“The picture?” Caine asked, remembering the photo in the cabin.
The woman jerked her head up, as if pulled from a trance. Her wide, dark eyes focused on his face. She nodded.
“These men follow you now,” she said, her voice louder. “Then they will come back for me, and the others?”
Caine exhaled a puff of mist, and scanned the trees. Then he looked her in the eye. “That’s probably true.”
She adjusted her scarf, and checked her rifle, making sure a round was loaded in the chamber. They walked side by side towards her battered snowmobile.
“Then we must kill them first. Bad idea, good idea… it does not matter.”
Caine couldn't help but laugh.
He shook his head and smiled. "I admire your optimism. But if we're going to have a chance at surviving this, we can’t fight them, out here, in the open.” Caine looked up, keeping a wary eye on the horizon. “We need to choose our battleground. Familiar terrain, someplace we know better than they do.”
Bora straddled the snowmobile. The engine sputtered to life. “I know place. Two hours away. I take you there.”
Caine got on the back of the vehicle, and wrapped his arms around the large woman. “Where are we going?”
Bora glanced over her shoulder at him. Her dark eyes and wide nose peeked over the edge of a gray scarf that covered her mouth.
“I take you to the place I escape. The sawmill.”
She turned away, and revved the engine. “The killing place,” she shouted over the noise of the motor.
The snowmobile leapt forward, and they plunged deeper into the forest.
Chapter Seventeen
The sawmill lay nestled in a mountain valley, on the edge of a vast frozen lake. A bridge of rough timber logs straddled a frozen river that snaked down from the mountains and fed into the lake. The entrance to the mill stood at one end of the narrow platform. On the other side, the dirt road that led to the bridge was buried under a dense crust of snow.
A rusted, gnarled fence of corrugated metal and barbed wire surrounded the mill’s grounds. The metal was bent and crumpled in some areas, leaving gaps in the fence. Torn banners, emblazoned with Korean symbols, fluttered from poles mounted along the fence.
Caine peered through the shattered windows of a building on the northern edge of the complex. He had a clear view of the fence and the other buildings, surrounding a field littered with trash and debris. An abandoned truck, its chassis stripped for parts, sat on blocks in the middle of the yard. Scattered piles of old timber lay near the rusted hulk. The arm of a loading crane loomed over the grounds. Its tattered cargo sling hung from a rusted cable that creaked and swayed in the wind.
Caine kept a watchful eye on the field as he took inventory of their weapons and ammo. He had laid out what remained of their arsenal on an old, rotting conveyer belt. The circular track slanted down from the roof, and ran through the crumbling building. Its worn, frayed rubber surface was pelted with bird droppings, and debris carried in by the shifting winds.
He began stripping down the rifle he had taken from the commando back in the woods. Using a rag, and some graphite powder provided by Bora, he cleaned and lubricated the bolt and bolt carry at the top of the weapon. He was grateful that Bora had been able to scrounge up the fine powdered lubricant. Liquid oil was useless in the sub-zero temperatures outside. It could freeze, causing the gun to jam.
As he worked, he glanced down at the other armaments on the belt. In addition to the AK-74, there was Bora’s hunting rifle, a bolt-action Mosin-Nagant. The old Russian work horse was chambered in 7.62 Rimmed Rifle, and was as rugged as it was accurate. Other than that, Leonid's grenade launcher, with two remaining thermobaric rounds, was all they had left.
A loud clatter rumbled through the building. Bora entered the room, rolling a dented metal barrel across the concrete floor. She grunted as she stood it up next to two identical barrels. Then she rested her hands on her knees and panted for breath.
“This all the fuel that is left. I know where guards hid supplies. Everything else gone, other barrels empty. After workers fight and escape, Russians leave this place, never come back. Mill close down. We make raids from forest. Take what we can, what we need to survive.”
Caine finished reassembling the AK, then slapped a full magazine into the receiver. He pulled back the charging handle. It moved with smooth, mechanical precision. He glanced over at the trio of fuel barrels.
“Diesel?” he asked.
“Mmmm,” she grunted in the affirmative, as she picked up her old rifle.
“I cleaned it for you,” Caine said, glancing down the sites on the AK.
Bora examined her gun, and gave him a suspicious look. “Clean? Gun not dirty.”
“There was some salt corrosion on the bolt face.”
The old woman shook her head. She worked the bolt action, and peered into the chamber. “Gun work better a little dirty. No fix what not broken.”
Caine smiled. “Whatever you say. Look, I appreciate all you’ve done. I owe you my life. But these men… they’ll be coming soon. You really should go.”
Bora looked up at him from the rifle. “I told you. No more hide. I fight.”
“Bora, if you stay here, I can’t protect you.”
The woman barked a short laugh, as she emptied a pouch from her belt. Brass cartridges rolled across the conveyer belt. She began loading them into the rifle, one by one. “Protect me? I the one save you, remember?”
“There’s no shame in hiding.”
The woman shook her head. “What you know of hiding? You stay and fight? Then I stay and fight.”
Caine loaded one of the spare grenades into the launcher. He flipped the weapon closed. The remaining grenade stood upright in front of him. He stared at it for a moment, lost in thought.
“Before these men targeted me, before they hurt my friend… I was hiding. In Thailand.”
“Hiding from who?”
Caine was silent for a moment. He sighed, and stared out the windows. “It’s hard to explain. Long story.”
Bora slung her rifle over her shoulder. She rested a hand on Caine’s shoulder. He looked up at her, surprised by the gesture.
“You can only hide so long. Back home, my friend, she very special to me. What we had, how we feel… government say we illegal. She thought she could hide. Hide how we feel, what we were. But men still came. Men still hurt us. They will always come.”
“I’m sorry,” Caine said. “What happened to her?”
Bora dropped her hand. She stared at him for a moment. She expelled a puff of icy breath, then looked away. “Dead now. Arrested. Firing squad. I was big, strong. So they send me here.”
“Bora, I—”
“No more hiding.” She checked her rifle again. “If I die here, I die fighting.”
Caine looked out the window again. His emerald eyes zeroed in on the loading crane. Icicles hung from its long, narrow arm. Its base was buried in a towering drift of snow.
“Bora, the equipment here, do you know how to power it up?”
She nodded. “Generators underground. I know where.”
“What about all the ice? How did they clean it off the crane, and the other equipment?”
She gave him a strange look. “They use chemical. Looks like salt, they spread it over ice, and ice melts. Why?”
De-icer, Caine thought. Ammonium Nitrate.
“Do you know where they keep this chemical?”
She nodded. “They keep it with generators, I take you there.”
Caine glanced at the barrels of fuel. His lips curled into a grim smile. “Lead the way.”
Chapter Eighteen
Yuri held up his fist, and waved forward. He advanced down the bridge, stalking towards the mill. With every step across the rough timbers, he swept his rifle left and right. He scanned the horizon, searching for any sign of movement behind the crumbling fence. Beneath them, the river was solid and unmoving. It was a ribbon of gray ice, curving towards t
he mill, and to the frozen lake beyond.
He glanced to his left. The men summoned by Zasko moved with him in a loose formation. Unlike the spetsnaz team, their uniforms were non-standard. They wore a motley collection of green and tan camouflage gear, layered with civilian winter clothes. Their weapons were just as varied... a random assortment of rifles, shotguns, and pistols.
Yuri knew these were private contractors, a disparate collection of retired VDV troopers and law enforcement. Now they worked for the security companies that provided protection and muscle to the rich oligarchs. And they occasionally dabbled in off-books operations for the Kremlin. Yuri had worked with such men before, during the Ukrainian crisis. The media had called them 'Little Green Men', referring to the unmarked green uniforms they wore during that conflict.
Someone must have owed the Iron Wolf quite a favor, he thought. Within hours of Zasko’s call, the men had been rushed to their position via helicopter.
There were six of them, split into two teams of three. Yuri was leading one team across the bridge, in a frontal assault. The rest had been assigned to Timur. They were moving through the trees, towards the rear of the complex.
“Do you see anything?” It was Zasko, speaking through the walkie. The man’s voice crackled in his ear. The commander had taken his sniper rifle, and was positioned across the lake, up in the woods.
“Negative,” Yuri answered, keeping eyes on the fence ahead of them. “No sign of target.”
“GPS signal is steady,” Timur chimed in. “But there is no movement.”
A soft clanging noise drifted through the air. Yuri cocked his head, listening. It sounded like metal, scraping against the wood timbers of the bridge. “Wait, I hear something.”
He held up his hand in a closed fist. The other men stopped.
“What is it?” Even over the walkie, Yuri detected a note of impatience in his commander’s voice.
He turned off the walkie, and put his fingers over his lips, quieting the men around him.
He waited in silence. He heard the noise again…
Clank… clank…
The other men peered around, trying to pinpoint the location of the sound.
“What the hell is that?” one of them asked in a hushed voice.
It was coming from underneath them. Kneeling down, Yuri shouldered his rifle, and bent his head over the edge of the bridge.
Beneath them, the ice had crumbled and melted. A small hole revealed the dark, frigid water beneath the surface. A pair of metal drums bobbed up and down in the water, brushing against the wood beams of the bridge.
Yuri’s good eye opened wide in surprise. One of the barrels listed sideways in the water, revealing a mechanism wired to the side. He recognized the device instantly... It was one of Leonid’s thermobaric grenades. Wires ran from the explosive round to a radio and some other electronics, duct-taped to the side.
Yuri leapt to his feet. “Bomb! Run!”
The green men paused for a split second in shock. Then they followed after him as he charged down the bridge towards the mill.
He had made it a few yards when the bomb detonated. The shockwave threw him to the ground. He caught a quick glimpse of a billowing cloud of fire, and saw two of his men tossed through the air like rag dolls. Their bodies struck the cracking ice. The smooth white surface had shattered into chunks from the explosion's shockwave. The bodies sank into the dark water below.
Yuri and the remaining survivor picked themselves up. Behind them, the remains of the bridge crumbled into the dangerously frigid waters as well. Their route back was gone. Retreat was no longer an option.
“Prodolzhayte dvigat'sya, keep moving!” he shouted.
The two men raced forward, charging towards the open gates of the mill.
CRACK!
A gunshot tore into the wood under their feet, sending splinters into the air. Yuri scanned the horizon. The shot came from a high angle, but beyond that, he had no idea where the shooter might be hiding.
A crane rose above the metal walls of the fence. A cluster of old timbers hung from its rusted claw.
That’s where I would hide, he thought. He sent a wild burst of gunfire towards the cab.
CRACK!
Another shot rang out. The mercenary by his side dropped to the ground. A fine red mist stained the wood timbers beneath them.
Yuri ignored him, and kept running. The main gates of the complex — two massive sheets of corrugated metal marked with Korean lettering — stood closed. A chain was strung between them, but the metal sheets were bent and twisted, a five-foot gap left between them. Yuri dove through the opening as another shot cut through the air. Cradling his weapon in his hands, he skidded behind a pile of timber, and took cover. Another bullet thudded into the wood.
“I’m inside but I’m pinned down," he shouted into his walkie. "Sniper, can not see their position.”
“Draw their fire. I will find them,” the commander responded.
Timur's voice crackled over the radio. “I have movement on the GPS, the satphone. It’s heading towards our position, at the rear of the mill.”
“Caine must be trying to escape!” Zasko’s voice rose in pitch. “Move in, now!”
Yuri peered around the corner of the logs. He spied an abandoned truck near the center of the mill. Taking a deep breath, he raced towards the rusted hulk. He slid the last few feet across the ice, as another shot sparked off the metal frame of the vehicle.
“I hope you have the sniper’s position,” he whispered into the radio, ”because I’m running out of—”
Before he could finish his sentence, a pair of explosions shook the camp. A section of fence on the north side of the complex collapsed. A white Taiga snowmobile burst through the wreckage, and tore into the complex.
Timur piloted the vehicle into a long skid. The vehicle juddered to a stop, and he sprayed the nearest building with gunfire. His squad of green men took up position beside him. The remains of the building’s glass windows shattered under the onslaught of their combined fire. Finally, Timur stopped shooting.
Silence fell over the frozen yard.
Timur dismounted, and stalked towards the building in a low crouch. His men followed. One of the green men advanced, and took up a position next to the battered door. The mercenary pumped his shotgun and fired, blasting a hole through the wood panel.
Nothing happened. The man kicked open the door. Timur gestured to the other two men, and pointed at the entrance. They stalked forward, disappearing into the building.
“Timur is moving in. Do you have the sniper?” Yuri whispered.
He heard a low, throaty chuckle in his ear. “Da, I have them in my sights. I can see the fat cow plain as day.”
CRACK!
Yuri heard the familiar retort of the T-5000 rifle echoing across the field. Peering around the corner of the truck, he saw a heavyset body wrapped in thick winter clothes tumble from the crane. It struck the snow-covered ground, and rolled to a stop. Yuri squinted, trying to get a clear look at the body.
Zasko’s voice crackled in his ear. “Sniper down. Join Timur. Flush out Caine.”
“Wait,” Yuri whispered. “Something is wrong.”
He stepped out from his cover, and advanced on the body.
Chapter Nineteen
Dark pools of shadow covered the floor of the abandoned building. A shaft of sunlight pierced the icy gloom, beaming through a hole in the rusted metal roof. The soft rumble of the conveyer belt was the only sound echoing through the cavernous interior.
Timur crouched low behind some old machinery. Using hand gestures, he silently directed his men to flank him. Obeying his orders, they fanned out and moved along either side of the turning belt. Looking down, he stared at the tiny blip moving on the GPS tracker’s screen.
Whoever it was, they were right on top of his position.
The conveyer belt chugged in a circle, moving around the room in a clockwise direction. The machinery was old and rusty. A thin haze o
f smoke belched from the motorized drive wheels, and the room stank of chemicals.
Timur glanced at the nearest mercenary. The man rounded the corner of the circular belt and stood up. He looked over at Timur and shook his head.
Nothing.
Timur checked the GPS again. The signal was still moving through the room. It appeared to be coming up behind them, moving in to flank their position.
He spun around and raised his rifle.
There was no one there.
One of the other men kicked over a stack of dented old fuel barrels. As they crashed and rolled across the floor, he fired his weapon into the shadows behind them. Bright orange muzzle flash glowed in the dim light. His bullets thudded into more empty barrels.
Timur stared at the conveyer belt. The top of the belt was empty, save for some twigs and debris that had fallen in from the ceiling. A dead bird moved past his face. Frost glittered on its decayed feathers and lifeless eyes.
Crouching lower, Timur peered under the metal track.
He saw a tiny plastic object, lashed to the underside of the conveyer belt. It slowly turned towards him, pulled along by the motion of the belt. A red light blinked on its surface.
It was the satellite phone.
“Stand down. He is not here,” Timur whispered.
“O chem ty govorish'?” The closest mercenary whispered back. “He must be here… the GPS...”
Timur tore the phone from the tape, and held it up. “He knew we were tracking it. This was a diversion, he led us here on purpose.”
He heard metal scraping against the floor. Looking up, he saw the fuel drums the other man had kicked over, still rolling back and forth across the concrete.
The drums were empty. The air reeked of chemicals…
The distant crackle of gunfire erupted outside the building.
“Move out! Now!” he shouted. He spun around and charged toward the nearest window. Something whistled through the air towards them. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a small cylinder arching through the hole in the roof. It bounced on the ground, and rolled across the stained concrete floor.
Cold Kill Page 9
