Текст книги "Ice Hunt"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

Matt fell back behind the spruce’s trunk. He popped the spent cartridge and cranked another in place. These were no amateurs. They had anticipated an ambush, sending the first cycle at breakneck speed over the ridge to draw his attention while the second wheeled around from the other side.

Crack.

A limb of the spruce shattered a foot above Matt’s head, pelting him with splinters. Matt slammed lower, sliding to his back, rifle cradled over his chest. A rifle shot…it had come from the direction of the first rider. So the bastard wasn’t dead.

Biting back panic, Matt kept his position. The sniper must not have had a clean shot at him; otherwise he’d be dead. The splintering blast had been an attempt to flush him out. The sniper must have gained his approximate position when Matt had fired at the second cycle.

“Damn it…” Matt was now pinned between them: one rider down to the left in the bushes and the other still on his cycle among the stones.

Matt listened, gasping between clenched teeth. The growl of the other cycle had died to a steady rumble. What was going on? Was the man waiting? Had he abandoned the cycle, leaving it idling, while he snuck into better position?

He couldn’t take the chance. He had to move.

Swearing under his breath, Matt slid on his back down the slope, his flight made easier by the thick layer of fallen spruce needles. Without lifting his head, he surfed the slick needles and reached a nearby snowmelt channel, no more than a shallow gully. He slipped into the relative shelter of the trickling waterway. The water soaked through his wool pants, but his patched Army jacket kept his torso dry.

He lay for a moment, listening. The single remaining cycle still idled ominously. But no other sound could be heard. His pursuers were not giving themselves away. Military or mercenary, Matt had no way of knowing, only that they were professional and worked as a team. That meant that the reporter was out of immediate danger. The pair would not leave an armed assailant at their back. They would have to dispatch Matt before continuing on.

Matt considered his own options. They were few. He could escape on his own and leave Craig to the gunmen. He wagered they were more interested in silencing the reporter than him, and he had no doubt that he could disappear into these woods on his own. But this was not a real option.

He had his dogs to think about.

Matt continued crabbing his way down the worn channel. The cold helped dull the panic. Nothing like dumping your ass in ice water to clear the mind.

He moved as silently as he could.

Thirty yards down, the snowmelt channel tipped over a ledge. It was a short drop, seven feet. He rolled onto his belly in the channel and dropped feetfirst over the edge, careful to protect his rifle from the water and the mud.

That was his mistake.

As he fell over the lip, a shot struck the rifle, tearing it from his stinging fingers. In his foolish attempt to protect it, he had held the rifle too high, too exposed, giving himself away. Matt landed hard in a shallow pool of ice melt and cradled his jarred hand.

He quickly searched and found the rifle lying on the bank. The black walnut stock was a splintered ruin, cracked away. He hurried and collected the trashed weapon. The gun itself was still intact, just the stock ruined. Palming the weapon, he ran along the short cliff face. He didn’t bother masking his flight. He shoved through bushes, snapping branches underfoot. The cliff he followed ended at a broken area of rock and tumbled talus, the path of an ancient glacier. The scarp was a tangle of gullies, boulders, and ravines.

Behind him, there were no sounds of pursuit, but he knew the men were closing in on him, racing down the slope to the cliff’s edge, weapons on shoulders, ready to dispatch their quarry.

Spurred, Matt flew faster, sticking close to the cliff face. Ahead, the shadows thickened as the sun crept away and the clouds descended upon the peaks. Night could not come soon enough. He reached the scrabbled terrain and ducked behind a boulder.

He risked a glance behind him. The deep shadows now aided his pursuers. An inky gloom masked the terrain. He studied the edge of the cliff. Nothing. He turned away and almost missed it. A shift of shadows. Matt dropped lower. Someone was climbing down the cliff, half shielded by a fall of rock. Before Matt could raise his ruined rifle, the figure vanished into the darkness at the base of the cliff.

Matt continued to point his rifle, positioning it as well he could without the steadying support of the stock. He held it at arm’s length. The barrel wavered. He could not trust his accuracy.

Up the slope, the single motorcycle engine suddenly roared back to life, growling, throttling, then it was off.

Matt cocked an ear. The other pursuer was heading off to the left, intending to circle around the scarp and get behind Matt again. Closer, the other hunter had vanished away. He could be anywhere. Matt could not trust his position.

Twisting back behind the boulder, he searched the terrain. Few trees grew here, mostly just low bushes, weedy grasses, and scrabbles of reindeer lichen. A swift rocky stream tumbled down through the center in a series of waterfalls. A mist hovered and traced the waterway as the day cooled toward twilight.

He ran down the scarp’s slope, keeping low, aiming for the stream. He had to shake the immediate tail behind him. He hopped and climbed to the stream. With his boots wet and muddy from his previous slide, he left a clear trail across the bare rock.

Once at the stream, he waded into the water, stifling a gasp at the chill. The depth was only up to his knees, but the current tugged at his legs. The rocks were slippery. He fought for balance and climbed upstream, back up the slope he had just fled down. Crouching, he hurried, dragging his legs through the water as silently as possible.

He listened for any sign of the nearby hunter, but the world was filled with the roar of the other motorcycle and the burbling crash of water over rock.

Ten yards up the stream, he reached one of the cataracts, a waterfall over a five-foot drop of rock face. He prayed for one small bit of luck on this long, chilling day. On legs numbed by the icy waters, he stepped up to the cascade of water and jammed his arm through the fall. Many of these cataracts had small spaces behind them as the granite rock face was worn away by the churn of the waterfall that ebbed and flowed with the seasons.

Matt wiggled his fingers.

This one was no exception.

He pivoted around and shoved his back through the waterfall. The bracing flow covered him for a painful breath, then he was leaning against the rock wall, legs splayed to either side, half crouched. The flow of the cataract was a curtain before his face. The cascade was sheer enough to peer through, but it turned the world beyond into a watery blur.

Hugging his rifle to his chest, Matt waited. Now that he had stopped fighting the current and crouched still, the cold bit into him. His teeth chattered uncontrollably, and an ache reached all the way to his bones. Hypothermia would set in quickly. He hoped his trackers were skilled and wouldn’t leave him waiting too long.

As Matt shivered, a memory of another day, another icy waterway, intruded. He had been even colder and wetter then. Three years ago, late winter, an unusually warm spell had everyone in Alaska out, enjoying the unseasonably temperate weather. He and his family had been no exception. A winter camping trip to ice-fish and hike the snowy mountains. Then a moment’s inattention…

Despite the danger now, Matt squeezed his eyes closed against the sudden stab of pain.

He had used a wood ax to break through the ice. He had searched and searched the cold river, almost dying himself from hypothermia, but his eight-year-old son’s body wasn’t found until two days later, far down the waterway.

Tyler…I’m sorry…

He forced his eyes open. Now was not the time to mourn the boy. Still, the water’s icy embrace had awakened the memory. He could not escape it. His body remembered the cold, the icy water. Memories frozen in every fiber of his being were loosened. Unless someone had lost a son or daughter, none could imagine how a mere memory could stab like a dagger: agonizing, blinding, down to the bone.

Tyler…

Movement drew him back to the present. Off to the right, a figure shifted between boulders along the bank. As he watched, old anger trembled his legs, along with a numbing despair that made one fearless.

The hunter had followed Matt’s muddy trail, but he was taking no chances, sticking to shadows. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, but he bore a pistol in one fist. The man had also shed his snowy outerwear and wore only a camouflaged uniform and black cap, easier to hide.

Matt lifted his rifle, parting the fall of water with his barrel. He didn’t point it toward the slinking figure. With his gun compromised, he couldn’t trust a keen shot between the sheltering rocks. Instead, he aimed for the wet bank of the stream, where he had waded into the channel a few minutes ago. Only ten yards away, bare of boulders.

The camouflaged hunter reached the spot, easing out of the rocks. He crouched low. Matt watched him eye the far bank. No wet trail led away. The fellow stared downstream. Matt could guess what he was thinking. Had his quarry fled down the channel like he had earlier down the smaller snowmelt gully? The hunter raised higher, searching down the course. He was a tall man, linebacker build.

Matt moved his finger to the trigger, using all the muscles in his forearm and shoulder to hold the rifle steady. Some innate sense drew the man’s attention. He swung around, his face a pale look of surprise. He spotted the rifle at the same time Matt pulled the trigger.

The blast was loud in the tiny space. The recoil almost tore the weapon from his grip. Something tiny pinged past his ear. Matt ignored it all. He concentrated on his target.

The hunter pitched backward as if shoved in the chest. His pistol spun from his hand, arms outflung. He struck a granite extrusion and sat down hard.

Even before the man hit the ground, Matt was out of his hiding place. He yanked on the rifle to eject the spent cartridge, but he found it jammed. He tugged harder, but no success. The damage to the weapon must have been worse than he had thought. He was lucky the rifle hadn’t exploded in his face when he had fired.

He raced down the stream toward the fallen hunter. The man, though down, struggled to free his rifle behind him. It was a race, but the channel’s current now worked in Matt’s favor. He flew the ten yards, leaping from the current.

He was too late.

The rifle came around and pointed at his chest.

In midair, Matt jerked his body aside and swung his damaged weapon like a club. He felt metal strike metal as the gunman’s rifle exploded. Flaming pain seared Matt’s shoulder.

He cried out…then his weight hit the other. It was like striking a brick wall. The man outweighed Matt by a good thirty pounds. But the impact knocked the assailant’s rifle away. It skittered across the rocks and into the stream.

Matt rolled off the guy and kicked his foot around to smash into the man’s face. But the attacker was already dodging aside. He seemed unfazed by the chest wound. In fact, there was no blood.

Kevlar vest,Matt thought.

The other crouched an arm’s length away, his face a mask of fury. One hand fingered the hole in his camouflage.

Still hurts like a son of a bitch, though, doesn’t it, asshole?

A flash of silver and a dagger appeared in the man’s other hand. The bastard was a friggin’ Swiss Army knife of weapons.

Matt lifted his rifle, holding it like a fencing sword. His shoulder burned, but he ignored the pain. He turned one side to the man, keeping his silhouette small against the dagger.

Eyes bright with bloodlust, the assassin smiled, feral. Perfect white teeth. Whoever the man worked for, they had a good dental plan.

With no warning, the man lunged at him, dagger held low, professional, skilled. His other arm was raised to parry Matt’s rifle.

Matt danced back two steps. His free hand rested on his hip, on his belt. He yanked free the holstered can of pepper spray and thumbed the safety cap off. He swung it around and sprayed. Meant to ward off bears, the spray had a shooting distance of twenty feet.

It struck his steel-eyed attacker full in the face.

The effect was the same as if he had shot a cannonball at point-blank range.

The assailant fell to his knees, head thrown back, dagger forgotten. A stunned moment, then an inhuman howl flowed from the man’s throat. It was a garbled sound. The man must have inhaled just as the spray hit, burning larynx and throat. He clawed at his eyes and face, ripping tracks across his cheeks.

Matt stood back. The bear spray was ten times more potent than that used in law enforcement, a combination of pepper and tear gas. It was meant to drop grizzlies, not just common thugs. Already the man’s eyelids blistered. Blinded by the pain, he flipped around, wild, like a marlin landed on a fishing boat deck. But there was purpose to his thrashing. He fought toward the icy stream. His body racked and vomit spilled over the rocks, choking. He collapsed yards from the stream, moaning, curled in on himself.

Matt simply walked over and collected the man’s dagger. He considered slicing the man’s throat, but he was not feeling generous today. The fellow was no further threat. There was a fair chance he would even die from the spray. And if not, he’d be disfigured and disabled for life. Matt felt no remorse. He remembered Brent Cumming, his friend’s neck broken as his Cessna crashed.

Matt turned away while checking his own wound. The rifle shot had grazed his shoulder, more a burn than a wound.

Distantly, the grumble of the motorcycle had throttled down. Had the rider heard his partner’s wail? Did he know it was his friend? Or was he wondering if it was their quarry?

Matt checked the stream for the other rifle, but the current had swept it away. He dared not tarry. He trusted the other pursuer would eventually come to search for his partner. Matt did not plan on being here. He’d trek back to camp, collect his dogs, horse, and the reporter – then he was heading to the only place he knew in the area. Invited or not, welcome or not, they would have to take him in.

He listened as the cycle growled more fiercely again. Of course, out there was one last snag to this plan. Matt crossed the scarp, away from the other pursuer. His camp was two miles away, but at least it was on this side of the rockfall. It would take a bit of time for the rider to find his partner, circle around, and chase them. By then, Matt planned on being well away.

With this goal in mind, Matt crossed back into the thicker woods and jogged down toward his camp. His wet clothes hung like sacks of cement on him, but after a few minutes, the exertion helped warm his limbs and staved off the threat of hypothermia. Once he reached camp, he could change into dry things.

As he continued down, a light snowfall drifted from the clouds overhead. The flakes were thick, heavy, heralding a more abundant fall to come. After ten minutes, this promise began to be fulfilled. The snow obscured the spruce forest, making it hard to see much past a few yards. But Matt knew these woods. He reached the ice-rimmed river on the valley floor and followed it downstream to his campsite. He found the horse trail.

The first to greet him was Bane. The dog all but tackled him as he slogged down the last of the trail.

“Yeah, I’m glad to see you, too.” He thumped the dog’s side and followed the way back to camp.

He found Mariah munching on some green reeds. The other dogs ran up, but there was no sign of the reporter. “Craig?”

From behind a bush, the reporter stood up. He bore a small hand ax in both fists. The relief on his face was etched in every corner. “I…I didn’t know what happened? I heard the gunfire…the scream…”

“It wasn’t me.” Matt crossed and collected the ax. “But we’re not out of the proverbial woods yet.”

Across the valley, the whining growl of the lone motorcycle persisted. Matt stared into the dark, snowy woods. No, they certainly weren’t out yet.

“What are we going to do?” Craig also listened to the motorcycle. The sound had already grown louder. The reporter’s eyes drifted to his shattered rifle.

Matt had forgotten he was even carrying it. “Broken,” he muttered. He turned back to camp and began to rummage through his supplies, quickly picking out what they would need for this midnight run. They would have to travel light.

“Do you have another gun?” Craig asked. “Or can we outrun the motorcycle on the horse?”

Matt shook his head, answering both questions.

“Then what are we going to do?”

He found what he was looking for. He added it to his bag. At least this wasn’t broken.

“What about the other motorcycle?” Craig’s voice edged toward panic.

Matt straightened. “Don’t worry. There’s an old Alaskan saying.”

“What’s that?”

“Up here, only the strong survive…but sometimes even they’re killed.”

His words clearly offered no consolation to the Seattle reporter.

10:48 P.M.

Stefan Yurgen wore nightvision goggles, allowing him to see in the dark without the motorcycle’s lights, but the snowstorm kept his vision to no more than ten meters. The snow fell thickly, a green fog through the scopes.

He kept his snow-and-ice bike steady, grinding and carving up the switchback trail. The snow might block his view, but it allowed him to follow his prey easily. The fresh snow clearly marked their trail. He counted one horse, four dogs. Both men were riding. Occasionally, one man hopped off and led the horse afoot across some trickier terrain, then remounted.

He watched for any sign of the pair splitting, but no prints led away from the main trail.

Good. He wanted them together.

Under the frozen goggles, a permanent scowl etched his features. Mikal had been his younger brother. An hour ago, he had found his brother’s tortured body beside a small stream, nearly comatose from pain, his face a bloody wreck. He’d had no choice. He had orders to follow. It had still torn him to pull the trigger, but at least the agony had ended for Mikal.

Afterward, he had marked his forehead with his brother’s blood. This was no longer just a search-and-destroy mission. It was an oath vendetta. He would return with the American’s ears and nose. He would hand them to his father back in Vladistak. For Mikal…for what had been done to his younger brother. This he swore on Mikal’s blood.

Stefan had caught a brief glimpse of his target earlier through his rifle’s scope: tall, sandy-haired, windburned face. The man had proven resourceful, but Mikal had been the newest member to the Leopard ops team, ten years his junior. His younger brother did not have Stefan’s years of battle-honed experience. He was a cub compared to a lion. Now forewarned of his target’s skill, Stefan would not underestimate his quarry. Upon his brother’s blood, he would capture the American alive, carve his carcass while he still breathed. His screams would reach all the way back to Mother Russia.

As Stefan climbed through the wooded ravine, the trail left by his quarry grew more distinct. His features hardened. The distance between them was closing. No more than a hundred meters, he estimated. A skilled tracker, trained in the winter mountains of Afghanistan, Stefan knew how to judge a trail.

He manhandled the bike up another switchback, then throttled down. He climbed off the cycle, shrugging his rifle snugly in place. He reached next to the weapon holstered on the side of the vehicle. It was now time to begin the true hunt. Raised along the Siberian coast, Stefan knew the cold, knew snow and ice, and he knew how to chase prey through a storm.

From here, he would proceed on foot…but first he needed to shake his targets, panic them into acting instinctively. And like any wild animal, once panicked, people made mistakes.

He slid up his nightvision goggles, raised the heavy weapon, then read the distance and elevation indicators through the scope.

Satisfied, he pulled the trigger.

11:02 P.M.

Craig shivered, clinging close to the man saddled ahead of him. He tried to glean whatever warmth he could from the shared contact. At least he was shielded from the worst of the wind by the Fish and Game warden’s broad back.

Matt spoke as they climbed through the snowstorm. “I don’t understand,” he said, pressing the issue. “There has to be a reason for all this. Does it have to do with your story? Or is it something else?”

“I don’t know,” Craig repeated for the tenth time, speaking through a wool scarf wrapped over his lower face. He didn’t want to talk about it. He only wanted to concentrate on staying warm. Damn this assignment…

“If it’s you, why go to all this trouble to keep you away from your story?”

“I don’t know. Back in Seattle, I covered alderman races and tracked AP stories out of Washington from a local angle. I was given this assignment because the editor has a grudge. So I dated his niece once. She wastwenty years old, for God’s sake. It wasn’t like she was twelve.”

Matt mumbled, “A political reporter. I mean why would a scientific research station call in a political reporter anyway?”

Craig sighed. The man would clearly not give up. In a desire to end this line of discussion, he finally loosened his tongue and spilled what he knew. “A marine biologist from the drift station has a cousin who works for the paper. He sent a telegram, indicating a discovery of significant interest. Something to do with an abandoned ice base discovered by their researchers. Whatever they found has stirred up a lot of excitement, but the station was placed under a gag order by the Navy personnel there.”

“A gag order? And this biologist was able to ferret this news out anyway.”

Craig nodded. “I was being sent to see if there really is a story of national interest.”

Matt sighed. “Well, it certainly stirred up someone’s interest.”

Craig snorted, but he was relieved when the man fell into a ruminative silence. Behind them, the growl of the motorcycle seemed to have ebbed. Maybe they were outdistancing their pursuer. Maybe he had turned back, giving up the chase.

Matt glanced behind them, slowing his horse.

With the cycle quieted, the woods seemed to have grown more still and a little darker. The snowfall drifted with a hushed whisper through the trees. Matt reined the horse to a stop. He stood in the stirrups, staring back, his eyebrows tucked together.

A sharp whistling suddenly pierced the quiet.

“What—” Craig began, twisting around.

Matt reached behind, grabbed him by the shoulders, and dragged them both out of the saddle. They fell to the snowy ground, knocking the wind from his chest.

Craig coughed, gasping. What the hell is—

Matt shoved his face into the snow, half covering his body with his own. “Stay down!” he growled.

An explosion rocked the wintry quiet. A score of yards up the trail, snow, dirt, and bushes plumed upward. Leaves and needles were shredded from the surrounding trees.

The mare bucked, whinnying in terror, eyes rolling white. But Matt was already up, grabbing the reins. Dogs barked and yipped from all around.

Craig began to sit up. Matt reached down and yanked him to his feet. “Up, up,” he urged, shoving him toward the horse.

“What was—”

“Grenade…the bastard has a goddamn grenade launcher.”

As the ringing in his ears died away, Craig tried to wrap his mind around this concept. He scrambled back up into the saddle. The mountains had gone quiet. Even the motorcycle’s engine had gone silent.

“He’s coming after us on foot,” Matt explained. “We don’t have much time.” He whistled for his dogs, scattered by the explosion. They all returned, but one was limping. Matt bent to check the injured dog.

Craig was not so patient. “C’mon…leave the dog.”

Matt glanced sharply at him, then back to the malamute. He ran his hands down the lame limb. “Just sprained, Simon,” he whispered to the dog, relieved, and patted its head.

Standing, Matt grabbed the horse’s lead and headed away from the deer trail they had been following.

“Where are we going?” Craig continued to search both ahead and behind him. His ears strained for any telltale whistle of another grenade.

“The jackass is trying to spook us.”

In Craig’s case, the fellow had surely succeeded.

They tromped through some denser woods, through deeper snow. Craig was forced to duck low branches, getting snow dumped on his back with their passage. It was hard going, slow, too slow, but Matt seemed determined in his direction.

“Where are we headed?” Craig asked, dusting off his shoulders.

“To see if some old friends are still around.”

11:28 P.M.

Stefan crouched by the trail. Gloved, hooded, and cloaked in white, he blended perfectly with the snow. But to him, the world was traced and silhouetted in hues of green. Through his nightvision goggles, he examined the trail. His targets had struck off to the left, clearly scared from the trail by the grenade explosion ahead, just as he had hoped.

He turned to follow, moving swiftly and silently. He had hunted wolves in the rural hills around his hometown. He knew how to travel a wood silently, to use the available cover. Coupled with the tools of his ops training, he was a most skilled assassin.

Still, his targets needn’t have feared another grenade. He had left the launcher back at the bike. His rifle was enough…along with his hunting knife, with which he planned to skin the American who had killed his brother. He set off down their new trail, watching to make sure the pair did not split up. But the track of hoof, paw, and footprints remained a steady single course.

Before leaving the cycle, he had radioed his superiors and reported the events. The storm was too severe to send in reinforcements, but Stefan had assured his lieutenant that they were not needed. Before midnight struck, he would have his quarry contained. His evacuation the next morning had already been coordinated.

He continued down the side trail, watching for any treachery. But the grenade seemed to have done its job. It had sent them into flight.

A quarter mile down the side path, he found a spot where the snow was churned up. It looked like the horse might have taken a spill on the icy terrain. Stefan hoped a few bones had been broken during the fall.

He quickly searched the area, but only one trail led off from here. The track was much fresher. Slush had not yet frozen in the hoofprints. He was no more than five minutes behind. The American continued to walk his horse.

Stefan straightened, noting the ripe smell of offal. Some animal must have died nearby. But before this night was over, there would be more for the scavengers to feed upon.

Anticipating he was close enough to use the infrared feature in his goggles, he reached to his lens and toggled a tab on its edge, switching out of the current nightvision mode, which amplified ambient light, and over to infrared, which registered heat signatures. The green hues vanished, and the world went dark. He scanned ahead, seeking any heat sources. The range of the scope was a hundred yards in good weather. With the snowfall masking any warmth, he could expect half that distance. As such, he faintly made out a reddish blob, poorly defined just at the farthest range of his goggles.

He smiled and switched back to his nightvision spectrum so he could see again and continue his pursuit. With his target in sight, he hurried onto the fresh path. In his drive, he failed to see the thin white thread stretched across the path, but he felt the faint tug on his pant cuff and the snap of the thread.

He dove aside into a small snowbank, expecting an explosion or booby trap to spring. He glanced behind, only to see a faint flash of green through his goggles as something fell from an overhanging tree limb and shattered against a rock under it.

He covered his face, knocking loose his goggles, and ducked away.

Something damp splashed his legs.

He glanced down. Blood…the red stain was stark against his white snowsuit. His heart pounded in his throat, but he felt no secondary flare of pain. He calmed. It wasn’t his own blood.

Then the smell struck him. Back in Afghanistan, he had crawled through the rebel tunnels and come upon a group of dead soldiers, slaughtered, it appeared, by a nail bomb. Blood, ripped intestine, flies, maggots, the heat of the summer…it had festered and fermented for a week. This stench was worse.

Gagging reflexively, he tried to crawl away from it, but the stench clung to him, followed him, rising and swelling around him. Bile rose in his throat. He choked and emptied his stomach.

Still, he was a hardened soldier. He scrubbed his pant legs in the snow and fought to his feet. His eyes teared as the world swirled in black and white, shadow and snow.

He stumbled up the trail. If they thought a stench bomb would incapacitate him, the fuckers would learn otherwise. He had been trained to withstand assaults with tear gas and worse. Spitting, he clambered up the trail and reseated his nightvision goggles.

Reaching to the toggle, he checked infrared again and searched for his target. At first he saw nothing but blackness. He cursed, choking up bile. They may have delayed him, but their trail into the empty peaks remained clear through the snow. He would catch up with them.

He reached to his goggles, but before he could switch back to night vision, a reddish glow materialized against the dark background. The sudden infrared signature was bright and clear. The wind must have parted the snow enough to extend his field of view. He grinned. So they weren’t that far. He headed toward it.

As he moved, the heat signature grew quickly… too quickly. He stopped. The rosy glow swelled larger in the scopes, larger than a single man. Were they headed back here on the horse? Did they think to subdue him after their crude attempt at chemical warfare?