Cold Kill

by Andrew Warren

  “You said Arshan is to the east? What is that, a town?”

  “Da. Small town. It has cafe. An inn. Train comes one time a week with supplies.”

  Caine turned east, surveying the sprawling forest. The sun hung low on the horizon, and a foreboding gray shadow seemed to creep across the snow. Caine guessed it would be dark in a few hours. And when night fell the temperature would plummet.

  “Which way do most people go? The forest, or the town?” he asked.

  Fydor shivered, and took another swig of vodka. “Town, of course. Always the town.”

  Caine turned to face him. “Always to town, and they always die. You must have come here in a truck, or a vehicle of some kind, right?”

  “Yes, but it is useless to you. They only give enough gas to make it out here. They bring more gas for return trip, when they meet me.”

  “Take me to it. Now.”

  With a grunt, Fyodor turned and lumbered through the snow. He took long, slow steps that crunched through the frozen crust, leaving deep prints behind.

  Caine followed in his wake, and they disappeared into the frost-filled air.

  Chapter Eight

  A low howl rose above the rushing wind.

  A trio of vehicles burst from the swirling snow and mist. With a mechanical growl, the twin tracks of a massive Ruslan TTM-4902 dove through a snowy bank. The snowcat's massive twin tracks scattered white powder and fallen branches into the air. Screaming past the lumbering arctic vehicle, twin Taiga 551 snowmobiles raced across the frozen ground.

  All three were painted with white and grey camouflage markings. They were modified civilian models, and carried no weapons or heavy armor. But their presence alone was an imposing sight in the cold, empty desolation of the mountain clearing.

  The vehicles circled around the fallen metal box and skidded to a stop. The doors of the snowcat swung open, and Piotr Zasko dropped to the ground, followed by Yuri. Arkady climbed out the rear door, as Leonid and Timur dismounted from their snowmobiles.

  Each man wore insulated white tactical gear, and black tinted goggles. Their MP-443 pistols slapped against their sides as they lunged through the heavy snow, and they held AK-74 automatic rifles at the ready. Yuri was the exception, carrying the shorter AKS-74U carbine model. The steel barrel and skeleton stock of an Orsis T-5000 sniper rifle hung behind his right shoulder.

  Zasko's black, serpentine whip was coiled at his side.

  With quick, precise motions, the men fanned out around the metal box. Leonid hefted a short-barreled G-64 grenade launcher, and scanned the rocky outcroppings that surrounded the clearing. His eyes darted left and right behind his dark goggles, searching for any signs of motion in the snow.

  Timur approached the metal box and rapped the side with the barrel of his rifle. He lifted his goggles from his face and knelt down in the snow. His dark, ruddy complexion and narrow brown eyes marked him as half-Mongolian. The low sun reflected off the snow and ice around them like a blinding mirror, and the icy wind whipped at his face like a curtain of needles. Timur squinted a bit, but otherwise showed no signs of discomfort.

  A short tuft of frayed nylon cord hung from a thick ring bolted to the cage. Identical bolts were spaced across the sides of the pen. Timur held one of the cords and twirled it in his gloved fingers.

  “Smotri syuda, look here. Chute is gone. He must have cut it off.”

  Yuri tightened his grip on his carbine. He cast a wary glance towards the ice-covered rocks that rose in the distance. “Do they usually do that?”

  Zasko lifted his goggles and stared at the cord. His eyes were wide and intense, and his upper lip twisted into a snarl. “Never. There is nothing usual about this man. Do not forget that. What else do you see, Timur?”

  The trooper began circling around the wreckage of the box. A small GPS unit hung at his belt. It beeped quietly, barely audible above the howling wind.

  Timur's brow furrowed. He pointed the unit towards the remains of the metal box. The beeping grew louder. “He took the chute, but did not disable the GPS?”

  Arkady shifted his weight on his legs. “Kto dayet yebat? Maybe he did not know it was there?”

  Zasko shook his head. “Assume he knew it was there. Which means he knew we would be coming to these coordinates. Yuri and Leonid, check the perimeter. Look for tracks, debris, anything he may have dropped. Arkady, stay here and guard the vehicles. Make sure he does not double back, and slip out from under our noses.”

  Arkady grinned as the other men marched across the snow. “Da ser!” he shouted. “I hope this prick does come back.” He held up his rifle. “Then he and I can meet, and we can leave this godforsaken place early.” He turned and traipsed back towards the snowmobiles.

  Zasko turned to Timur. He spun his finger in the air. Timur nodded, and circled around the landing sight, moving outwards in a spiral pattern. After a few minutes, he stopped and knelt down again in the snow. A small patch of red droplets glistened above the white crust.

  “Fresh blood. And tracks. One set.” He glanced toward the rocks above them. “They follow the trail up the mountain.”

  “He’s heading towards town,” Arkady called over his shoulder. “They always head towards town.”

  Zasko slung his rifle over his shoulder. “It looks that way. Still… best to be sure. If Caine did head towards Arshan, he will not make it there before dark. There is no hurry. Arkady, fetch Leonid. You two maintain position here. We will check the trail, make sure these tracks do not divert.”

  Arkady nodded, and trudged towards the men in the distance.

  Zasko turned to Timur. “Well my friend… let us see where the game takes us.”

  Timur stood up. “This is no game. I read the file, as you asked. You should tell the others."

  Zasko shrugged. “You, I trust. But no one is supposed to know who our targets are. It is safer that way."

  Timur shook his head. "Safer for our employer. But as you said, this man Caine, he is not usual. He is not like the others Rudov has sent.”

  The commander chuckled. “You seem quite impressed. Caine is formidable, true. But he is only one man. You saw the blood. He is wounded.”

  Timur lowered his goggles, and looked up the curving, snow-swept trail. “Da. And we both know there is no animal more dangerous than a wounded tiger.”

  Zasko frowned as they both followed the tracks through the snow.

  Timur stalked towards the edge of a vast gorge that lay beyond the precipice of the mountain trail. The single pair of tracks had led them up and around the mountain, before ending at the location of Fyodor’s truck. At least, its former location. The vehicle was missing, and twin tire tracks led farther into the distance.

  Footsteps crunched across the snow behind them. Zasko spun around, his gun sweeping left and right across the snow-blanketed field. But it was only Arkady, jogging towards them.

  As the man approached, Zasko lowered his weapon and brushed back the thick hood of his parka.

  “Arkady, I told you to wait with Leonid!”

  Arkady shrugged. “This is one man with a shotgun. Leonid can handle himself.”

  Zasko slipped his knife from his belt. “I did not ask you to think. I ordered you to obey. If you cannot do that, you may join Boris. Is that clear?”

  Even in the ice-cold air, the pale look that flashed across Arkady’s face was unmistakable. “Of course commander. I apologize, I will go back and—”

  Zasko shook his head, and returned the knife to its sheath. “Never mind. You are here now. We have new tracks. We must follow them.”

  Arkady examined the ground, as Timur continued pacing towards the gorge. He brushed away some packed snow, revealing a black cord strung across the ground. The line was stretched taut, as if it supported a great weight.

  “Don’t touch it!” Timur hissed. He edged along the length of the line, following it to the lip of the gorge. Zasko held up his hand, signaling Arkady to freeze in place.

  “Is it a trip
line?” the commander asked, tightening his grip on his rifle.

  The tracker shook his head. “Nyet… Come, look here.”

  Zasko followed Timur to the edge of the gorge. A metallic creak echoed over the icy rocks. Arkady stepped next to them. “What the hell…”

  Three more lengths of the heavy-duty paracord ran through the snow, all stretched tight as piano wire. A battered gray pickup truck hung suspended from the cords, several yards down the wall of the gorge. Thousands of feet below, the icy blue curve of a frozen river snaked through the valley. The slim lengths of cord were all that kept the hanging truck from plunging into its frozen surface.

  A muffled cry rose above the wind and the creaking.

  “Fyodor,” Zasko muttered. “That old fool got himself captured. Our target followed him in his footsteps, raided the truck for supplies. Then he pushed it over the edge to throw us off his trail.”

  “Why would he not just kill him?” Timur asked, squinting down at the hanging truck.”

  “He has the old drunk’s shotgun. It only holds two rounds. Perhaps he is conserving ammo.”

  Timur pulled back his hood and looked over at his commander. “There are many ways to kill. He does not need a gun.”

  Zasko slapped Arkady on the back. “We will ask Fyodor himself. Arkady, you were so eager to join us. Now you may prove your worth. Go down there and fetch him.”

  Chapter Nine

  Arkady’s feet scraped against the slippery rocks of the gorge as he lowered himself closer to the truck. Tiny rocks rattled down the steep walls, vanishing into the frozen oblivion below.

  He played out more rope, dropping another few inches. The sight of the truck hanging below him was a surreal image. The taut paracord was almost invisible against the dark rocks and ice, making the vehicle appear to defy gravity.

  He looked up and saw Timur’s dark squinting eyes peering over the edge of the crevasse. The heavyset commando was ‘on belay', and kept tension on the line as Arkady rappelled down the steep rock face.

  “I see something through the rear window!” Arkady called out.

  He looked down at the truck again. Frost and dirt smudged the rear window, but again, he spotted a glimpse of motion. A blurry shadow shifted inside the cabin. He looked back to Timur.

  “Give me more slack!”

  Timur let out some tension in the rope, and Arkady continued his slow descent to the truck. The heavy metal body of the vehicle creaked and moaned as the wind picked up strength. Above them, the sun had dipped closer to the horizon. The bitter chill surrounding them increased.

  It was getting later. Colder.

  Arkady scooted to his left, traversing across the rocks. He inched closer, and dusted the ice crystals off the driver's window.

  Fyodor sat in the passenger seat, strapped in place by the seatbelt.

  “I see him," Arkady called out. "It is Fyodor, he is in the truck!”

  “What? “Zasko shouted down. “Is he alive?”

  The shivering old man turned his head at the sound of Arkady’s voice. His eyes were wide with surprise and fear. Strips of torn parachute cloth were wound around his mouth like a gag. His wrists were bound with lengths of frayed cord.

  “Da, alive. Timur, give me more slack, I’m going to try to get him out.”

  The half-Mongolian commando frowned. “Arkady, wait, are you—”

  The vehicle groaned again, as Arkady tugged on the door. It would not budge. He heard the scuffle of more rocks tumbling down the cliff.

  “The door is frozen shut. I need more slack!”

  Timur played out more line, and Arkady swung closer to the vehicle. He planted his feet on the rock. Inside, the old man bucked in his seat. The truck shuddered, and more debris shook loose from the rocks.

  “Stay still old man! I’m coming for you! I’m—”

  Arkady yanked harder on the door. The metallic screech of rusted metal echoed off the rocks. The door swung open.

  Arkady had no time to register the twin barrels of the shotgun bolted beneath the driver’s seat. He heard the quick hiss of cord running through a pulley. A split second later, the blinding flash of muzzle fire filled his vision.

  BOOM!

  He was already hit before the explosive roar of the shotgun echoed through the gorge.

  Gasping in pain, his feet slipped off the rock wall and his body swung away from the truck.

  “Arkady!” Zasko shouted. He turned to Timur. “Get him up here… now!”

  The big man was already hauling up the line. He yanked Arkady’s body up across the rocks with short, jerking motions.

  Zasko tore the walkie off his belt. “Leonid, come in! This was a diversion! He covered his tracks somehow, but he must be heading towards the forest. Take a snowmobile, find Yuri. Widen the perimeter. You must pick up his trail! Do not wait for us. We will catch up to you, over”

  “But sir,” the reply crackled back, “what about the other vehicles?”

  “We will take them. We split into two teams, spread the search pattern as wide as possible. Go now!” Zasko hissed. He slid the walkie back onto his belt.

  He joined Timur in hauling up the line. Arkady’s body rolled over the rock ledge and into the snow.

  His face contorted in pain, and he uttered a low groan.

  An enormous crimson stain bloomed across the front of his white jumpsuit. His breath was shallow and ragged.

  “Ya v poryadke,” he gasped. “I am okay.”

  Zasko drew his knife. He walked over to the taunt lines of cord, and flicked the long serrated blade across them, one by one. Each cord made a high-pitched twang as it snapped. The heavy truck groaned louder as it slid down the rocks. A muffled scream drifted up from the cabin of the dangling vehicle.

  “The trap was not designed to kill,” Zasko growled.

  He stepped over to the last cord. With a loud twang, he severed the line. The truck rolled down the rock face, the scraping of metal and rumbling stone drowning out Fyodor’s feeble cries. The vehicle plunged into the gorge, and crashed into the ice below.

  Zasko paced back over to Arkady and Timur.

  The wounded man ripped off his goggles and looked up at him. His panting breath was heavy, expelling the air from his lungs with a wet rattle. “I am okay! I just need a doctor, a hospital.”

  Zasko drew his pistol. Timur stood up and looked away.

  “I’m sorry, soldier,” Zasko said. “I could tell by the sound, only one barrel fired. If the trap was meant to kill, he would have loaded both barrels, to be sure. This was a diversion. He thinks by wounding one of my men, it will slow our pace. He is wrong. The hunt must continue.”

  Arkady raised his hands in a futile gesture, his panicked breaths coming faster. “Wait, commander I—”

  “Dos Vedanya.”

  Zasko did not flinch as the gun roared in his hand.

  Caine moved at a brisk pace through the towering banks of snow. He glanced up, and saw beams of sunlight piercing the icy mist between the trees. He noted the steep angle of the dying rays… the sun was setting. Nightfall was coming. And as things stood, he knew he would not survive the plummeting temperature.

  He forced himself to stop moving. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to run. The fight or flight response triggered by the armed men on his tail was a powerful drive, urging him on. But he knew every step he took was depleting his energy, sapping his body of crucial calories. That energy was vital, his body needed it to maintain his core temperature. As the sun went down, the frigid air would grow even colder. He would need to spend more and more energy to stay warm… to stay alive.

  Hope the diversion with the truck worked, he thought. If not, that was time wasted.

  He took a deep breath, and examined his surroundings. He was in a thick, forested grove. The cold air was laced with the sweet scent of pine. Hundreds of the tall, conical trees surrounded him, their needled green branches drooping beneath the weight of accumulated snow and ice.

  He dropped t
o his knees. Using the old man’s knife, he began digging at the frozen crust beneath his feet. When he exposed the cold, hard earth below, he stood up, and staggered towards the nearest tree. Using the knife again, he shaved thin strips of bark from the trunk, letting them fall on a square of parachute cloth. The shavings would be useless if they became damp from the snow.

  When the curls of bark had grown into a large pile at his feet, he gathered them up and dropped them in the hole he had dug in the ice. Next, he pulled the lone remaining shotgun shell from his pocket.

  Once again, he debated if giving up the gun had been the wisest course of action. He felt naked and vulnerable without the reassuring weight of the weapon by his side.

  Two shotgun shells against a spetsnaz commando team, armed with automatic weapons? His years of bloody experience overrode his misgivings.

  Buying yourself some time was more important, he thought.

  Using the tip of the knife, he pried the brass primer away from the shell, exposing the wad of gunpowder underneath. He sprinkled the black powder over the bark shavings, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a foot long red tube. It was a signal flare, scavenged from Fyodor’s truck before he had pushed the vehicle over the edge of the gorge.

  He lit the flare, and touched it to the gunpowder. With a loud hiss, the powder ignited. Smoke began to waft up from the bark shavings. Caine lay down next to the fire and gently blew, stoking the glowing scraps of wood. Soon, tiny flames crackled between the shavings.

  He checked his watch.

  Ten minutes. Need to finish this up, get moving again!

  As the fire continued to burn, he jogged from tree to tree, sawing off the low hanging branches. One by one, he tossed them on the fire, letting the heat and flames dry out the bristling green needles. As they crackled from the heat, he waved the scrap of cloth over the pit. The motion broke up the puffs of smoke, masking his presence in the forest.

  After the branches were dried and desiccated by the fire, he pulled one out of the pit. Using the knife, he stripped off the roasted needles, and shoved them into the sleeves of his parka. He filled every scrap of space he could with the makeshift insulation. His sleeves and the pockets soon bulged with the warm material. He jammed more fistfuls of needles into each pant leg, and tied off the ankle openings with more cord.