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  The Spetsnaz rushed around the chopper and began returning fire, rounds tearing up the stone balustrade as Vatz rolled back for cover.

  “We have to get down,” he shouted to Godfrey, who was still speaking to Rodriguez. “They’re getting inside! They’ll come up and cut us off!”

  “All right,” cried the captain.

  Automatic weapons fire was already drumming from somewhere below as Vatz wrenched open the door leading to the dark stairwell.

  He rushed down to the first landing, turned—

  And locked gazes with a Spetsnaz troop below whose rifle was still pointed down.

  While Vatz’s first reaction should’ve been to lift his rifle and fire, adrenaline had already taken over.

  And muscle memory.

  And a rage simmering deep down.

  He launched himself from the landing and crashed down onto the guy before the enemy soldier could react. They fell onto the floor, the Russian’s rifle knocked free, Vatz’s weapon having dropped somewhere behind him.

  The guy’s left hand was going for the pistol holstered at his waist. Vatz seized that wrist with his right hand, now unable to draw his own LC from the SERPA holster.

  “Sergeant, get him!” shouted Godfrey, who had just reached the landing above.

  But Vatz couldn’t stop the guy’s right hand from coming up to unsheathe a small neck knife dangling from a chain.

  The troop thrust upward with the three-inch blade, and Vatz took hold of the guy’s wrist with the blade tip poised a few inches from his cheek.

  The guy raged aloud, fighting against Vatz’s grip, as the captain yelled, “Move, I can’t get a shot!”

  Drawing in a quick breath, Vatz did three things: released his grip on the trooper, threw his head back away from the blade, then forced himself onto his rump while drawing his LC.

  He fired.

  Nothing. What the . . .

  Vatz realized in that horrible moment that he’d failed to switch the pistol from the guided munitions to the stacked 4.6 mm rounds for close quarters, which was why she clicked empty.

  Another shot rang out from above: Godfrey.

  But it was dark, and that round punched the wall beside the soldier.

  The Russian went for his pistol.

  Vatz thought of the Blackhawk caracara blade he always packed for those up-close and personal moments, but it was buried deep in one of his hip pockets.

  The seven-inch fixed blade he carried, the Masters of Defense Mark V, was held tight in its sheath strapped farther down his hip.

  But Marc Rakken’s prized balisong, the Venturi, was right there, in a narrow pocket much higher on his hip.

  Sorry, Marc.

  In the span of two heartbeats Vatz had the Venturi in his hand, pinky-popping the bottom latch, bite handle dropping then swinging up to lock the blade in the open position.

  The Russian was sliding the pistol out of his holster—

  Vatz dove forward for the kill, thrusting his blade deep into the soldier’s neck to sever his spinal cord.

  Gunfire resounded over his shoulder, and Godfrey was there. He put a bullet in the guy’s head as Vatz withdrew the balisong’s Damascus blade.

  “I put out the word to mask up,” said Godfrey. “Now that they know we’re here.”

  Vatz rose, covered in blood. He closed the balisong and returned it to his pocket, then slid off his light pack to fish out his mask.

  They didn’t have full nuclear, biological, or chemical protection, part of the micro-climate conditioning subsystems of the full MOPP 4 helmets and suits, but the lightweight masks would help.

  He froze as more footfalls sounded in the stairwell.

  Silently, he motioned for Godfrey to halt, then reached into his tactical vest, tugged free a fragmentation grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it down the stairs.

  Major Stephanie Halverson and the boy reached the barn and darted inside, then moved to the window to catch sight of the remaining troops.

  She’d been right. Just three left now, and all charged forward, widening the distance between one another, rifles held menacingly.

  With three of their brothers dead, they wanted much more than a downed pilot.

  The boy’s face was scrunched up in agony, tears finally slipping from his eyes. “They killed my mom and dad.”

  “And they’ll kill us.”

  “My parents are dead because of you!” He leveled the automatic rifle on her.

  She slowly raised her hands, one still clutching her pistol. “Well, Joey, we got about ten seconds before they get here. They don’t care. They’ll shoot—both of us.”

  The barn door beside them burst open—

  But no one charged in.

  “Yankee pilot? Come out with hands up!”

  Halverson bolted to the wall, then sprinted for the door on the opposite end of the barn. She already knew at least one more troop had to be waiting there.

  Joey charged behind her, reached for the door handle.

  “No!”

  He looked at her.

  “Wait,” she said.

  She reached out, opened the door, and rolled back inside the barn—

  Gunfire ripped though the doorway. At the same time, a trooper appeared in the opposite doorway. Joey spotted him first.

  Just hours ago the kid had been an innocent farm boy living in rural paradise. Now he jammed down the trigger of his rifle, wise enough to aim for the guy’s legs because the Russian wore body armor.

  Then Joey rushed across the room, since the soldier was still moving, getting ready to draw his pistol.

  Halverson wanted to scream for him to come back, but it was too late. He rushed forward and shot the guy in the face, even as the other two soldiers burst into the barn, immediately cutting him down.

  Halverson, who was near the door, came in behind the first Spetsnaz troop, shot him point-blank in the neck.

  But the second guy whirled, aimed his rifle at Halverson.

  I’m dead.

  She flinched, but the troop suddenly staggered back, rounds punching into his chest and neck.

  Halverson slammed onto her gut, dirt and hay wafting into her face.

  She glanced over into the lifeless eyes of the Russian. Then she lifted her head.

  Joey was on the ground, clutching his rifle with one hand, his chest with the other, blood pouring between his fingers.

  “Joey?” She rose slowly, making sure all three troops were not moving, then she went to him, took his head in her lap.

  “It’s not fair,” he said, coughing up blood.

  Halverson’s voice was gone.

  No, it’s not.

  He grew very still, and then . . . he was gone.

  She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

  But she couldn’t lose it. Not now. More troops would come. She had to get the weapons, a snowmobile. She had to get moving!

  Gingerly, she slid out from beneath Joey, placed his head gently on the ground.

  Then, frantically, she grabbed a couple of the rifles, another sidearm, two more clips, and rushed from the barn, her mind racing as quickly.

  Get inside. Get her clothes, civilian clothes. Activate the beacon or they’ll never find you.

  She reached the house, stormed into the master bedroom, tore through the woman’s closet, and found herself jeans, a sweatshirt, a heavy winter jacket, hat, scarf, gloves.

  Back to the kitchen. She grimaced and stepped over the father’s body to tear through the refrigerator, grabbing a couple bottles of water and some apples.

  Then, still trembling, she went to the cupboard and seized an unopened package of cookies and some canned goods. She went to the drawers, throwing stuff everywhere, trying to find a can opener. Then she cursed, tossed the cans, and grabbed the rest.

  She gathered more ammo from the soldiers, tucking it all into a pillowcase like some burglar, then found the keys to one of the snowmobiles in the pocket of a dead troop.

  On the table in t
he entrance foyer sat a picture of the happy family. Halverson stared at it for a few seconds before charging outside.

  After using bungee cords to fasten the gear inside the snowmobile’s small rear basket, she donned the helmet, fired up the engine, and ordered herself not to look back.

  She sped away, heading due south, leaving a rooster tail of snow in her wake. The cold wind on her face began drying her tears, and after another moment, she slid down the helmet’s visor and leaned into the machine.

  The fuel tank held about five liters, just over a gallon of gas, and the Russians had already used a liter to get to the barn. She wasn’t sure how far she’d get, but she’d ride until the tank was empty.

  A broad, flat plain of snow lay ahead, and more trees stood on the far horizon. She steered for them.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “You’re wasting my time, Colonel.” Major Alice Dennison sat at her station in the command post, arms folded over her chest, and sneered at the broken and defeated Russian on the screen.

  “I did not talk under the influence of your drugs.”

  “Sorry, but you did.”

  “I did not!”

  “You told us everything you know—which is, unfortunately, not enough.”

  Colonel Pavel Doletskaya’s brows came together, and he began nervously pulling at the white whiskers on his chin. “You tell me what I said.”

  “All right. Operation 2659 is the invasion of Alberta.”

  “That’s shocking,” he said sarcastically. “I can’t believe you beat that out of me.”

  “The twenty-six represents the duration of time you’ve given yourselves to gain full control of the province. But if, after twenty-six days, you’ve failed in that mission, the second part of your plan takes place, activation code five-nine.”

  Doletskaya’s mouth began to open, as he realized that he had, in fact talked, but not willingly, as he pretended he wanted to do now.

  She went on, “The snow maiden was, in fact, Colonel Viktoria Antsyforov, with whom you were having an affair until she went home one night and set fire to her apartment, killing herself and four of her neighbors.”

  “I didn’t tell you that!”

  “Yes, you did. Maybe you thought you were remembering it, but you were telling us. I’ll ask you one last time, but I don’t expect you know the answer: The activation code is for what? A second invasion? A tactical missile attack? What?”

  He sighed loudly for effect. “I’m not aware of any activation code.”

  “Yes, you are. She told you about the code. But she never told you what it meant. And then she died. So we’re finished talking, you and I.”

  “Wait a moment, Major. If I told you everything already, then why did you agree to meet with me?”

  She shrugged. “Just for confirmation.”

  “No, I don’t believe that. I think . . . I think you are attracted to me.”

  “You’re a sick bastard.”

  “No, I think you are attracted to me because I have control over you. And you like that. You are always in control. And it’s so hard, isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be better to let me take care of everything? Maybe we can work together. Maybe there’s still hope for you and I.”

  She rolled her eyes and thumbed off the call.

  But she was trembling, visibly trembling. He was under her skin again, coursing through her veins like a poison.

  She wanted to kill him.

  Because maybe . . . he was right.

  “We’ll split up and flank them,” said Black Bear over the radio. He looked up at Sergeant Raymond McAllen. “I’ll need you guys up top.”

  McAllen nodded, but he had other plans.

  Sergeant Rule had gone to another back door and had spotted a chopper on the ground, just behind the fire crew’s garage. The pilot and co-pilot were still inside, the rotors spinning. McAllen wasn’t sure if they were having a technical problem or just waiting to pick up troops, but he didn’t care. All he saw was an enemy bird worth capturing and taking back into enemy territory to pick up that fighter pilot.

  Better to fly in with a big red star tattooed on their butts instead of a bull’s-eye.

  But he was still torn between helping out these SF guys and the mission.

  Oh, damn, he had to go with the mission; it came down from The Man himself.

  He had to do . . . what he had to do. The apologies would come later, if these guys made it out.

  “Khaki, you think you can fly that thing?”

  The pilot made a face. “Don’t insult me. If it’s got a rotor, I can fly it.”

  “All right,” McAllen said, eyeing the entire group. “We make a run for the garage. I don’t think they can see us from this angle. Then from the garage we move to the bird.” McAllen looked once more at Khaki. “Will a couple of holes in the canopy be a big deal?”

  “Don’t chance that. Just show ’em a grenade and get ’em to open up.”

  “All right then. Palladino? Gutierrez? You set up outside to cover.”

  The sniper and medic nodded.

  “Let’s go!”

  During the 1970s there was a secret military research facility near Leningrad, where according to some former Soviet chemical weapons scientists Kolokol-1 was developed. The drug took effect within a few seconds and left victims unconscious for two to six hours.

  In 2002, Chechen terrorists took a large number of hostages in an incident known as the Moscow theater siege. Kolokol-1 was used against them; however, large doses of the drug might have contributed to the deaths of more than one hundred of the eight hundred hostages.

  Intelligence gathered from Russian Federation defectors between 2018 and 2020 indicated that the Russians had made further refinements to the incapacitating agent in order to make it “more safe,” though they had thus far not used it against civilian populations.

  Consequently, Vatz felt a deep sense of dread as he and Captain Godfrey stepped over the soldier they had killed with the grenade and headed down to the ground floor of the town hall, where they found the mayor and half a dozen other town leaders lying on the floor, a beer can-size canister still emitting gas beside them.

  They checked for pulses. “Still alive over here,” said Godfrey, voice muffled through his mask.

  “Here, too.”

  “Looks like they’re hitting them where they find them with small concentrations.”

  “Good. We may not need our masks outside.”

  They hustled out of the building, rushed around to the corner, both slamming themselves against the wall as two Spetsnaz troops wearing masks rounded the opposite corner themselves.

  Vatz caught the first one with his rifle, rounds stitching up the soldier’s armor and reaching his head.

  But the second troop was already firing, his rounds drumming into Vatz’s armored chassis and knocking him off his feet.

  Captain Godfrey stormed forward, unleashing a vicious salvo, drawing within a couple meters of the guy until the Russian went down, blood spraying inside the mask.

  With his chest sore from all the fire, the wind still knocked out of him, Vatz pushed himself up on his elbows, blinked hard.

  Just as Captain Godfrey sank to his knees, then fell forward, his rifle clacking to the frozen pavement.

  Wrenching off his mask, Vatz got shakily to his feet and staggered forward, reaching the captain. He rolled Godfrey onto his back, removed the mask.

  “Captain . . . sir . . .”

  Vatz undid the quick release straps of Godfrey’s armor, tossed the vest aside, saw the two bullet holes in the captain’s neck, another just under his earlobe.

  He checked the captain for a carotid pulse, got one: weak and thready but there.

  “Band-Aid, this is Bali, over?”

  The team’s senior medical sergeant, Jac Sasaki, answered, his voice tense, gunfire echoing behind him. “Bali, I can hardly hear you, over?”

  “I need you here, south side town hall. Berserker Six is down, over.”

&nb
sp; “What? I can’t hear you.”

  “Berserker Six is down!” Vatz repeated his location.

  “Roger that! On my way!” cried the medic.

  Vatz switched channels to call Warrant Officer Samson. “Black Bear, this is Bali, over.”

  “Bali, this is Black Bear, make it quick!”

  “Berserker Six got hit. He’s still alive. I say again, Berserker Six was hit. Got Band-Aid on the way.”

  “Roger that, Bali. I’ll notify Zodiac Six and coordinate with him. Looks like they’re spreading out now, some heading for the neighborhoods. We need to take out as many as we can, right here, right now, before they all turn into snipers, over.”

  “Roger that, and they’re using gas. Looks nonlethal, over.”

  “Yeah, what they call nonlethal just kills you slower. Tell you what. You stay put. I’ll send over a truck.”

  “Roger that, standing by. Bali, out.”

  Vatz checked Godfrey’s neck again for a pulse, put his ear to the man’s mouth, listening.

  They wouldn’t need Band-Aid now.

  He swore, and dragged Godfrey’s body to the side of the building.

  The guy was a good captain, not the usual token officer sent to do his time with an ODA, then go on to lead brigades. He’d really wanted to learn. And hell, he wasn’t even thirty years old yet.

  Band-Aid called on the radio to say he was almost there. Vatz didn’t stop him. They’d pair up, get down in the alley between the town hall and another office building, and remain there until Black Bear’s truck arrived.

  The sounds of whomping rotors kept Vatz tight to the wall. He looked up, saw one of the civilian birds banking overhead at just two hundred feet.

  Just behind it came one of the Ka-29s, narrowing the gap, its four-barreled machine gun blazing until the civilian bird’s tail rotor was chewed apart by 7.63 mm rounds, its engine beginning to smoke, fuel leaking from its tanks.

  But then a glorious sight from the ground: a Javelin missile rose to cut across the blue midday sky, its exhaust plume trailing.

  Before Vatz could fully turn his head, the Ka-29 burst apart, the fireball so close that Vatz knew he had to get out of there. He shoved arms beneath Godfrey’s armpits and dragged the captain’s body toward the back of the building to escape the secondary explosions.