I trudge to the back of the truck, unlock the hard cover, and reach for the bag I hoped to never need. I unzip the duffel and start pulling out winter gear. Parka rated to negative forty. Insulated pants. Mountaineering boots with aggressive tread. Gaiters. Gloves with both a liner and a shell. Balaclava. Goggles. Headlamp with spare batteries. Emergency bivvy. Water. High-calorie food bars. Fire-starting kit. First aid.
I strip off the ruined suit jacket, shivering in the cold wind, and tug on the layers.
Once that’s done, the pack and the remainder of my gear go on my back, where I distribute the weight properly across my hips and shoulders. Heavy, but manageable. I’ve humped more significant loads through worse conditions.
My gun goes in a chest holster, accessible yet protected from the elements.
The storm worsens, the snow falling so thick that I can barely see the tree line twenty yards off the road. The temperature must be in the teens, feeling even harsher with the windchill. This kind of chill kills unprepared people in hours.
Good thing I’m not unprepared.
I scan the landscape. Cliff faces flank both sides of the road, slopes disappearing into cloud and snow. Even the evergreens bend and groan under the accumulation. If they start to snap or dump hundreds of pounds of snow on me while I’m wading through them, I’m screwed.
Because I have no reason to follow the road. Not anymore.
I’ve already identified the ridgeline to the northeast.
On the drive up, I clocked three peaks in a distinctive formation, the middle one slightly lower than the neighboring summits.
I’d recognize them anywhere. After Roman watched the video Nika sent us weeks ago, he never wanted to see it again, and I couldn’t really blame him. Hearing his daughter say suchwords had to break his heart, especially since the last time he had heard her speak to him was as a loving young child.
And now she’s a twisted, demented psychopath determined to destroy everything he deems precious.
So I sent the clip to our IT whiz, Emil, who found metadata with GPS coordinates in the file. I scoured a satellite view of the location and clocked those three mountaintops located in the Cascade Range, about forty miles northeast of Seattle.
We did our homework and discovered Nika filmed the video at her home base.
So I brought the gear and came ready to slog through snow-packed mountains and valleys. Now I just need to do some basic orienteering.
She might believe she’s won. That the distance, terrain, and winter storm will protect her. But she doesn’t know me.
I’m not a man who gives up or retreats.
I’m the cold heart at the center of the Kozlov empire, the violence that enables everything else. I’m the thing Roman points at problems that need to disappear.
And right now, I’m pointed at her.
Chapter 13
Nika
The underbrush-hidden driveway materializes out of the white like salvation.
It’s more the shape of the road than the opening on the edge that lets me know where I am. I can barely see through the windshield, the wipers fighting against snow that’s measured in inches per hour.
The chains clack and twist beneath me as I slip and slide down the last single-lane gravel switchback. The brakes strain, and everything clanks with resistance.
Finally, I’m here.
My stiff fingers grapple for the garage door opener. The metal lumbers up, shaking the windthrown snow loose.
I pull in, park, and kill the engine.
After hours of shrieking wind, rattling chains, and the constant white noise of fear in my head, the sudden silence almost shocks me.
I honestly can’t believe I made it.
The realization should bring relief, or at least triumph. I’ve completed my lifelong mission and returned home unharmed.
