Chapter 33

33

May 13, 6:22 P . M . MSK

Severodvinsk, Arkhangelsk Oblast

Elle dozed on her bed, lingering in the shadowlands between slumber and wakefulness. Nightmares haunted any deeper sleep.

A loud boom jerked her up onto an elbow.

"What was that?" she asked blearily.

Tucker stood at the back of their cell, on the tips of his toes, peering out the thin barred window. The view opened into a window well, a space excavated to let a little light flow down here, but it offered only a narrow peek at the sky.

"Thunder," he said. "I think."

She shook free of her thin blanket, patted Marco, her stalwart bedmate, and joined Tucker. Snow, mixed with sleet, fell heavily into the window well. The storm had finally struck. Lightning flashed across the strip of sky—followed by another cracking bang.

"Thundersnow," she corrected. "We see it often in the spring in Saint Petersburg. As if Mother Nature can't make up her mind about the season."

Tucker nodded and drifted back to his cot. Elle stared at the storm for a couple more breaths, then did the same. Before either of them could sit, sharp voices echoed down the hallway, accompanied by a hurried tramp of boots.

Elle backed away, fearing they were coming to drag them out.

Tucker stepped in front of her. Marco, his ears tall and tail stiff, jumped off the bed and joined his partner.

A rush of men swept past the door's small window. She spotted the bowed bulk of Yerik Raz. He was followed by Sychkin, who had shed his robes for street clothes. Others crowded with them, easily a dozen.

A stolid-faced stranger strode at the rear. He wore a furred greatcoat over a crisp navy blue uniform. A matching hat crowned his ashy white hair.

He called forward, half order, half exasperation. "This is unacceptable, Sychkin. I've tolerated it once, and I'll not—"

Sychkin answered without turning or slowing, "Captain Turov, time is urgent. We have only this one moment. And I have the blessing of our patriarch, along with those who listen to him."

The group continued past, packed together by the urgency expressed.

They vanished out of view, but a loud door slammed shut. Quieter voices continued to reach them from out in the hall, likely guards left by that door.

Tucker turned to her. "What was that all about?"

She told him what she had overheard, knowing he wasn't fluent in Russian. "It seems like the base's commander is being hauled into this mess—and he's not happy."

Tucker looked back at the door. "Join the club."

Elle returned to her cot, to wait out whatever was happening. Tucker did the same across from her. Marco hopped next to Elle. With her heart pounding, she doubted she could even manage a light slumber.

Outside, the storm grew worse. Winds howled over the mouth of the window well. Snow pattered, sticking to the glass through the bars, quickly obliterating the view. It made her feel even more trapped.

She pulled the blanket over her shoulders and leaned against the wall. She stared unblinking at the thickening snow.

Then a scream burst from the hallway, sharp enough to be heard through the distant door. Another followed. Muffled angry voices filled in the silences. Then another cry, full of blood and anguish.

Elle could take it no longer. She burst from her cot, crossed to Tucker, and dropped beside him. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Marco came, too.

Huddled together, all they could do was listen to a chorus of agony.

She leaned her face into Tucker, silently pleading.

Make it stop...

6:32 P . M .

Parked at the rear gate of the naval base, Kowalski tried to shrink his frame in the passenger seat of the Berkut's cab. He kept his head down and the woolen balaclava pulled over his face.

Yuri stood at the open door, leaning half out toward a stationed guard.

Snow pelted at them. Winds whipped, threatening to tear the door off the cab. Yuri yelled to be heard. One of the guards inspected his papers, then shone his flashlight into Yuri's eyes.

Yuri cursed at him and swatted at the light. He waved at the double snowmobile, which idled behind their vehicle, then chopped an arm toward the gate, clearly pressing their need to get out of the storm.

Kowalski leaned a cheek to his shoulder. A radio earpiece, translating in real time, allowed him to roughly follow the argument.

The second guard strode around the Berkut, bowing against the wind. He circled to Kowalski's side of the cab.

Uh-oh...

The guard lifted his rifle. "Papers! Credentials!" he yelled in Russian.

Kowalski took a deep breath, hoping he looked Russian enough because he couldn't speak the language if push came to shove.

Then again, pushing and shoving might be the only way past this gate.

Kowalski held up a palm and reached for the handle. He had to put his weight into it to fight the wind. As the door popped open, Kowalski lowered his other arm and secretly forked a set of devil fingers toward their third teammate in the cab, then pointed those same horns toward the guard, who leaned in with an arm outstretched for Kowalski's papers.

As ordered, Kane lunged past Kowalski's chest with a deep growl, snapping at the guard's fingers, then barking savagely. Kowalski pretended to try to restrain the muscular dog and make it look like he was losing.

Startled, the guard fell back, tripped, and crashed onto his ass in the snow.

Yuri hollered, motioning to Kowalski's side of the cab. "See, comrade! We all want out of this damned storm."

The guard on the ground certainly showed no further interest in inspecting Kowalski's papers.

The other man finally scowled, crossed to his open gatehouse, and struck a button inside. The fence, topped by razor wire, ratcheted open on its tracks.

Yuri hopped back in the cab, slammed his door, and glanced to Kowalski with a roll of his eyes. They set off through the gate, followed by the double snowmobile carrying Sid and Monk. Seated behind the Berkut's cab, Vin gave an exaggerated salute good-bye toward the guards, while keeping one hand on the mounted machine gun.

The two vehicles trundled across the snow-swept streets, which were deserted and wind-whipped. They traveled out of sight of the gate and continued a quarter mile farther, then stopped.

Yuri turned to him. "I got you in here. It's up to you to find the others."

Kowalski stared over at Kane. "It's not me that's gotta do that."

Kane keeps his head down, his nose close to the ice and snow. The order burns bright behind his eyes. S CENT M ARCO . S CENT T UCKER . He needs no command to follow this instruction. The same desire fires his blood.

His pack is broken, and he intends to close that circle.

Behind him, heavy footfalls follow. Beyond the tall man, two vehicles track them, nearly lost in the storm. His eyes can barely see them, but his ears stay tuned to their rumble, the crunch of snow under treads.

For now, this is his new pack.

But only for now.

As he continues across the grounds, he recognizes familiar scents from camps like this in the past:

—the bitter bite of burnt oil.

—the reek of smoke and ash.

—the ripe melt of decaying trash.

He strips each away, one after the other.

He even dismisses the fear-sweat that mists through the clothes of the man at the end of his leash.

Only one set of scents matters. It is branded into him, meaning home, brotherhood, a warm bed, and a full belly.

He heads into the wind, drawing deep sniffs, carrying each note to the back of his muzzle, under his eyes, over his tongue.

Then he catches the faintest whiff... a trail through the air that even snow can't crush. He lifts his nose to it, whines against it, and moves along it. His paws pound faster. His claws dig deeper into the frozen hardpack.

He tugs harder on the lead, refusing to slow.

The other shouts behind him. It is not an order, so it's ignored.

Kane is drawn to the source. The scent rises from a steel grate that steams into the air. He rushes to it and sniffs the wet warmth rising from below, then speeds on—toward home, toward blood shared.

The spoor he follows is tainted. He smells the acid of stress, the looseness of bowel. Still, he picks out the musky note that underlies it all. He has sniffed under that tail often enough.

Marco...

He races on—to the next steaming grate, where the scent grows stronger. He barely pauses and hurries on.

To another patch of steel and melting snow.

Then another.

Until he reaches a grate that is so ripe that it fills his senses. He paws at the snow, exposing a frozen dark stain, droplets of that stress. He draws the scent off the steel, too.

He finally stands, stiff-legged with confidence. He stares over at the other, who hulks beside him. He growls, lifting his nose higher.

The other commends him.

Good dog.

It brings no flash of gratitude or contentment.

This other is not Kane's home.

Kowalski radioed Yuri, who trailed in the Berkut, followed by the snowmobile, "Kane's picked up their scent."

Yuri responded. It sounded like a confirmation, but it was hard to tell through the dropouts and static. The heavy snow wasn't the only storm they had to contend with. Higher up, the solar flare continued to pound the magnetosphere.

Still, Kowalski's message was understood.

Yuri pulled up next to him. Vin hopped off the gunner's seat, dropping an assault rifle from his shoulder to his hand. Monk and Sid slid out of the heated seat of their snowmobile. With the two dressed in the Arctic combat gear and of similar builds, it was hard to tell them apart.

Yuri exited the Berkut and joined them. He nodded toward a stone church with a tall steeple. "You think they're in there?"

Monk eyed the place, too. "If they were brought here by Sychkin, it seems likely."

Vin broke out a cigarette and managed to light it despite the wind. He passed it around, pretending they were taking a smoke break. Or maybe the guy simply needed a nicotine fix.

"What's the plan?" Kowalski asked. "Try to find a back door? Sneak in?"

The answer came from none of them.

A scream cut through a lull in the wind, muffled but clear enough.

It rose from the church.

Monk glanced at Kowalski and lifted his rifle, making his point clear.

Kowalski shrugged and did the same.

Looks like we're storming the castle .

7:08 P . M .

At the first blast of gunfire, Captain Turov spun to Sychkin and yanked the man behind him. In his other hand, he drew his sidearm. He barked orders to the two soldiers in the room with them.

A small part of him was relieved for the interruption.

He had little stomach for the agonizing work of Yerik Raz.

Three amputated fingers sat in pools of blood.

An eye hung by a cord from the ruins of a face.

Still, Turov waved to his chief of staff. "Oleg! Get Yerik moving."

One of the soldiers tugged the door open, exposing a firefight in the hallway. He stepped out to join the other men, but a spray of bullets struck him, drove him back into the room. He stumbled and fell, dead before he hit the floor.

The other guardsman knelt to the side and lay down suppressive fire. Shadows down the hall dropped into cells to either side. The only surviving soldier from the hallway used that moment to retreat into the room, taking up a position at the door's other side.

Turov cursed himself for not coming better armed, for his overconfidence in the base's security.

Oleg joined him, gripping a pistol. "Comms are down due to the flare."

He nodded. The radios had been compromised for most of the day. They could expect no rescue. He doubted even the gunshots, muffled by the thick foundations of the church, carried very far through the snowstorm.

"Can't stay holed up in here," Turov noted.

The door into the interrogation room could only be locked on the outside, by dropping a bar across it. Like all the cells.

"Looks like they've got both ends of the hall covered," Oleg said.

"But there are steps that lead up to the nave. Not far away. We'll have more options up top."

The stairs into the church were three meters down the hall to the right.

"On my mark, we unload on the bastards and make for those steps."

He got confirming nods from the two men at the door.

He turned to Sychkin and Yerik. "Stay behind us. Don't stop moving unless we do."

The archpriest's eyes were round with panic.

Good.

Yerik looked angry, not at the threat outside, but at being interrupted, thwarted from his efforts here.

Turov faced the door, waiting for another volley between their forces to end. As the enemy retreated out of sight, he barked at the soldiers. "Now!"

Both rifles sprayed into the hall, ringing off steel cell doors, sparking off stone walls. Turov headed out, pistol raised, flanked by Oleg. Sychkin and Yerik kept behind them.

They set off in a low run, rushing for the steps up to the nave.

One of the soldier's weapon's emptied out. He discharged the spent magazine and struggled to put in a new one. At the lull, one of the combatants leaned out and unloaded a burst of rounds.

Oleg hissed, skipping a step, tagged in the leg.

Turov shifted over and covered his deputy, returning fire, blasting rounds at the door, forcing the shooter back into hiding. With his free arm, he hooked Oleg around the waist and kept him moving.

The soldier finally managed to reload his rifle and lay down a barrage of cover. It was enough for them to reach the steps. They all clambered up. Once at the top, he held their group at the threshold into the church. Frescoes and gold icons glowed in the darkness, lit by a few candles near the altar.

To his left, the main doors had been left open by the intruders. Snow swirled into the church's antechamber. Winds danced the candle flames.

The nave looked deserted.

Directly ahead, the doors to a sacristy lay on the far side. It was where the priest's vestments were stored. Surely it had to have a lock on the inside. If so, it would offer them a place to barricade and wait out this storm.

That's if it wasn't already locked.

He turned to Sychkin, who occasionally held service here. "Do you have keys to the sacristy?"

The priest patted a pocket and nodded with a look of relief.

Turov pointed toward the far door. "We keep going. Don't stop."

They set off, running as a group.

As they passed the church's entrance, a machine gun strafed inside. Rounds chewed across the floor and tore into the golden altarpieces. Turov caught a glimpse of muzzle flashes through the snow, illuminating the shadowy shape of an Arctic Berkut parked at the curb.

Luckily, their group had been spotted late, and the angle of fire was awkward—or maybe the shooter was merely trying to chase them off.

It worked.

Turov hit the door. Discovering it was already unlocked, he herded everyone into the cramped sacristy. The space was stone-walled with high narrow windows. The door was thick, age-hardened oak.

Oleg threw the deadbolt.

The soldiers shoved a small desk in front of the door, offering further shelter if someone tried to shoot their way inside.

Turov turned to Oleg, whose face was a pale mask of pain. A pant leg was soaked in blood. "Comms?"

"Still down. I'll keep trying. Some message might slip through."

He swung toward Sychkin, who was guarded over by Yerik. He pointed toward the door. "Who the hell are those people?"

7:15 P . M .

Tucker crouched behind a cot. He had overturned it at the outbreak of the gun battle. Elle and Marco sheltered with him. The firefight had died away, but commandos in combat gear barked orders in Russian out in the hallway. White helmets flashed past their cell.

A steel bar scraped, and the door flung open.

A goliath of a soldier barged in. "What're you waiting for? Get moving."

Tucker straightened. "Kowalski?"

Another squattier figure swept up to the threshold. "Got 'em pinned down upstairs. Don't know how long. Can't count on the solar storm keeping everything blanketed. One wrong word gets out, and we're toast."

Monk...

Tucker struggled to understand how they could be here. He helped Elle up and signaled Marco to his side. "How did you find—?"

Kowalski waved and turned. "No time to chitchat. On a tight schedule. Yuri's waiting topside. Kane, too."

Tucker rushed after him with Elle and Marco. In the hallway, another two men in Arctic camo closed behind them, herding them toward the front of the church.

"Wait!" Tucker stopped and barged through the pair behind him.

"Where are you going?" Kowalski huffed but followed him.

Tucker raced down the passageway to an open door. He had to step over bodies, soldiers trapped by the ambush, caught in a crossfire. He pushed into the room. Inside, a steel hearth heated the space. It felt stiflingly hot after the cold cell.

A body was strapped to a chair by leather restraints.

Tucker's ears still rang with the screams of the tortured.

Blood pooled beneath the seat. The air smelled of burned flesh and loosed bowels. Severed fingers lay on the floor. Worst of all, as the man's chin rested against his collarbone, the globe of an eye hung by a cord from its socket.

Tucker rushed up to the stricken man. "Father Bailey."

Elle gasped behind him, having followed him into the room.

Monk, too. "Out of the way," he yelled as he closed the distance. "Kowalski, cut him loose."

Kowalski yanked a dagger from a sheath, while Monk dropped to a knee.

He checked for a neck pulse. "He's alive. In shock."

As Monk quickly bandaged the damaged hands, the priest stirred. He lifted the ruins of his face and stared with his one eye. His features were sunken with despair and agony.

"I... I couldn't stop..." he moaned through cracked lips, his voice hoarse from screaming. He searched around him, as if seeking absolution. "I told them... I told them where Gray and the others went."