiting for me in my bedroom when I return tonight?
Look, he’s going to the same point where his stupid sister thought she could hide, no doubt hoping the weather would cover her tracks. She hadn’t counted on the dogs. Maybe he isn’t, either?
Soon enough, I’ll put this bolt throu
gh your heart, S. Rainsford, and I’ll mount your head in a jar right next to your sister’s in my sleeping quarters.
* * *
Raife watched his tormenter from the rocks fifty feet above. He’d gone as far he could in the snow, stopping at a place where he could rock climb toward a cave in the side of the cliff. His ruse was intended to make the Russian think he had found refuge there. Instead he had backtracked out until he made his way to a section of the snow- and rock-strewn mountainside that allowed him to leave his trail. He had carefully picked his way up the slope, using rocks, ice, and the occasional exposed root to hide his tracks.
Hope is not a course of action. I know. But sometimes it’s all we have.
He watched as the man who hunted him edged closer to the cliff’s edge. He could sense the calculations going through his mind, attempting to anticipate Raife’s moves.
Raife had seen the contractors, heard the dogs. Without a weapon or proper clothing, his odds of surviving the night were slim. The man below had hunted his sister on this very patch of earth. Raife imagined her terror in those last moments of life, pursued by this madman, his native tracker, and hunting dogs. If he was to avenge her, he might not get another shot.
* * *
Aleksandr’s eyes followed the tracks until they left the snow for the rock of the cliff face. He imagined the route Rainsford and his sister had taken to the cave, inching their way across to what they believed was sanctuary.
Was he going to spend the night in there? Was he just getting out of the elements, preparing for the coming storm?
The Russian’s eyes slowly moved back from the cave, along the cliff face, to the tracks just to the right of his feet, then back in the direction of his vehicle.
His quick step to the rear probably saved his life. A football-sized rock connected with his shoulder instead of his head, and sent him crashing into the snow.
