The Russian thug coming in the back door had not anticipated anyone surviving the initial assault on the house. His complacency cost him as he stepped into the opening and was hit by the blast from Mitchell’s shotgun. Screaming in pain, the man tumbled forward as the pellets tore into his groin and upper legs. The man let go of his rifle as he fell onto the floor, reaching down in agonizing pain for his bloodied legs. In anguish, the man rolled around on the floor, swearing at the top of his lungs in Russian.
“Grab the notes and let’s go,” said Mitchell to Jen as he stood and quickly loaded a couple more shells into the shotgun. “Stay behind me,” said Mitchell firmly. Jen nodded. Behind them, Sandy lay silently on the floor beside her master.
Mitchell looked around quickly at the dead man at the front of the house and the wounded one at the back and instantly decided that their best chance of survival lay in getting as much distance as they could from their attackers. He knew that he had only delayed, not stopped, their assailants. With the shotgun firmly tucked in his hands, Mitchell edged towards the destroyed back door.
Cold air rushed in, cooling Mitchell’s sweating body as he edged forward, carefully peering out into the blowing snow. He was relieved to see that there were no more thugs waiting for them outside, but something told him to be wary. It would be dark soon, but not soon enough.
The wounded thug cursed Mitchell and made a move for a pistol jammed into his chest harness.
Mitchell saw the motion out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he lowered the shotgun butt straight onto the man’s head. With a loud thud, the man was knocked unconscious, his body a bleeding heap on the hardwood floor.
Seeing the wounded thug’s AK lying on the floor, Mitchell bent down and picked it up, checked the magazine to see that it was full, and then handed the shotgun to Jen, who took it but gave Mitchell a look that said she had no clue how to use it.
“Point it at the bad guys and pull the trigger if you have to,” whispered Mitchell, his voice barely loud enough to hear. “We need to get to the garage,” Mitchell said, motioning for Jen to keep close behind him.
Jen nodded; she was scared beyond belief, but trusted Mitchell with her life, so she did as she was told.
“Ok, let’s go!” said Mitchell as they quickly darted into Reid’s musky-smelling and dimly lit garage. There was no heat inside. Mitchell could see his breath and feel the growing cold starting to envelope his sweating body.
Mitchell knew there was only one way out. Running to the closed front door of the garage, he unlocked the door and opened it barely an inch before doubling back and opening the side door on the ice speeder. Quickly ushering Jen inside the aged speeder, Mitchell jumped in and closed the door behind them. The interior was bare except for two old canvas chairs bolted to the floor for the driver and a passenger. Mitchell took a seat behind the controls and looked down at the paint-chipped console, trying to find the ignition.
Jen pointed at a large red button on the driver’s side. “I think that might be it,” she said, crossing her fingers for luck as Mitchell reached down and pushed the button. A split second later, with a loud bang, the engine loudly coughed and sputtered to life.
Quickly looking down, Mitchell was happy to see that there was a gas pedal and a hand brake to control the speed of the craft. Deciding that there was no time to waste, Mitchell smashed his foot hard on the gas and felt the speeder lurch forward. A second later, they hit the garage doors, throwing them open. Blowing snow instantly rushed inside, blinding Mitchell for a moment, but he was not going to hesitate nor slow down. With a sharp turn on the half-moon shaped driver’s wheel, Mitchell turned the speeder away from the house and headed towards the frozen lake, leaving a swirling white cloud of powdered snow in his wake.
Teplov stepped into the doorway of the wrecked cottage; wood and glass crunched under foot. His blood boiled as he stared down at the lifeless body of one of his men. Having not heard from the other attacker, Teplov knew that he was either dead or incapacitated. He shook his head in disgust. How could one man be such a pain in the ass?
Teplov keyed his throat-mic. “Anatoly, Isaak, this is Teplov, I think both Pasha and Petya are down,” said Teplov, his voice unemotional as he reported the news. “Stay alert, I think they got out through the back door,” Teplov added, as he walked through the house to confirm his nagging suspicion about his men. Heading into the kitchen, Teplov saw Petya lying by the back door. He was still breathing, but his legs were a bloody mess. Teplov doubted that he would live much longer from the loss of blood and the onset of shock. Time was against them; he could not spend the time to care for the wounded man, nor could he risk him being taken by the police alive. Lowering his rifle, Teplov fired a bullet into the dying man’s skull, sending him on his way. Finding he could no longer control the anger racing through him, Teplov lashed out with his foot, sending a small coffee table flying against the far wall, shattering it to pieces.
Suddenly, the sound of an engine coming to life in the garage outside caught Teplov’s attention. Edging to the back door, his weapon at the ready, Teplov was stunned to see an old red ice speeder burst out of the garage, picking up speed as it raced off towards the frozen lake. Quickly firing off two shots, he ran forward to get a better view, only to be blinded by a blowing wall of snow thrown up by the escaping speeder’s fan.
Teplov snarled into his mic at his accomplices, “Get back to the car right now, or I’ll leave you for the police!” Seeing the speeder reach the lake, Teplov swore, turned on his heels and then dashed back through the trashed house and out towards their waiting H2 SUV.
“I hope there’s a working heater in this ice box,” said Jen as she rubbed her cold hands together, trying to get some feeling and warmth back in them. Neither Jen nor Mitchell had had the time to grab their warm winter clothing during the attack, so both now sat in the speeder, shivering in the cold. Looking over the control panel, Jen saw a small toggle switch. Reaching over, she flipped up the switch and hoped for the best.
Seconds later, warm air started to blow into the cabin of the speeder. Jen leaned forward and put her hands over the precious vent, letting the heat warm her near-frozen hands.
Mitchell was happy to feel the heat start to warm the cabin. The snow was coming down in thick clumps, making it more difficult by the second to see through the plastic windshield of the speeder. The last thing he wanted to do was smash into a sunken log sticking through the ice or run head-on into an outcropping of rocks. To do so would surely mean serious injury or death inside the old vehicle.
“Any idea where we’re going?” asked Jen as she looked over at Mitchell.
“I think we’re heading south. So, we’re heading in the right direction back towards town,” replied Mitchell optimistically.
Reaching over, Mitchell rubbed the steadily fogging up window with his hand, trying to see outside as he drove the speeder down the lake through the deteriorating winter storm.
“Hopefully, we should be in Palmer in the next five to ten minutes,” said Mitchell as he peered out of the frosty windshield, trying to discern any landmarks that they may have passed earlier, hoping that they might help tell him where they were.
Jen was about to say something, when suddenly through the swirling snow, a dark object appeared directly in front of them. Mitchell thought for a second that it was an abandoned ice fishing hut and was about to steer around it, when the mass started to race towards them. At the last second, Mitchell realized that it was a vehicle.