Polar bears hunted seals. They could sprint at thirty miles per hour, with bursts of speed even faster. And this angry pack was going downhill.
Through the goggles, Painter watched the bears overtake the snowmobiles. Massive shapes swamped the slower vehicles, unleashing their savage fury against any moving targets in their rampaging path. Painter watched one snow machine go down, then another, toppling and crashing to the side, buried under a mountain of angry muscle.
Screams broke through the slowing gunfire-accompanied by fierce roars that stood Painter's hair on end.
The remaining snowmobiles reached the Hagglund, but they didn't slow. They raced straight past, the riders hunched low. The bears followed, sweeping through the entrenched soldiers on the ground. Some fired at the beasts, but the bears were mere shadows in the snowstorm.
The shots only succeeded in drawing their fury.
Screams and roars rose in volume.
One soldier fled on foot toward the Cat, as if their vehicle might offer him some refuge. He never made it. Out of the storm, a thick paw snagged a leg. The bear continued to run. The limb was ripped from the soldier's body. He flipped high in the air, spraying blood.
Another bear bowled past the Cat, knocking its shoulder into the side as if warning them, an act of intimidation.
It worked.
Painter didn't breathe.
The pack stormed through the valley, scattering men, leaving bloody bodies behind. Then, as quickly as they came, the pack vanished back into the storm like ghosts.
Painter stared. Nothing moved out there now.
Anyone who could flee had done so, striking off in a hundred different directions. Painter had hoped to break the back of the assault force by taking out the Hagglund. It hadn't worked. But even the most seasoned veteran had to be shaken to the core when faced by such a raw display of nature's brutal force.
A new whining grew in volume, coming from upslope.
A pair of snowmobiles blipped into existence in his goggles.
Moments later, they appeared out of the storm. Creed lifted an arm in greeting. The Norwegian driver patted Painter on the shoulder, his gesture clear.
It was over.
2:12 P.M.
Krista climbed through the snow.
She clutched her hood closed against the freezing wind. One sleeve of her parka was burned to a crisp. From the excruciating tug on that side, she knew a few patches had seared down to her skin, fusing cloth and flesh.
She had barely escaped the Hagglund. She had been halfway out a window when the second grenade slammed through the windshield. The blast tossed her end over end and slammed her into a snowbank. Her flaming arm was immediately extinguished.
Knowing they were under attack by an unknown and unexpected force, Krista had crawled, half in shock, over to the Hagglund and hid under it. There she rode out the firefight and the slaughter that followed.
She still trembled at the memory.
She remained hidden when her attackers gathered nearby. She gasped when she spotted her nemesis again. The dark-haired Sigma operative, the one named Painter Crowe. With his face now windburned, she even recognized the hint of his Native American heritage.
How many damned lives does this Indian have?
Staying hidden, she waited for them to leave. One snowmobile headed down toward Longyearbyen, going for help. The others headed back up to the seed vault, to maintain a defensive perimeter against any stray soldiers who might attempt to complete the failed mission.
She had no intention of doing that.
She crossed through the storm to an abandoned snowmobile. The driver's body covered several yards of bloody snow. In agony, she tromped through the carnage and searched the vehicle. The keys were still in place.
Swinging a leg over it, she settled heavily into the seat and twisted the key. The engine grumbled up to a whine as she engaged the throttle.
She leaned low and sped away, heading down the mountain. There was nothing she could do here now.
Except make a promise.
Before this was all over, she would put a bullet through that Indian's skull.
Chapter 25
October 13, 3:38 P.M.
Bardsey Island, Wales
Gray lounged in a steaming tub of hot water.
He kept his eyes closed, struggling to settle his mind. For the better part of an hour he had argued with Owen Bryce, explaining how Rachel had a medical condition that required immediate evacuation. That she needed medicines back at their hotel on the mainland. The only concession he got from the man was that he would reconsider the request in the morning.
It didn't help matters that Rachel still looked okay.
So for now, they were trapped on the island.
At least for a few more hours.
They would wait for nightfall, which at least came early this time of year. Once the islanders were settled in for the night, the plan was to steal that boat. They dared not wait until morning. If Owen still refused, they would lose another day. That could not happen.
So they took the offered rooms. They could use a little downtime. They were all worn thin and needed a moment to rest.
Still, Gray had a hard time relaxing. His mind gnawed and worried on the mysteries and dangers they faced.
Thunder rumbled up into a resounding clap. It rattled the panes of glass in the window above the tub. Candlelight flickered beside the bar of soap. The electricity was still out. Before drawing his bath, he had started a small fire in the bedroom's hearth. Through his closed eyelids, he noted the rosy dance of the flames.
As he sprawled in the tub, a shadow suddenly moved across the glow.
He stiffened, sitting up suddenly, sloshing water over the floor. A figure stood in the doorway, dressed in a robe. He had not heard Rachel enter the room. The thunder had masked her approach.
"Rachel..."
She trembled where she stood, her eyes haunted. She didn't say a word. She shed her robe with no seduction. She simply let it drop and crossed in a rush of steps to the tub. Gray stood and caught her in his arms. She folded against him, needing him. She buried her head against his neck.
He bent at the knees, scooped an arm under her backside, and lifted her up. She was lighter than he remembered, as if hopelessness had hollowed her out. Turning, carrying her, he settled them both into the hot water.
He cradled her in the steaming bath. Her hand slid down his belly, desperate, hurting, her need raw and on the surface. He stopped her and drew her hand back to his chest. He simply held her, waiting for her to stop trembling. They had been running since the fire in the woods, since she had first learned of the betrayal. He should have known better than to leave her alone now as they waited for nightfall.
If his mind had been troubled and unsettled, what must she be going through? Especially alone. He wrapped his arms tightly and squeezed as if by sheer muscle he might keep her safe from harm.
Slowly her trembling wore itself out against his strength.
She sagged into him.
He held her for a long while more-then with a finger, he touched and drew her face up. He stared into her eyes. They shone with her desire to be touched, to feel alive, to know she wasn't alone...and deeper down, almost buried, the embers of old love.
Only then did he bring his lips to hers.
4:02 P.M.
Seichan waited inside her room. She stood with her back against the door and an unlit cigarette in her hand. A few minutes ago she had heard Rachel's door creak ajar, heard her footsteps pass down the hall, then Gray's bedroom door open.
Seichan listened with her eyes closed.
The door never reopened.
As she maintained her vigil, she fought against the welling mix of anger and jealousy, along with an ache she could not dismiss. It clutched her lungs and made it hard to breathe. Leaning against the door, she slowly sank to the floor and hugged her knees.