the small shed.
The young Libyan soldier had never before seen a snowmobile.
The bullet-shaped vehicle crashed back to the ground a few feet in front of him, and he dove to the side, rolling in the snow and slamming his back hard into a fallen stump. He looked up in time to see a human form on the back of the vehicle, leaning forward with a mask on his face and a large pack on his back. The image in his night vision goggles was a blur, and the blur was gone in a single second.
The Libyan scrambled for his submachine gun, but he’d lost it in the fallen needles and accumulating snow. By the time he’d gripped his weapon and lifted it to his face, the black shadow was disappearing over a tiny rise, tearing through snow and shrubbery and small saplings and flinging everything in its path to the left and right of its skids.
“Five! Report!” came One’s scream through the earpiece.
“He’s here! He’s back here! He’s heading up the mountain!”
“Shoot him!”
Five began running up the hill. “Come help me! He’s on a motorcycle with skis!”
The Gray Man knew he had to turn the snowmobile around and go right back down past the hit squad. The forest ended abruptly at a huge rocky wall on the top of the hill. He could perhaps find a place to hide in the woods for a while, but he knew all of Guarda was awake and calling the local constabulary a few kilometers away in Chur. It would take them a while to get there and most of an hour to get a real force in all the way from Davos, but Court had no intention of waiting around for minutes, much less hours.
“Shit!” he screamed into the icy air. He’d already left one of the two packs of gear behind. He could not fit it through the three-foot-long upward-sloping, dirt-walled tunnel from the dirt basement to the toolshed where he kept the snowmobile. He’d grabbed a sawed-off twelve-gauge shotgun from the cache to use to blow open the padlock from the inside, and now the powerful weapon rested in front of him between the handlebars of the snowmobile.
He was also furious because he knew there was only one other person alive who knew of the existence of this cache. Donald fucking Fitzroy. Sir Don had offered Court the established cache’s location soon after the Gray Man joined his stable. The venerable English handler had admitted at the time that the availability of the cache was due to the fact that the man who’d erected and used the hidden cabin no longer needed it, as he’d been found dismembered in a shallow grave somewhere just outside of Vladivostok.
Gentry hadn’t worried about the bad omen, and he’d accepted the gift of the shed from Fitzroy. He liked the central location, the seclusion of the village and the valley, and the fact that any approaching vehicle could be heard for hundreds of yards if it was on wheels or for miles if it was under propeller power.
It had been a good cache. It would have remained so, Gentry was certain, had Don Fitzroy not given up its location to the men trying to kill him.
The snowmobile ran out of snow forty seconds after heading up the mountain away from the killers. Gentry turned hard to avoid the granite wall a dozen feet high that ran both left and right. He used his feet and the throttle to turn the machine back around, facing towards the forest and cabin below and then the village beyond. For now, Court was protected by the lip of a hillock. He could not see down to the men with the guns and the bombs, and they could not see up to him. But they were surely at this moment negotiating their way up the icy, unpaved road. He had no idea if there were two men or five or fifteen or fifty. He only caught a brief glimpse of one at the rear of the shack, but he was hardly certain he hadn’t passed more men in the woods and, anyway, the bulk of the action had seemed to be at the front door.
Court considered his options for a moment. He looked around at his predicament and immediately pronounced himself trapped. He could fight a few of them, maybe, but the wide expanse in front of him over which they would surely come was a disadvantage. If they spread across the frozen meadow and approached simultaneously in a wide line, he would not be able to engage targets at his left, right, and center before they could gun him down.
The high ground was supposed to be a tactical advantage but, Gentry saw,
Off to his right there was another way down the hillside. A sheep trail, not more than four feet wide and incredibly steep, dropped more or less in a straight line through the forest towards the meadow on the other side. But the grade was far too sheer for the snowmobile to negotiate.
Even trying it would be suicide.
Now Court heard voices below him. Shouts of men, wild in the frenzy of the hunt.
They were moving up the road to him, closing on his cornered position.
“He’s got nowhere to run!” shouted number One. He didn’t bother with his radio. The noise from the explosion and the gunfire had withered his and his men’s hearing for the rest of the night. He just shouted out to the three men around him jogging up the slippery road. Number Three had been left behind at the cabin. He’d wrapped bandages over his injury, and he was lucid and ambulatory, even if out of the fight.
The four Libyans nearing the crest of the rise above them quickly dropped their magazines from their Skorpions and checked them for sufficient ammo. Professionally they reseated the clips and clicked them back into place. Their night vision goggles covered their eyes. The steady snowfall gave movement to the green view ahead. They slowed as they neared the top, spread quietly across the road without waiting for instructions to do so.
Suddenly the engine noise of the snowmobile screamed again. It revved higher and grew louder and then in front and above the four Libyans a single headlight appeared, glowed like a green specter in their night vision optics as it barreled down towards them.
“Open fire!” screamed number One with a shriek. The four assassins knelt into crouches and poured rounds at the oncoming vehicle. Twenty rounds a second of hollow-point ammunition sprayed from each of the four braying guns. Tracer rounds arced and struck and bounced into the sky like rocket-powered fireflies.
At thirty meters distance the vehicle left the ground. It floated to twenty-five meters and then came down hard, bounced again into the air, and then landed on its side. The light stayed on as the machine slid down the hill past the four Libyans and came to a stop twenty meters behind them.
The engine idled.
Hot gases poured from the motor and hazed the men’s optics.
Number One ran to the snowmobile after reloading his weapon. He slipped on ice and fell to his knees. Number Two passed him as he got back up. A quick scan around the road by all four men confirmed their suspicions.
“He’s not here!”
There was a moment when Court thought he might have been sliding at fifty miles an hour. Everything seemed faster at ground level, of course, and the snow and ice and crunchy bits of stick and grass that flew into his face no doubt added to the perception of speed.
But whatever the actual velocity, Gentry knew he was descending the sheep trail way too fast.
It was hard to part with the second duffel worth of gear, but he’d seen no alternative. He’d dumped the weapons and the grenades and the binoculars up there on the ice. He lashed the sawed-off shotgun to the handlebars to keep them straight and then used a length of cord to tie the throttle open. He watched the machine leap over the ledge and down the road, then he ran as fast as possible across the snow along the shelf, along the granite wall, to where the sheep trail began and led down at nearly twenty degrees through the forest, through the lower meadow, and then to the little village, still dark, still an hour from the first hues of dawn over the mountains to the east.
At a full sprint, Gentry leapt through the air, his injured feet first, holding the big canvas duffel bag behind his
