A hunter. A local. These mountains are remote, but the local villagers have survived for centuries on the game that moves through these passes.
“Has he seen the cabin?”
“Not yet. But the snow hasn't fully covered our tracks from the radio tower. If he’s a tracker, he’ll find the break in the powder.”
A local hunter is a variable we cannot control. If he reports the smoke from our chimney to the authorities, the Baranovs will have a coordinate. Even if he doesn't know who we are, he is a leak in our isolation.
“Options,” I say.
“Three,” Nikolai says. His voice is flat, clinical—a perfect imitation of my own. “We let him pass and hope the snow covers the rest. We spook him—a warning shot to push him off the ridge. Or we eliminate him.”
Eliminate.The word sounds like a verdict.
“He is a civilian,” I say. “A non-combatant.”
“I know what he is.” Nikolai turns to look at me, and his eyes are like the ice I dream of. “But if he reports us, we are dead. The war we started ends with our execution, and Ivan wins. Is one life worth the entire board?”
“You would kill an innocent man for operational security.”
“I would do what is necessary to keep you alive.” His jaw tightens. “Isn't that what you taught me, Alexei? In the Processing Room? Every day.Do what is necessary. Survival is the only metric.”
He is using my own lessons as a weapon against my hesitation. It is a perfect feedback loop.
“Wait,” I say. “Monitor his trajectory. If he stays on the deer tracks, he passes. If he turns toward the cabin...”
“Then I take the shot.”
We watch. The figure moves through the trees, a dark smudge against the white. He stops, kneeling to examine a print. My heart rate accelerates—eighty, ninety, one hundred. Nikolai’s finger is on the trigger guard of the SVD. He isn't shaking.
The hunter stands. He looks toward the cabin. I see the flash of binoculars.
Then, he turns east. He follows the slope away from us, disappearing into the thick pine forest.
“Close,” Nikolai whispers, his breath hitching.
“Yes.”
The scanner crackles, a new signal cutting through the room. It isn't encrypted. It isn't a burst. It is a wide-spectrum broadcast, designed to be heard by anyone with a receiver.
Nikolai adjusts the dial, clearing the hiss.
A voice emerges—formal, rapid-fire Russian.
“...unprecedented violence in the Moscow Oblast. Federal authorities have confirmed thirty-seven dead in what is being characterized as a coordinated assault on organized crime infrastructure. Explosions have been reported in the Presnensky District and Lyubertsy. A state of emergency has been declared...”
The war has gone public.
“...International sources suggest the violence is linked to the leak of Petrenko financial records. Swiss prosecutors have confirmed they are freezing billions in assets. The Russian underworld is in a state of collapse...”
“They’re going scorched earth,” Nikolai says, his voice barely audible over the static. “They’re burning the evidence because they know the state is coming for them. They’re killing everyone who knows where the money is.”
He’s right. When the hammer of the state descends, the only response for men like Viktor and Ivan is to destroy the map.
“Our window is closed,” I say. “The mountain routes will be saturated with fleeing assets and government patrols within twenty-four hours. We move at dawn.”
“Can you travel?”
I look at the blood on my shirt, then at the steady hands of the man beside me.
