He watched him until he was almost out of sight, and then the unidentified man roared back. Casting his eyes from side to side, and when he reached the far side of the plateau, he began the maneuver again. The snowmobile came to a halt just before the far side of the plateau.

  No question, he was searching for threats. Has he seen something he didn’t like? Yes, I’ve found them.

  Krylov pulled up the hood of his white snow camouflage suit and shivered at the intense cold. The wind had come up, and the weather forecast, a prediction of light winds and moderate snowfalls, was clearly wrong. A storm had sprung up unexpectedly, and from personal experience in the wastes of Siberia, he knew it would be both fierce and bitterly cold. The first big flakes of snow swirled over him, and he tried to shut out the cold while he watched this man. Waited for him to start moving again, and he would follow him. When he reached his destination, the target would be there.

  Keeping his eyes fixed on the distant snowmobile, he took out his ruggedized satphone and pressed a speed dial number. The voice answered after ten seconds.

  “Major Sverdlov.”

  “Krylov, Sir. I believe we have them.”

  He went on to describe what he’d seen. His commander grunted with satisfaction. “This is good news. Stay where you are, and when he starts moving, call in, and then follow him. Wherever he goes.”

  “Er, yes, Sir. There’s a storm coming in, gale force winds, heavy snowfalls. What do I do if it gets much worse?”

  “Obey your orders, Captain Krylov. Call me when he moves, and don’t lose him.”

  “Yessir.”

  He ended the call with a curse, tucked away the phone in a waterproof pocket, and continued to watch the target. He was sitting on the snow-covered ground, as if he was using the snowmobile for protection against the howling gale and heavy snowfall.

  Why? Only a madman would stay outside in this weather, unless he has no choice.

  * * *

  Ten miles from the lodge, and the storm was getting worse. Much worse. For the tenth time, he wanted to vent his anger and frustration. The Bombardier Ski-Doo had a reputation as the best on the market. Not this one. The engine had started to misfire a mile back and began to overheat. He had to shut it down before it seized up.

  He’d decided to give it a half hour before he restarted and made for home, sitting on the ground, hunched in the shelter of the stalled vehicle, and getting colder. When he tried to restart the engine, it refused to fire. He gave up after another two minutes cranking and hunched back down in the lee of the machine. Maria Tereshkova would be frantic. He was long overdue, and he took out his satphone to call her. Or would have called her, except it didn’t work. Not surprising, given the blanket of snow that fell, and he settled down to wait. At one time, he could swear he saw a flicker of movement on the distant ridge when a gust tore aside the curtain of snow. Before he could be sure, the snow returned, and whatever it was disappeared, a bear, maybe. Or nothing. It was that kind of a storm, a riot of fury where the landscape was in constant motion. He pushed it to the back of his mind. It had to be nothing.

  The snow came down harder and drifted against the side of the Bombardier. He was helpless, huddled in the leeward side of the machine, waiting and hoping. Hoping the engine would start when the storm abated, and that Maria was okay. Hoping the men trying to kill her didn’t choose this moment to attack.

  Darkness fell, and visibility dropped to less than fifty yards. The temperature was way below freezing, and he shivered in his thermal clothing. Head tucked into the fur-trimmed hood, arms clutched around his body, trying to conserve heat. Aware that if it worsened even more, he was in serious trouble. He’d heard of storms lasting for days, in which case he’d disappear forever. Another small mound in the frozen wastes of Vermont just a few short miles from the Canadian border.

  He felt his body temperature falling, the first sign of hypothermia. Losing heat faster than his body could produce it. If he tried to walk through the lashing storm, he’d be dead before he made a mile. With nothing else to do, he thought about Maria. They’d become close, much more than bodyguard and principal. She’d even hinted he could return to Russia with her.

  “Cris, think about how wonderful it is in my country, the history and the culture, the wonderful city of St Petersburg. The art galleries, opera, and ballet, the Bolshoi.”

  “The only culture you’re likely to find is in the local cemetery. They won’t give up, Maria. You know that.”

  “Unless I became President.”

  “He’d never allow it. Not in a million years.”

  She’d sighed. “It doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.”

  He’d pulled her close to him, hearing the despair in her voice.

  Yes, it does mean you shouldn’t try. They’ve painted a target on your back, and the more you threaten their cozy life of privilege, the harder they’ll try. Sooner or later, they’ll succeed.

  The buzzing noise alerted him. Faint, almost inaudible over the storm, and it came nearer, the engine of a snowmobile. Someone was coming, and he felt a mixture of hope and caution. Hope that help could be about to reach him. Caution, because it could be the enemy. He tucked a frozen hand inside his parka and felt the butt of his gun, a Ruger Super Redhawk .454 Casull. He’d chosen the revolver for its accuracy and reliability, not to mention its manstopping power. If they came to kill her, he needed the means to kill them first. When the heavy bullet hit a target, it went down, and stayed down.

  The noise came nearer, and the rider expertly spun the snowmobile around and stopped next to him. A figure swathed in a heavy parka, thick gloves, boots, ski mask, and goggles. The person gripping the handlebars could have been anyone. The Bombardier was identical to his own, other than the engine that ran sweetly. The head swung toward him as he climbed to his feet.

  “Broken down?”

  He grimaced. “I told you not to leave the house. You’re taking a hell of a chance coming out here. They could have put a bullet in you.”

  She moved her head in a gesture of impatience. “Don’t be a fool. Only an idiot would be out in this storm.”

  “I’m out here.”

  Her stare was deadpan. “Yes, you are. Climb on the back. We’ll go home.”

  “How did you find me?”

  She shrugged. “The emergency beacon on your snowmobile was sending out a signal. It wasn’t difficult to follow.” She shivered and looked around the storm-ravaged plateau, “Although I had to drive the Bombardier almost blind. Next time you break down, choose better weather. Let’s go.”

  She drove fast and well, like she did everything. Too fast for the limited visibility, but she was confident and determined. He tried and failed to relax. There was something in the back of his mind.

  That movement on the ridge, a bear? Maybe. Or maybe not.

  They reached the house he’d borrowed from an old friend when they needed somewhere to shelter. Anonymous, no credit cards, and no paper trail. Jeff March was the descendant of Ukrainian grandparents, and like Rhodes a veteran of the DEA task force. His family name had been Marchenko, and his parents anglicized the surname to March when they arrived in the U.S. He was a wealthy man and a keen hunter, and he’d bought this luxurious, remote lodge as a hunting retreat. Built in a forest clearing close to the Canadian border, just a few miles from the tiny town of Franklin, and perfect for two fugitives to hide out from the relentless attempts to kill Maria Tereshkova. March had left them several days ago, promising to check in during the next few days. In case the generator packed in. Or they ran into trouble.

  He gnawed at the problem as he stood under the hot water beating down on him from the needle shower. The chill was seeping out of his bones, but he couldn’t shake what he’d seen.

  The movement on the far ridge, something or nothing?

  He toweled himself dry and dressed in clean, dry clothes. Glanced at the mirror, and the piercing blue eyes stared back at him. The last few weeks and months had aged him. He was of medium height, still lean, with dirty blonde hair, and he kept himself in shape. But he couldn’t stop the lines of worry. Taking care of Maria was taking its toll. They were out there, and he thought back to the ridge.

  She was standing in the spacious living room, close to the roaring fire. Warming herself after the wild ride through the snow. She looked him up and down, and smiled.

  “You don’t look too bad for a man who almost became a permanent part of the landscape.”

  He wasn’t amused. “Maria, I thought I saw something. We might have a problem. They may have found us.”

  “How? This place is so remote; we’re off the grid. No paper trail, no cellphone calls, and we’ve been using satphones, impossible to intercept. Unless March, your DEA colleague…”

  “No, not Jeff. We go back a long way, and he’s solid.”

  “People do all sorts of things for money.”

  “Not him. He inherited money, and he’s made a whole lot more. Joined DEA because he’s a believer, not for the money.”

  She nodded. “Could they have followed us?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  “If you think that’s best.”

  “I do. We should turn in. It’s been a long day.”

  He walked around the house, checked the locks on the doors, ensuring every window was secure, and arrived in the bedroom. Made sure their weapons were loaded and ready. He’d brought along two M-16s. Hard-hitting and accurate, should they need to shoot their way out of trouble. He checked the Ruger, snapped the cylinder back in place, and tucked it under his pillow where he could snatch it out fast. She entered the bedroom and smiled at the array of weapons.

  “You look like you’re getting ready for a siege.”

  A shrug. “You never know.”

  She undressed slowly, and as ever he eyed her slim, firm body. Seeing her naked never failed to arouse him, and she was aware of the effect her body had on him.

  “You like what you see?”

  “You know damn well I do.”

  “So why are you still dressed?”

  It was a feeling in the back of his brain, nothing more, intuition, sixth sense, hard to tell. But in the past, he’d listened to it, and it rarely let him down. “In a while.”

  She frowned with disappointment as he lay on the bed fully dressed. She lay beside him, and he heard her breathing slow as she began to doze. He couldn’t relax, something felt wrong. He waited. Listening, and there was nothing untoward.

  Maybe he I’m imagining it.

  * * *

  Captain Krylov had followed them through the storm, albeit with difficulty. After the appearance of the second snowmobile, he’d called Sverdlov.

  “Sir, it could be her. It looks to me like his vehicle broke down, and she’s come to pick him up.”

  “You’re sure it’s her?”

  “No, Sir. But it looks like a woman under the ski clothes. Who else could it be?”

  “Yes. You know what to do. They’ll be hiding out somewhere close, so when they stop, call in, and watch them. When we arrive we’ll finish this.”

  “Yessir. If I get a chance for a shot…”

  The reply was immediate. “Take it.”

  He’d followed them. Several times he lost sight of them, but he picked them up by following the grooves made by the snowmobile. The house was hidden deep in the woods, and he looked for a good place to take the shot. The limited visibility meant he had to get close enough to be sure, and the only place was a low mound, about one hundred meters away. An easy shot for the Vintorez, the Vintovka Snayperskaya Spetsialnaya, or Special Sniper Rifle. The weapon had a built-in sound suppressor, although noise wouldn’t be a problem. The wind howled through the trees, and he could fire a machine gun without being overheard.

  He lay on the snow, invisible in the white snow camouflage, the rifle also invisible inside a white sleeve. He waited, and the cold was intense. As the night drew on, it got colder, as bad as his native Siberia. He flexed his limbs to restore circulation. Kept his fingers moving to ensure they were supple when the moment came. It would come soon. He was convinced.

  * * *

  Dawn had just broken, and he stared out through the window. Heavy snow was still falling, making visibility almost zero. He looked up to the sky and saw what looked like a tiny break in the clouds, hurtling toward them. A window in the weather and a chance to see better, he grabbed for the binoculars. As if by magic, the snow eased, and just a few flakes fell. He swept the glasses from side to side, minutely examining every patch of ground. Nothing, just a white shroud that covered the landscape, every tree, every mound, as far as the eye could see. He had little time. The storm would vent its fury again in a few moments, and he hurried to complete the sweep. Still nothing. He made a last sweep, past a prominent hummock about a hundred yards away. And something moved. He focused on the mound, and it happened again.

  Someone’s out there, camouflaged, and hard to detect until they move.

  He had no further doubts and shouted to Maria, “Down, get down. Now!”

  She’d been through enough hostile situations to understand the need to move fast. She flattened on the rug in front of the fireplace.

  “Are they out there?”

  He didn’t look around. “Something is, and it could be them. We’re leaving.”

  “In this weather? We only have the one snowmobile.”

  “We’ll take the SUV and chance the track. Pack what you need, stay below the window, and make sure you have plenty of ammo. We may have to shoot our way out.”

  “You could be wrong.” She hadn’t moved, but still lay on the rug, “This is not the kind of weather we should risk unless you’re certain.”

  “We’re leaving, certain or not. The risk of staying here outweighs everything else, weather included. We knew they’d come, sooner or later.”

  She sighed and slid across the floor into the bedroom. He heard her throwing things into a holdall. Then she was back, pulling on the thermal coat, pants, and boots, stuffing her pockets full of magazines for the weapons. She placed the bag by the door and pulled the rifle down from the rack, one of the two M-16s. They were the full-auto versions, with the kind of firepower and accuracy they’d need if they hit serious trouble. Snapped out the magazine, checked the load, and replaced it. Took out the pistol, a compact Colt ACP .38 ‘pocket hammer’ and replaced it. Shot him a hard look. She wasn’t happy.

  “I’m ready.”

  He put away the glasses and dressed in the heavy thermal coat, pants, and boots. Took the second M-16, and when he’d checked it, took out the big Ruger revolver, and kept it in his hand.

  “We’re going out there now, and I want you to stay close to the house. I think there’s just one, but they could be all around us. I’ll head for the Jeep. When it’s clear, I’ll give you the signal, and you follow. Cover me.”

  She nodded. He took a last look around and sprinted for the vehicle garage. Jeff March’s Jeep Wrangler had oversize wide tires with snow chains fitted, and he had little doubt it would get through, with luck. It would also start first time, without any luck. The five-car garage was kept at a year-round temperature to protect the vehicles from the weather. He reached the side door, knocked snow off the handle, and went inside. The Wrangler was on its own, gleaming red, so it would be like driving a moving target. They had no choice. He climbed inside, and the engine started on the button.

  He left the engine running and climbed out to take a last look outside. The weather was closing in again, and so far he'd seen no further sign of the enemy. He waved to Maria, stepped back inside the garage, and pressed the electric door remote. The roller shutter began to rise, and he raced for the driving seat. Slammed the lever into drive and shot forward almost before the door had risen fully. Floored the gas pedal and surged out into the snow. She was too slow, and he shouted, “Move it.”

  She was wading through the snow with her bag on one shoulder, and the M-16 on the other. He could see her mouth moving as she muttered curses, but she reached the passenger door and started to climb in.

  “I hope you’re right about this. I had plans for tonight. I thought…”

  She didn’t get to tell him what she thought. Three bullets splattered against the bodywork and demonstrated the benefit of wealth. March’s SUV was armored, and the bullets flattened themselves on the steel bodywork without penetrating. With one hand, he grabbed her coat and hauled her the rest of the way into the vehicle. With the other, he gripped the wheel as he floored the gas. The heavy 4x4 skidded, and then the chains bit, and he was driving toward the track that would take them away from this place. Two more bullets hit the rear window, but although they left the glass pockmarked and damaged, none penetrated.

  He swung out of the gates and lost traction for a few seconds, then the chains bit, and he was speeding away from the house. The thick veil of snow made driving more than difficult, especially at speed. It also made shooting from a distance all but impossible, and no more bullets hit the Wrangler.

  * * *

  Krylov cursed. He’d frozen his balls off in the snow, and just when he’d had the chance of a kill, the damned bullets had bounced off the vehicle.

  How was I supposed to know they’d use an armored SUV? Not that it make’s any difference. Major Sverdlov will chew me out for missing the target, unless I can finish the job. How far ahead can they get in this weather on a forest track?

  He was already running back toward the snowmobile, dragging out the satphone. Punched in the speed dial.

  “This is Krylov. The target is moving in a red Jeep Wrangler. One man and one woman on board, and they’re heading northeast. I am following on the snowmobile.”

  The voice was grating and harsh. “What went wrong? You have the Vintorez, how could you have missed?”