The guard lifted his rifle. “Papers! Credentials!” he yelled in Russian.
Kowalski took a deep breath, hoping he looked Russian enough because he couldn’t speak the language if push came to shove.
Then again,pushingandshovingmight be the only way past this gate.
Kowalski held up a palm and reached for the handle. He had to put his weight into it to fight the wind. As the door popped open, Kowalski lowered his other arm and secretly forked a set of devil fingers toward their third teammate in the cab, then pointed those same horns toward the guard, who leaned in with an arm outstretched for Kowalski’s papers.
As ordered, Kane lunged past Kowalski’s chest with a deep growl, snapping at the guard’s fingers, then barking savagely. Kowalski pretended to try to restrain the muscular dog and make it look like he was losing.
Startled, the guard fell back, tripped, and crashed onto his ass in the snow.
Yuri hollered, motioning to Kowalski’s side of the cab. “See, comrade! Weallwant out of this damned storm.”
The guard on the ground certainly showed no further interest in inspecting Kowalski’s papers.
The other man finally scowled, crossed to his open gatehouse, and struck a button inside. The fence, topped by razor wire, ratcheted open on its tracks.
Yuri hopped back in the cab, slammed his door, and glanced to Kowalski with a roll of his eyes. They set off through the gate, followed by the double snowmobile carrying Sid and Monk. Seated behind the Berkut’s cab, Vin gave an exaggerated salute good-bye toward the guards, while keeping one hand on the mounted machine gun.
The two vehicles trundled across the snow-swept streets, which were deserted and wind-whipped. They traveled out of sight of the gate and continued a quarter mile farther, then stopped.
Yuri turned to him. “I got you in here. It’s up to you to find the others.”
Kowalski stared over at Kane. “It’s not me that’s gotta do that.”
Kane keeps his head down, his nose close to the ice and snow. The order burns bright behind his eyes. SCENTMARCO. SCENTTUCKER. He needs no command to follow this instruction. The same desire fires his blood.
His pack is broken, and he intends to close that circle.
Behind him, heavy footfalls follow. Beyond the tall man, two vehicles track them, nearly lost in the storm. His eyes can barely see them, but his ears stay tuned to their rumble, the crunch of snow under treads.
For now, this is his new pack.
But only for now.
As he continues across the grounds, he recognizes familiar scents from camps like this in the past:
—the bitter bite of burnt oil.
—the reek of smoke and ash.
—the ripe melt of decaying trash.
He strips each away, one after the other.
He even dismisses the fear-sweat that mists through the clothes of the man at the end of his leash.
Only one set of scents matters. It is branded into him, meaning home, brotherhood, a warm bed, and a full belly.
He heads into the wind, drawing deep sniffs, carrying each note to the back of his muzzle, under his eyes, over his tongue.
Then he catches the faintest whiff... a trail through the air that even snow can’t crush. He lifts his nose to it, whines against it, and moves along it. His paws pound faster. His claws dig deeper into the frozen hardpack.
He tugs harder on the lead, refusing to slow.
The other shouts behind him. It is not an order, so it’s ignored.
Kane is drawn to the source. The scent rises from a steel grate that steams into the air. He rushes to it and sniffs the wet warmth rising from below, then speeds on—toward home, toward blood shared.
