With his other arm, Zasko thrust his knife into Boris’s gut. The hulking man ceased his struggling, and a gurgle of pain escaped his lips.
Zasko jerked the blade up, and twisted the handle of the knife. “I told you,” he snarled. “Once you join a hunt, this is the only way you leave.”
Boris crashed to his knees. Blood and innards gushed from the open wound.
“Commander!” Yuri stepped towards them, raising his arms to pull Zasko away from the wounded man. Before he could lay a finger on him, Zasko whipped the knife out of Boris’s gut, and whirled the blade around. His arm shot out again, this time pointing the hilt of the weapon at Yuri’s face.
The young man found himself staring down the barrel of a small metal tube. The opening protruded from the bottom of the knife’s handle. He froze in place, and raised his hands in surrender.
“You know what this is?” Zasko asked, his voice dripping with menace.
Yuri nodded. “NSR-2 Shooting Knife. The hilt is loaded with a single round. Safety and trigger are in the guard.”
Zasko smiled, baring his teeth. “You know your weapons. This one holds a 7.62mm cartridge. At this range, your funeral would be closed casket. You understand?”
Yuri said nothing.
The wild grin did not leave Zasko's lips. He spun the blade again in his palm. In one fluid motion, he drove the knife into the table, and shook the whip loose from Boris's neck. The dead man toppled over onto the floor, his face bloated and pale.
A cellphone on the table began to buzz and vibrate. The other men mumbled amongst themselves and stood up. Two of them grabbed Boris, and dragged him towards a walk in freezer.
Zasko slapped Yuri on the shoulder. “That is the signal. The plane is nearing the drop zone. This unpleasantness is over, but the next time I give you an order, you will not think or debate. You will obey.”
Yuri was silent for a moment. “Yes sir," he finally replied.
Zasko coiled the whip, and hung it from his belt. “Very good. Now, my young friend, it is time.”
“Time for what?”
The commander yanked the bloody knife from the table, and wiped the blade across his chest. The blood left a bright red streak against the dark mass of hair.
“It is time for the hunt to begin.”
Chapter Six
Darkness.
It engulfed him.
Moving. Spinning, tumbling.
Falling…
All at once, a black velvety curtain lifted from his senses. Caine’s head snapped left and right, but there was too much… too much stimulation for his dulled senses. Light, noise, movement.
A high-pitched whistle screamed through his ears. At first, he thought he was crying out, either in fear or pain. Then he realized his jaw was clenched tight. His heart thumped against his chest, pumping jets of adrenaline through his veins. His senses sharpened, then focused.
Tiny cracks of harsh white light penetrated the darkness. He caught a quick glimpse of gray metal walls. A white cushion hung inches from his face. Dark spatters of dried blood dotted the scuffed and tattered foam. Thick, padded straps dug into his shoulders and chest. His hands were zip-tied in front of him.
The screaming wail was the wind, rushing by outside. The men in the fire, he thought. They captured you, drugged you. Put you in this cage… Dropped you from a plane.
Caine had trained with the Army’s Airborne Rangers, and the Air Force’s HALO jumpers. He knew he was in free-fall. Whatever this strange prison surrounding him was, it was plummeting through the air at terminal velocity. And he was trapped inside, falling along with it…
He struggled against his bonds, but it was futile. The zip-ties held tight. His stomach lurched, as the metal box tumbled through the atmosphere. He felt icy blades of cold piercing through the cracks of his prison.
A barrage of confused thoughts assaulted his drug-addled mind. Where the hell am I? Why the cage? Why didn’t they just kill me?
Who did this to me?
The frantic train of thought screeched to a halt, as the snap of rippling fabric echoed through the tiny box. The straps cut into Caine’s shoulders as his body flew upwards. His head snapped forward, and bounced off the padding. A jolt of stinging pain coursed through his nose and jaw, but nothing felt broken.
Then all was still… quiet. He felt the box gently sway, as if it was hanging in the air, almost motionless.
No, he thought. Not hanging. Still falling. Parachute deployed. Must have been automatic, set to an altimeter.
Someone wanted him alive. For now, at least.
He closed his eyes and forced himself to calm his ragged breathing. His racing heartbeat slowed to a steady, rhythmic pulse. He let his limbs go limp, and focused on the cold blackness surrounding him. He inhaled a long, deep breath of cold air through his nose. A few seconds later, he exhaled. He felt his pulse slow even further.
He cursed himself for losing control, for taking so long to stomp down the debilitating tide of panic and fear.
He had been trained to achieve his objectives at all costs. To ignore the rush of stress and emotions one experienced when staring death in the face. The training taught him to beat back the wave of adrenaline and panic by focusing on a goal, a positive outcome of some kind. Reuniting with friends, or loved ones. The successful completion of a mission. A purpose, a reason to make sense of the suffering and pain.
But Caine had none of these things. Betrayed, alone, on the run... In his heart, he knew his future was as cold and dark as the cramped metal box and the frigid air surrounding him.
So, instead he focused on his captors. He had many enemies. Right now, there was no way to know who it was that had caught up to him. Who had used the frightened young boy as bait in their trap.
But as he continued his breathing exercises, he imagined their shadowy, indistinct faces.
And he imagined what he would do to them, the moment he got the chance.
Chapter Seven
A few minutes later, Caine’s body shuddered as the box thudded into the ground. Outside the metal crate, muffled footsteps crunched towards him. There was the clatter of chains, a key turning in a lock. With a loud crash, the metal sides fell away, and sunlight blasted into the open cage.
Caine was strapped to a padded seat. His eyes were closed. He was still, unmoving.
Surrounding him was a vast expanse of harsh white. An icy wind cut across his cheeks, like a cold steel blade.
The footsteps moved closer. A figure emerged from the swirling frost. He was short, and hunched over. He walked with a slow, steady gait. His feet were clad in thick fur boots, and they plunged deep into the snow with every step.
He wore a thick, tattered parka, its fur-trimmed hood covering his face. A double-barreled shotgun hung from a loose, single-handed grip at his side. He let the tip of the weapon trail in the snow behind him.
As he drew near Caine, the man raised the gun.
“Hey, privet!” he shouted. His voice was hoarse and faint beneath the wind. “Ne bud' glupym… Do not be stupid! I am here to release you.”
Caine was still. The man in the parka took another step forward.
“Spyashchaya krasavitsa… Sleeping beauty. Wake your ass up!”
Caine remained slumped in the chair.
The man leaned over him, and pulled back his hood. His face was hard and leathery, his skin marked by the deep cracks and lines of one whose life had seen far too many days of winter. He slid off a glove, and pressed a pair of fingers into Caine’s throat. Caine’s body was cold and stiff. Lifeless to the touch.
“Otlichno… Just great. I told those fools the fall would—”
Before the man could finish the sentence, Caine’s emerald green eyes snapped open. He squinted in the swirling white mist, returning the old man’s shocked gaze with a predatory glare. His muscles tensed, like a tiger preparing to strike.
The old man's scream expelled a puff of frosted breath. He tried to raise the shotgun, but Caine’s
bound hands flew up and grabbed the hood of his parka. He pulled down, slamming the old man’s face into the top of his skull. There was a loud crack. The man groaned, and fell forward. Caine jerked up his knee as far as the straps would allow. He heard the man wheeze as the blow hammered into the tissue surrounding his lungs.
Dropping his hands to the shotgun, Caine gripped the cold metal barrels in his fingers. He jabbed upwards, ramming the gun's stock into the old man’s face. As he staggered backwards, Caine yanked the gun from his grasp, and balanced it against his leg. His fingers were numb and clumsy from the cold, but he managed to wrap them around the trigger. He pointed the twin barrels of the gun forward.
Glancing down, he recognized the weapon as a Bailkai IZH 43. Unlike most shotguns, the Russian-made Bailkai used a barrel selection switch, rather than a double trigger system. He flicked the switch with his thumb, activating both barrels.
The old man shook his head to clear his vision. He looked up, and stared at Caine.
“Moye ublyudok!” the man exclaimed, cradling his battered face.
Russian, Caine thought. Like the firefighters in Pattaya…
“Dvigaysya, i ty umresh’.” Caine growled back, speaking the man’s native tongue. Move and you die…
The man’s eyes widened in surprise. He froze in place.
“You speak Russian?”
Caine shivered, but kept the gun pointed straight. “Da. Who the hell are you? Where am I?”
“I am Fyodor. You are here… in mountains.” The man spread his arms, gesturing the vast, snow covered expanse surrounding them. “Siberia. West of Arshan.”
“You said you came to release me?”
The old man nodded. “I have knife… do you mind?” The man took a few steps closer. He was only a few feet away.
Another shiver rippled through Caine’s body. He felt frost crackling against his skin. With his hands bound, his shaky grip on the gun was tenuous at best. He raised the barrels, pressing their tips into the man’s side. He clenched his teeth to stop them from chattering.
“Nice and easy,” he hissed. “You know what this gun can do at this range.”
The man looked down into Caine’s squinting emerald eyes. With slow, careful movements, he unzipped his parka and pulled it open. A large hunting knife hung from a sheath at his waist. He drew it, and slid the tip of the blade under the plastic tie around Caine’s wrists.
Caine jabbed the barrels deeper into the man’s flesh.
“I said easy…”
With a slow, sawing motion, the man cut through the zip-tie. Caine wrists split apart. As the blood flowed back into his trembling hands, he dropped the gun into the snow. The old man glanced down. His arm slid towards the fallen weapon…
Caine kicked the man in the gut, knocking him backwards. He twisted the latch on his harness, freeing himself from the constricting straps. He tumbled forward out of the chair, and sprawled into the snow.
He scooped up the gun and staggered to his knees. Even holding it in a proper grip, his hands still shook from the debilitating cold. He aimed it as well as he could at the old man.
“Your coat… take it off, slowly. Throw it to me.”
The man clutched his belly and coughed, still recovering from Caine’s sudden attack.
“It won’t be enough,” he wheezed. “Not in this cold.”
Caine gestured with the gun. “Sdelay eto. Do it! Now!”
The man shrugged out of the coat and tossed it to the ground between them.
Caine bent down and picked it up. He slipped into the threadbare parka one arm at a time, keeping the shaking gun trained on the man the best he could.
The coat was warmer, but it was torn and threadbare. Patches of insulation had burst from ripped seams, and Caine knew the man was right. The coat was better than nothing, but it would not provide sufficient insulation as the temperature continued to fall.
Caine patted the sides of the coat. He felt a heavy lump in the left pocket. He reached in with a free hand and pulled out a cold metal flask.
“Water?” he asked.
The man shook his head. “Vodka.”
Caine tossed the flask in the snow. “Great. Last thing I need.”
An electronic ring sounded from the other pocket. The hi-tech chime seemed out of place in the stark, desolate wilderness surrounding them. Caine reached into the pocket and pulled out a small black satellite phone.
“Expecting a call?”
The old man smiled. “Go ahead, answer. It is for you.
Caine pressed the phone to his freezing cheek.
“Yes?” he said.
“Zdravstvuyte, hello.” The voice was deep and gravelly. “Welcome to Russia.”
“Who the hell is this?” Caine snapped.
The speaker continued, ignoring the question. “I trust you had a relaxing flight?”
“Slept like a baby. What did they give me, Etorphine? With a quick shot of naloxone to wake me up on the way down?”
“You sound like you know more about such things than I do, Mr. Waters. Or should I call you Mr. Caine? Either way, I leave these details to my employees. Speaking of which, how is poor old Fyodor?“
Caine glanced up at the old man. The withered figure had wrapped his arms around himself, and hunched over in the cold. He shivered, and stared with sullen eyes at the flask of vodka half buried in the snow.
“After all this, you sent an old farmer to kill me? If you know who I am, you know that was a mistake.”
The voice chuckled, a deep, rasping laugh that went on for several seconds. “What? You think I would send a d’yanyy durak, an old drunk fool like Fyodor, to kill you? You underestimate me, Mr, Caine. You really don’t know who I am, do you?”
“Should I?”
“My name is Sergei Rudov. I believe you met Alexi. My son.”
Alexi Rudov… The name cut through the haze of cold and confusion that clouded Caine’s mind. Alexi was a former FSB officer with connections to the Russian mafia. He and the Red Wa leader, the so-called ‘Devil’, were the ones who had targeted Naiyana.
In the aftermath of his bloody vengeance, Caine had framed the Devil and his gang for Alexi’s death. The ruse involved Alexi’s severed head, delivered to St. Petersburg, Russia.
The Red Wa were not subtle. Neither was Caine.
The man on the phone continued. “I must commend you, Mr. Caine. You have caused me great pain and inconvenience. I have spent many months, and spilled much blood, going to war with the Red Wa. Your little present had me convinced the Devil, this Pisac, had killed my son. But now I know the truth. Alexi was a fool to involve himself with such people. But fool or no, he was still a Rudov. Blood for blood, Mr. Caine.”
“So that’s what this is about? Revenge? Why didn’t you just kill me in Thailand?”
“Patience, my friend. You will die soon enough. But first, you will know fear. You will know desperation. And when death finally comes, you will beg for it.”
“Not likely, asshole.”
“In one hour, I release my dogs. They are military men, like you. They are spetsnaz, special forces. The best of the best. They will track you. Hunt you. They are led by a man of great talent. Perhaps you have heard of him? Piotr Zasko.”
“The Iron Wolf,” Caine snarled. “I’ve heard of him… heard he was dead.”
“The FSB’s files say the same about you. Piotr is a khishchnik… A hunter of men. I assure you, he is very much alive. And he is very much looking forward to meeting you.”
“Zasko’s no hunter. He’s a degenerate thug, wanted for war crimes in Ukraine. Mutilation of prisoners. Civilians. Women, children…”
“Trophies, Mr. Caine. Some for himself. Some for me. Many of those women and children were the loved ones of my enemies. They died the way you will die. With fear in their eyes. When I step into my private sanctuary, I look upon my trophies. The heads of those Piotr has hunted for me. And do you know what I see?”
Caine said nothing.
&
nbsp; “Power. My power. We all die, Mr. Caine. To kill a man is nothing. But to take away hope, to steal the will to live, his desire to fight... To make a man die with nothing but fear and despair in his heart… that is my revenge. That is how you will die.”
“Better men than you have tried, Sergei.”
Again the man chuckled. “You will not escape the Iron Wolf. Mark my words. You leave this world with a scream frozen on your face for all time. And I shall look upon my newest trophy, open a bottle of my finest vodka, and drink a toast. To my life, and your death.”
Caine held the phone close to his face. He expelled a puff of mist into the air, and clenched his teeth to stop them from chattering.
“You listen to me, Sergei. They have a saying in Estonia... ‘A Bottle of Vodka is a passport to hell.’ You better drink up now. You may be seeing me sooner than you think.”
“There are many hells, Mr. Caine. Yours shall be one of cold and ice.” He hung up the phone.
Fyodor shivered in the wind. The old man gestured to the flask in the snow. “Do you mind?”
“Knock yourself out.” Caine removed the battery from the phone, and slipped the two pieces back into the parka. “The box they dropped me in, does it have a tracking device? GPS, a transmitter of some kind?”
Fyodor picked up the flask, unscrewed the top, and drank a long swig of the chilled vodka. He coughed, then wiped his mouth. “I have no idea. I only know that the men Rudov sends here, they always die. The hunters always find them.”
Caine checked his watch. “They arrive in one hour… fifty minutes now?”
“Yes. The Iron Wolf is never late.”
Caine took a deep breath, and examined his surroundings. They were in a clearing, enclosed by towering banks of puffy white snow. The snow banks sloped down to the west. Miles in the distance, Caine could make out the pointed tufts of fir trees, covered in a layer of white powder. The forest stretched into the distance, as far as the eye could see. To the east, the ground turned rocky, and rose up to form the base of a mountain ridge.
Cold Kill Page 4
