The spoor he follows is tainted. He smells the acid of stress, the looseness of bowel. Still, he picks out the musky note that underlies it all. He has sniffed under that tail often enough.
Marco...
He races on—to the next steaming grate, where the scent grows stronger. He barely pauses and hurries on.
To another patch of steel and melting snow.
Then another.
Until he reaches a grate that is so ripe that it fills his senses. He paws at the snow, exposing a frozen dark stain, droplets of that stress. He draws the scent off the steel, too.
He finally stands, stiff-legged with confidence. He stares over at the other, who hulks beside him. He growls, lifting his nose higher.
The other commends him.
Good dog.
It brings no flash of gratitude or contentment.
This other is not Kane’s home.
Kowalski radioed Yuri, who trailed in the Berkut, followed by the snowmobile, “Kane’s picked up their scent.”
Yuri responded. It sounded like a confirmation, but it was hard to tell through the dropouts and static. The heavy snow wasn’t the only storm they had to contend with. Higher up, the solar flare continued to pound the magnetosphere.
Still, Kowalski’s message was understood.
Yuri pulled up next to him. Vin hopped off the gunner’s seat, dropping an assault rifle from his shoulder to his hand. Monk and Sid slid out of the heated seat of their snowmobile. With the two dressed in the Arctic combat gear and of similar builds, it was hard to tell them apart.
Yuri exited the Berkut and joined them. He nodded toward a stone church with a tall steeple. “You think they’re in there?”
Monk eyed the place, too. “If they were brought here by Sychkin, it seems likely.”
Vin broke out a cigarette and managed to light it despite the wind. He passed it around, pretending they were taking a smoke break. Or maybe the guy simply needed a nicotine fix.
“What’s the plan?” Kowalski asked. “Try to find a back door? Sneak in?”
The answer came from none of them.
A scream cut through a lull in the wind, muffled but clear enough.
It rose from the church.
Monk glanced at Kowalski and lifted his rifle, making his point clear.
Kowalski shrugged and did the same.
Looks like we’re storming the castle.
7:08P.M.
At the first blast of gunfire, Captain Turov spun to Sychkin and yanked the man behind him. In his other hand, he drew his sidearm. He barked orders to the two soldiers in the room with them.
A small part of him was relieved for the interruption.
He had little stomach for the agonizing work of Yerik Raz.
Three amputated fingers sat in pools of blood.
