Despite her age, which she would not disclose, she was fit and energetic. She moved with efficiency and assuredness, tidying up the cabin and putting on a stew of potatoes, carrots, and meat from the reindeer she had shot and butchered.
She entered the cabin with fresh firewood, blowing on her hands to warm them. “Going to be another cold night.”
Feeling a little tipsy from all the vodka, Rook flashed her a lopsided grin and, still speaking Russian, said, “I bet I can find a way to keep you warm.”
She paused and looked at him. Her face serious and crossed with wrinkles from years of hard work. A smile spread on her face, revealing a mouth with several teeth missing. She laughed hard and sat down by the fire. “I’m more woman than you could handle, boy.”
Rook chuckled. “A real Russian bear, eh?”
Galya pulled a stool, which was nothing more than a chunk of a tree, over to the fireplace and sat down. She stretched her hands out, warming them. She grew solemn. “There was a time, when this cabin wasn’t occupied by myself alone, that that might have been true. But this bear is beyond her wild years. Now I’m just trying to live.” She looked at Rook, forcing a grin. “Not that you can really call this living. It’s closer to surviving.”
“You don’t like it here?”
“This is my home. It has been for twenty years.” She returned her gaze to the fire. “But it has been tainted since Kolya’s death two years ago. In the time since, I have kept up my duties and taken on his, simply waiting for death to rejoin us. Unfortunately for me, my mother and grandmother each lived to nearly one hundred.”
“That gives you what, another fifty years left to live?” Rook said.
She gave him a wry smile. “Still trying to get me in bed?”
Rook laughed and then winced. Even a subtle flexing of his stomach sent waves of pain through his body.
Seeing his pain, Galya stood. “We best get you back into bed.” She offered her hand to Rook and helped him stand.
Towering more than a foot over the old woman, Rook looked down at her with a wide grin. “I knew you couldn’t resist getting me in your bed.”
She swatted his chest. “Do you ever stop?”
“Not with people I like,” Rook said, though he knew the truth was far more complicated. The good company, humor, and alcohol were dulling more than just a physical pain. The memories of his teammates’ deaths were still fresh in his mind and he hoped to forget them, if only for a night.
With one arm around Rook’s back she helped him toward the bedroom. But before they reached the door, she paused. Rook noticed her attention turn swiftly toward the front windows. “Someone’s here,” she said.
The rumble of an engine grew louder and slowed with a squeak of brakes.
Adrenaline spiked inside Rook. They were here for him. “I’ll go out the back window.”
“You think it’s the men who shot you?” she asked.
“Do you get any visitors out here? Ever?”
Her frown answered the question. No.
Leaving Rook by the bedroom door, she moved to the front window and peeked out. Two men in camouflage uniforms stepped out of a black SUV. At first glance they appeared to be the very hunters Rook had spoken of, but the weapons they held—AK-74M assault rifles—identified them as Russian military. She swung around toward Rook. “You were shot by the military?”
Rook wasn’t sure if Galya would turn him in, but there was no sense in lying to her. “Yes.”
“Will they kill you now?”
Rook reached behind his back and drew his handgun. “They’ll try.”
Galya froze as indecision gripped her. The two men outside approached the cabin, weapons raised. “Don’t leave the cabin,” she told him, then reached for her rifle.
“Wait, what are you—”
“Stanislav, I’m tired of waiting.” She approached the door and stopped. Rook winced as he tried to cross the room to her. But the pain was too great. “I have a brother, Maksim Dashkov. He’s on the northern coast, in Severodvinsk. He can get you out of the country.”
Rook’s concern over Galya’s intentions diminished as it appeared she intended for him to flee out the back, as he had suggested. “You’re sure he’ll help?”
“Tell him it was my dying wish.”
As the statement sunk in, Galya opened the door, stepped outside with a friendly greeting, then raised her rifle and fired. Rook saw a puff of pink outside the window as the single shot found its mark in one of the soldier’s heads. But Galya never got off another shot. The second soldier unleashed a barrage. Many of his rounds missed and tore into the cabin, forcing Rook to duck. But five found Galya’s body. As she fell, her rifle dropped inside the cabin.
The remaining soldier, unaware of Rook’s presence, approached Galya’s body. He kept his weapon aimed at her, pushing her body with his foot. She was clearly dead, but the soldier, angered by the death of his comrade, raised his rifle and took aim at Galya’s head.
“Hey, buddy,” Rook said.
The soldier whipped toward Rook, but didn’t get a chance to fire. Rook pulled the trigger of Galya’s rifle and shot the man in the chest. He dropped his weapon and fell to his knees. He looked at Rook with a mixture of surprise and loathing before tipping forward and crashing to the pine needle–laden ground.
Rook checked Galya for signs of life despite knowing he’d find none. He placed her rifle back in her hand, closed her eyes, and kissed her cheek. “You were a bear. Thanks.”
He hated doing what followed, but Galya was a survivor. She would understand. He took what supplies he could from the cabin, including a map, a little money, food, matches and candles, and then headed out on foot. The only way his presence could remain undetected was to leave the scene of death as it was, which meant he couldn’t bury Galya’s body. The authorities had to be convinced this was a tragic misunderstanding between two soldiers and an old hermit with a rifle. Otherwise they would be fresh on his trail.
It also meant he couldn’t take the SUV. Feeling a little bit like David Banner at the end of every Incredible Hulk episode, Rook struck out walking. He headed north, toward colder weather and the possibility of freedom. He knew he could call for help and get an expedited route out of the country, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to return to that life. Like Galya, he needed to be alone, to search his soul, and if necessary, find a meaningful way to join the dead he’d sent to Valhalla ahead of him.
SIXTY-THREE
Washington, D.C.
BOUCHER SAT BEHIND a large antique desk, leaning back in a brown leather chair that had conformed to its owner’s thick body over time. As a result, the chair was uncomfortable. It didn’t belong to him.
Nor did the office.
And no one knew he was there. Not the secretary sitting at the desk outside the closed doors. Not a single subordinate at the CIA. Not a single security guard. He was a ghost. But that was easy to do when your security clearance granted you access to most of Washington, including security feeds, keys, and schedules.
He’d waited for fifteen minutes now, but expected company soon. If Marrs stuck to his regular morning schedule, he’d swing through these doors, no doubt feeling light on his feet, in about thirty seconds.
Boucher passed the time by scanning the office and gleaning what he could about the man. There was a painting of Arches National Park. It was decent, but plain. There were photos of family on the desk, all smiling. All posed. A map of Utah hung opposite the painting. Diplomas. Awards. Certificates. An American flag stood behind the chair. Several framed photos with world leaders and former presidents hung between the windows.