brown camouflage pattern to eliminate the glossy shine that had burnished through the original finish by years of rough use. After spending the preceding weeks with the iconic weapon, he had become interested in its origin and often wondered about the stories it could tell. Its stamped steel receiver differentiated it from a true AK-47, though that name would forever be associated with Kalashnikov’s deadly design. He saw the arrow-in-triangle proof mark of the Izhevsk Armory, the small-arms factory turned “machine building plant” that had armed Russia’s fighting men and women with everything from muskets to machine guns since the early nineteenth century. Behind the arsenal mark was the year the rifle was built: 1975. Vitya was younger than his weapon.
The name “RICARDO” had been carved into the wooden buttstock by one of its previous users, trench art from the latter days of a Cold War battlefield now relegated to the pages of history. Ricardo was probably a Sandinista, given the weapon’s Central American pedigree, but due to the widespread distribution of Russian weapons, Vitya couldn’t be sure.
Was Ricardo waiting to ambush a group of CIA-backed Contras when boredom took over and he decided to carve his name into his weapon? Had Ricardo survived?
Vitya would never know.
CHAPTER 31
Kumba Ranch, Flathead Valley, Montana
REECE AWOKE EARLY, HIS body unaccustomed to the warmth of someone else in his bed. He didn’t move, not wanting to disturb Katie’s sleep as she lay on her side next to him. She looked peaceful, her face content, the rhythmic rising and falling of her bare shoulder the only movement. He watched her for an eternity in the semidarkness, taking in every detail. A tiny gold cross hung askew around her neck on a wire-thin chain. Reece felt a sense of harmony that he hadn’t known since his family was taken from him.
As the sun shone through the crack in the bedroom’s heavy curtain, she stirred, her hand sliding across the cotton sheet until it found the musculature of his bare chest. She opened her eyes and smiled at him, sliding her leg toward his own and pulling herself into his embrace.
“Good morning,” she purred.
Afterward, they lay side by side, Katie running her fingers over Reece’s lean chest and stomach, tracing the outline of each muscle with her fingers.
“How did you manage to spend almost twenty years in the military and walk away without a tattoo?”
“That was probably my greatest accomplishment.” Reece smiled.
“Ha! Let’s eat. I’m starving.”
* * *
After bringing in split logs and stoking the coals in the stone fireplace to take off the morning chill, they ate a breakfast of scrambled eggs and fruit, before packing a lunch and heading for the mountain. Reece led the lakeside hike uphill to one of the small tributaries that fed the larger body of water. They fished each pool in the rocky creek from below, out of the trout’s line of sight, working their way uphill as they went. Katie looked like she’d been born with a fly rod in her hand, the sunlight filtering through the trees and catching the long leader as it S-curved its way through the air before settling onto the water’s surface.
They pushed off their waders and ate their lunch in a sunny meadow, taking in the midday warmth as they drank 75 Wine Co sauvignon blanc from enameled metal cups. They made love under the cloudless sky before dozing on the blanket Reece had spread out on the hillside. Katie caught the first trout of the day that afternoon, a beautiful rainbow that she held up for a photo before they put it on ice in the soft-sided Yeti cooler that had carried their lunch. She caught two more fish to Reece’s one as the day progressed, which led to an amusing discussion of his angling abilities.
That evening, Reece drove her to one of his favorite spots on the ranch, a high vista where they sat on his tailgate drinking local microbrews as the elk herds grazed into the grassy valley below. Katie slipped on Reece’s jacket as the sun fell beneath the next ridge. In the coming weeks, the bulls would begin to rut, filling the mountain air with the enchanting sound of their bugles. The young bulls were already acting the part, posturing and chasing one another halfheartedly as the mature males watched patiently from the timber.
Back at the cabin, Reece pan-fried the breaded trout filets while Katie stood at the stove beside him, preparing a dish of brussels sprouts mixed