pushing himself too hard. He knew that. But if he didn’t make it to that village, if he got caught by a Wagner snowmobile or helicopter patrol, he’d never breathe free air again. He had to push it as hard as he could.
In addition to extra food, Christina had put medical supplies and clothing in his rucksack. Mercifully, she had also affixed a water bladder to it. Given how close the enemy was there could be no stopping to melt snow into water.
The temperature tonight felt worse than anything he had experienced since the crash. Christina, however, had assured him he could make it. He was wearing her husband’s winter gear and was insulated from head to toe. Even his eyes were protected by a set of goggles.
The pace he was keeping, though, had him sweating. He could feel the rivulets of salty perspiration rolling down his face and down his back.
Whenever his mind suggested that he stop, if only for a moment to catch his breath, he redoubled his efforts and pressed forward. Now wasn’t the time. Stopping equaled capture.
Fortunately, he hadn’t heard any helicopters overhead. Perhaps Wagner was convinced that he was holed up in one of the houses in town and had decided to give them a rest. If so, that was a good thing.
Nevertheless, he made sure to stay in the woods and to use the tree cover to full advantage. Wagner likely had access to thermal imagers that could pinpoint him based on his body heat. There was no reason to make things any easier for them than he had to.
Pushing through the deep snow, he slowed only to take quick sips of water and to check his GPS.
From time to time, he had trouble getting a signal, and when that happened, he had no choice but to ski back out toward the edge of the woods where he could get a good view of the night sky and reconnect with the satellites.
But as soon as he had reestablished the signal and had confirmed his heading, he skied back into the trees.
Even with the small course adjustments, the trip felt as if it was taking a lot longer than Christina had said it would. He knew that was just his fatigue talking, though—the unhelpful part of his brain that always spoke up when he was exhausted and wanted to sabotage his progress.
As he had done with his guilt and grief over losing Lara, he slammed an iron door shut on that part of his psyche and pressed on.
Movement and concealment were all that mattered. He needed to get to that village.
When he reached the ten-kilometer mark, he paused for the world’s shortest rest. He was only one-third of the way there.
He believed that if he sat down, even with the help of his poles, he wouldn’t be able to get up. So, he contented himself with leaning against a tree. Almost instantly, his legs began to cramp.
Bending down to massage them, he took his weight off the tree, which released a pile of snow from the boughs high above. Somebody was trying to tell him something. Stopping was a bad idea.
He took a long drink of water, hoping to ease the cramps. After clearing the snow from his pack, and his shotgun, he pushed on again.
To fuel his trek, he allowed himself to tap into an emotion he had been trying to hold at bay—his rage.
He knew behind which door it hid and he didn’t just crack it, he kicked it wide open. Instantly, it crashed into his bloodstream like liquid lava, taking him over.
It was the darkest energy from the darkest part of his soul. More addictive than any drug, more powerful than any other emotion, rage lay beyond reason, beyond any sense of right or wrong. Rage was primal. And though he had been taught to never let it take control, he gave himself over to it, fully.
He saw everything from the cottage in New Hampshire unfold once more in his mind’s eye. He saw the brutal executions and the lives leaving the bodies of the people he loved. He saw the men responsible. He saw his own role—unable to stop any of it—and pure, toxic hate rose within him once more.
His mind shifted to the Spetsnaz soldiers at the crash site—those who had already been dead and those he had killed. He saw himself taking their scalps and stringing them along a piece of wire—his small and unsatisfying act of revenge. Carving