by Brad Thor
Seven kilometers in, all Harvath wanted to do was puke his guts out. Part of it was the cheeseburgers, but another part was how fast he was moving. He wanted to get as far away from the mercenaries as fast as possible.
He was pushing himself too hard. He knew that. But if he didn’t make it to that village, if he got caught by a Wagner snowmobile or helicopter patrol, he’d never breathe free air again. He had to push it as hard as he could.
In addition to extra food, Christina had put medical supplies and clothing in his rucksack. Mercifully, she had also affixed a water bladder to it. Given how close the enemy was there could be no stopping to melt snow into water.
The temperature tonight felt worse than anything he had experienced since the crash. Christina, however, had assured him he could make it. He was wearing her husband’s winter gear and was insulated from head to toe. Even his eyes were protected by a set of goggles.
The pace he was keeping, though, had him sweating. He could feel the rivulets of salty perspiration rolling down his face and down his back.
Whenever his mind suggested that he stop, if only for a moment to catch his breath, he redoubled his efforts and pressed forward. Now wasn’t the time. Stopping equaled capture.
Fortunately, he hadn’t heard any helicopters overhead. Perhaps Wagner was convinced that he was holed up in one of the houses in town and had decided to give them a rest. If so, that was a good thing.
Nevertheless, he made sure to stay in the woods and to use the tree cover to full advantage. Wagner likely had access to thermal imagers that could pinpoint him based on his body heat. There was no reason to make things any easier for them than he had to.
Pushing through the deep snow, he slowed only to take quick sips of water and to check his GPS.
From time to time, he had trouble getting a signal, and when that happened, he had no choice but to ski back out toward the edge of the woods where he could get a good view of the night sky and reconnect with the satellites.
But as soon as he had reestablished the signal and had confirmed his heading, he skied back into the trees.
Even with the small course adjustments, the trip felt as if it was taking a lot longer than Christina had said it would. He knew that was just his fatigue talking, though—the unhelpful part of his brain that always spoke up when he was exhausted and wanted to sabotage his progress.
As he had done with his guilt and grief over losing Lara, he slammed an iron door shut on that part of his psyche and pressed on.
Movement and concealment were all that mattered. He needed to get to that village.
When he reached the ten-kilometer mark, he paused for the world’s shortest rest. He was only one-third of the way there.
He believed that if he sat down, even with the help of his poles, he wouldn’t be able to get up. So, he contented himself with leaning against a tree. Almost instantly, his legs began to cramp.
Bending down to massage them, he took his weight off the tree, which released a pile of snow from the boughs high above. Somebody was trying to tell him something. Stopping was a bad idea.
He took a long drink of water, hoping to ease the cramps. After clearing the snow from his pack, and his shotgun, he pushed on again.
To fuel his trek, he allowed himself to tap into an emotion he had been trying to hold at bay—his rage.
He knew behind which door it hid and he didn’t just crack it, he kicked it wide open. Instantly, it crashed into his bloodstream like liquid lava, taking him over.
It was the darkest energy from the darkest part of his soul. More addictive than any drug, more powerful than any other emotion, rage lay beyond reason, beyond any sense of right or wrong. Rage was primal. And though he had been taught to never let it take control, he gave himself over to it, fully.
He saw everything from the cottage in New Hampshire unfold once more in his mind’s eye. He saw the brutal executions and the lives leaving the bodies of the people he loved. He saw the men responsible. He saw his own role—unable to stop any of it—and pure, toxic hate rose within him once more.
His mind shifted to the Spetsnaz soldiers at the crash site—those who had already been dead and those he had killed. He saw himself taking their scalps and stringing them along a piece of wire—his small and unsatisfying act of revenge. Carving off pieces of those men was an end-zone dance. Hanging those scalps up was a “fuck you” to the men who would eventually come upon them.
The only real sense of satisfaction he would get would be when he tracked down the men who were ultimately responsible for what had happened. It didn’t matter if it took him days, months, or even years. All he knew was that he wouldn’t stop until he had found them and had taken from them just as much as if not more than they had taken from him.
With the molten rage pumping through him, he pushed his way through the snow.
He eventually developed a rhythm. Kilometer after kilometer fell away behind him, until the terrain began to angle upward.
It wasn’t a very steep ascent, but it was agonizing, reengaging many of the muscles he had torn down while snowshoeing. There wasn’t enough rage left in his tank to propel him at the clip he had been going.
And as the rage started to ebb away, it was replaced by something else—fear. He wasn’t going to make it.
Each push of his skis came at greater cost—each required more energy, each was more painful, and each carried him over a shorter distance. He had gone from moving feet to moving only inches. And whether or not it was a trick of his exhausted mind, the incline felt as if it were growing.
If ever he needed his rage to spur him on, it was now, but he couldn’t summon it. Leaning forward, he used his poles to drag himself up the hillside.
Millimeter by millimeter he climbed, refusing to give up. He could feel the muscle fibers tearing in his back and shoulders, arms and legs. His body, already badly broken, didn’t have much left to give.
Once again, the voice of the saboteur came to him, urging him to drop his pack, to stop, rest, give up. He tried not to listen, but the voice only grew louder, its arguments more convincing. There was nothing he could do to close it off. He was too weak to fight. So, he did the only thing he had left in him—he negotiated with it.
He cajoled and bargained, but never stopped moving. He allowed the voice to run wild, to persuade him why it was right and he was wrong. Eventually, he succumbed.
He was almost at the top when he realized that he had lied to Christina. His stamina was for shit. The stress of being on the run, the bitter arctic cold, the grueling physical exertion, had eaten it all away.
He couldn’t go any farther. This was it. He needed to rest, maybe even to sleep, if only for just a little while.
Planting his skis, he stuck his poles in the snow, unslung his shotgun, and dropped it alongside him. He followed with his pack, but as he tried to get out of the straps, he stumbled.
He landed with his legs twisted beneath him and one of the skis missing. He didn’t care. All he wanted to do was to close his eyes. It would be a death sentence, however, to fall asleep out here in the cold.
A feeling of warmth was spreading across his body. Along with it whispered the voice of the saboteur, encouraging him to give in.
It felt so good to be still, to be off his feet. Through breaks in the snow-covered trees he could see an occasional star. They were the same stars he had pointed out to Lara while sitting on his dock back home in Virginia.
He had begun to teach Lara’s son, Marco, the names of the constellations, the same way his father had taught him. It was in those small, simple moments that they had come closest to being a family—the thing Harvath had wanted more than almost anything else.
Now, lying here in the snow, he had a reason to stay put. He had convinced himself to keep staring up into the night sky—that once he had seen enough stars to identify a constellation, he would start moving again. It was an homage to Lara, a eulogy of sorts. No matter how cold or how tired he got, he wouldn�
�t move until he had done so.
“Sit up,” a voice suddenly said.
It was hard to hear it over the wind.
“Sit up,” it repeated.
It was Lara’s voice.
“Stop playing games. Get moving.”
He ignored her. He knew her voice wasn’t real. He was losing his mind again.
Maybe, he thought to himself, things would make more sense if I just closed my eyes for a little bit.
And so, despite every rational circuit in his brain telling him not to, he gave in to the saboteur and allowed his lids to close.
CHAPTER 43
* * *
* * *
NIVSKY
MURMANSK OBLAST
Christina made a big deal about the back door to her clinic having been kicked in, letting loose with several choice words not necessarily befitting a doctor.
Teplov, who had been on her bumper the entire way from her house, had followed her inside. He watched her, closely, to see what she did.
After bitching about the damage in back, she went straight to the room with the cabinet where the drugs were stored.
It was obvious it had been broken into. Inventorying the contents, she appeared relieved.
“What is it?” Teplov asked. “What do you see?”
“I see my narcotics. Fortunately, none of them were taken.”
“Anything else?”
“As you mentioned, a vial of antibiotics is missing, along with the first two doses of a typical rabies vaccine, plus the follow-ons.”
“The follow-ons?”
“Yes, the doses that would be need to be given on the third, seventh, and fourteenth days from exposure.”
“Interesting,” mumbled Teplov, lost in thought.
“Why? Because your American understands what a course of rabies vaccination entails?”
“No,” said the mercenary, coming back around. “What’s interesting is that he stole the entire course. Either he’s planning on hanging around for the next two weeks, or he’s concerned with how soon he might be rescued.”
Christina was nonplussed. “That’s your problem. I want to know who’s paying for the damage to my back door and the stolen medicines.”
“I hope you have insurance.”
“Exactly what Wagner told me when my husband was killed.”
Without waiting for the man to respond, she left the room and went to check the rest of the clinic.
“Doctor Volkova,” he called out after her. “Doctor Volkova.”
She turned and faced him in the hallway. “If you cooperate with us, the Kremlin has a ‘Heroes’ fund,” he said. “Perhaps we can get your husband recognized as a hero of the Russian Federation. It comes with a modest stipend.”
“Fuck you,” she replied.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Fuck you. I am here. I am cooperating. And regardless of what Wagner or the Kremlin says, my husband is a hero.”
Teplov was taken aback. “I didn’t mean to suggest that he—”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Do you understand me?”
The mercenary nodded and Christina continued her search.
In one of the examination rooms, she pointed out the bloody gauze pads. Then, in the office up front, she drew Teplov’s attention to the fact that the computer had been left on. Something, she explained, that clinic staff never did.
Looking through the break room, she noted that there were several small food items missing. The more honest she was, the quicker she believed Teplov would lose interest in her.
It was trending in that direction when one of his men entered the clinic through the back and asked to speak with his boss in private.
When they were done, Teplov rejoined her.
“I wonder if you could come outside with me for a moment,” he said.
“What for?”
“It won’t take long. There’s something I need you to identify, please.”
It didn’t sound like she had a choice. So, as the man stood back to let her pass, she zipped up her parka and walked toward the back door.
Outside, a couple of the Wagner men had opened the shed and discovered the snowmobile.
“Do you recognize this?” Teplov asked.
Ever since she’d had Harvath put the machine in the shed, she had expected the question. “I do,” she replied. “That’s my uncle’s snowmobile. But what’s it doing here?”
“Doctor Volkova, when was the last time you saw your uncle?”
She took a moment as she tried to remember. “It has been at least three weeks.”
“And how was his health?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just answer the question, please,” the man commanded.
“He had emphysema and an irregular heartbeat. What is his snowmobile doing in my shed? If you know something, tell me. Where is my uncle?”
Teplov was a soldier, not a clergyman or a counselor. His bedside manner was sorely underdeveloped. “Doctor Volkova, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your uncle is dead.”
“Dead? How?”
“We don’t know.”
“What does this have to do with my clinic being broken into? Is the American you’re looking for connected to this? Did he murder my uncle?”
He held up his hand. “We don’t know.”
“Well, what the hell do you know?”
Teplov tried to calm her down. “Your uncle was a fur trapper and had a cabin, correct?”
She nodded.
“We think the American, Harvath, found your uncle’s cabin and may have stayed there for a short time. We believe he helped himself to clothing and other supplies and then used your uncle’s snowmobile to come here.”
“But did he murder my uncle?” she repeated.
“We found your uncle in his bed, with the blanket pulled up over his head. We couldn’t find any signs of trauma.”
“Then how did he die?”
Teplov shrugged. “We don’t know.”
“So he stole my uncle’s snowmobile, rode into Nivsky, and just happened to break into my clinic? How is that possible?”
“We assume that he either found a map, or judging by that,” Teplov said, pointing at the bracket mounted to the handlebars, “a GPS device. Do you know what your uncle used for navigation?”
“GPS,” she replied, telling the truth. “All of the hunters and trappers use them.”
“That confirms what we thought.”
“But how did this Horvath—”
“Harvath,” he stated, correcting her.
“How did this Harvath make the connection between me and my uncle?”
“There’s likely no connection at all. Just coincidence. He’s injured and needed medical supplies. That’s why he came here.”
“So where did he go? I’m assuming your men searched the clinic.”
“They did and he isn’t here. I have other men searching the nearby buildings.”
“Do you think he might come back?”
“To your clinic?” asked Teplov. “No. I think he got what he came for.”
“Rabies vaccine, a couple of tins of cookies, coffee, tea, and sugar?”
“He’s a fugitive. They tend to travel very light.”
“Whatever you say,” she replied. “Can I work on getting somebody out here to fix my door?”
“Not yet,” said the mercenary. “First we need to talk about where Harvath may be headed.”
CHAPTER 44
* * *
* * *
An escort sat in the car with Christina while Teplov and several of his men swept her uncle’s house. Once they had deemed it safe, they had her come inside.
“Was he here?” she asked as she was escorted into the living room.
Teplov nodded and held his hand over the coals in the fireplace. “It looks like it.”
“Sir!” one of the mercenaries called out, as he emerged from the bathroom carrying the hair dye kit and h
anded it to his boss.
Teplov examined it and said, “Spread the word that we believe the subject has changed his hair color to . . . midnight raven.”
“Sir?” the operative replied.
“Black,” he growled. “Harvath has changed his fucking hair color to black.”
As the soldier stepped away and took out his radio to pass the word, Teplov looked at Christina. “Same question as at the clinic—what do you see?”
“I see my uncle’s house,” she replied, playing it as cool as possible.
“Yes, but is anything missing? Is anything out of place?”
It was now that she was especially glad she’d had the two shots of vodka. Teplov didn’t know what he was looking for. As a result, he was asking her.
Whatever she told him, as long as she was believable, would dictate where his search went next.
“Is it okay for me to look around?” she asked.
“Absolutely.”
She headed for the bathroom and Teplov followed.
Pointing at the wet towels and bloody bandages, she remarked, “It looks like your American was trying to clean up.”
“What can you infer about his injuries?”
She told the truth. “You don’t suture canine bites. You let them ooze. Your fugitive seems to be doing that, which suggests he definitely has medical training.”
“Anything else?”
She shook her head and stepped out.
Leading Teplov into the bedroom, she looked through the closet, the dresser drawers, and the nightstands before declaring them untouched. She did the same thing in the kitchen. In the dining room, she paused.
“What is it?” asked Teplov.
“Nothing,” she replied.
He had seen what she was looking at—a pen on the dining table. He walked over and picked it up.
“Why did this catch your eye?”
“Look around you. My uncle was a neat freak. It’s an insufferable character trait.”
“You disapproved?”
“He’s my elder, my uncle. I don’t get to approve or disapprove. But it was a source of tension between us. His need to have everything in its place bordered on unhealthy.”
