The snow was not cover. It was a shroud. One moment, the ridge was a uniform expanse of wind-scoured white. The next, it gave birth to ghosts. They rose from the dusk, their winter camouflage perfect, their movements economical. There were ten of them. Maybe twelve. Directorate Hunters. Volkov’s personal hounds. They had been waiting. The ambush was perfect.
The first volley of shots was not a ragged burst of panic. It was a single, coordinated crack of sound that tore the air apart. Bullets hammered the rocks where Sineus and his team had taken cover, chipping stone and ice. They were pinned instantly. Outmaneuvered. The tactical situation was not difficult. It was hopeless.
— Down! — Kulagin roared, his voice a gravelly counterpoint to the sharp hiss of incoming fire.
Sineus was already flat against the frozen ground, his cheek pressed to the cold stock of his rifle. He returned fire, a useless gesture. The hunters were dug in, their positions chosen with a surveyor’s precision. They were not attacking. They were executing. He saw Zoya try to shift to a better firing position. A single shot kicked up snow near her leg, and she cried out, a sharp intake of breath. She slumped back behind her rock, a dark stain spreading on her trousers.
Sokolov was a useless dead weight, huddled behind a boulder, his face a mask of pure terror. He had not fired his weapon. He would not. The man was a creature of intellect, and this was a problem of pure, brutal physics.
A figure detached itself from the others, moving with an unnerving calm. Taller than the rest. The hunter commander. He raised his rifle, the scope a single dark eye in the falling snow. The eye found Sineus. There was no doubt. The commander was not suppressing. He was aiming. The world narrowed to the space between them.
The vision from the cistern slammed into Sineus’s mind. Not a shimmering echo this time, but a cold, hard certainty. The bullet was already in the air. He saw Kulagin moving. He felt the shove.
Sergeant Major Boris Kulagin hit him like a freight train, knocking him from the hunter’s line of sight. The rifle cracked. The bullet that was meant for Sineus took Kulagin high in the chest, spinning him around. He fell into the snow with a heavy, final sound. A puppet with its strings cut.
The firefight stopped. A sudden, absolute silence descended on the ridge, broken only by the wind. The hunters did not press their advantage. They simply held their positions.
Sineus crawled to Kulagin. The hole in the sergeant’s greatcoat was small and dark. The snow beneath him was turning a deep, impossible crimson. Kulagin’s breath was a wet, ragged sound. His eyes, clouded with pain, found Sineus’s.
— The hard right… — he gasped, the words a bloody whisper.
His hand, clumsy and weak, fumbled at his own neck. He pulled the battered brass locket free. He pressed it into Sineus’s hand, his fingers surprisingly strong for a final, desperate moment. Then the strength was gone. The light in his eyes went out. Boris Kulagin was dead.
The hunters advanced. They moved without a sound, their white forms materializing from the dusk. They ignored Sineus. He was no longer the target. He was irrelevant. Two of them seized the stunned Sokolov, hauling him to his feet. Another pair grabbed the wounded Zoya, pulling her roughly from behind her cover. She did not fight. She could not.
Sineus lay in the snow, the cold seeping into him. He watched them take his team. He watched them take the mission. He watched them take everything. He did nothing. There was nothing to do. He was a commander with no one to command. A soldier with no war left to fight.
Then the sound started.
It was not the wind. It was a low, resonant hum that came from the valley below. From Kavkaz-4. It was a sound that did not belong in the natural world. It was the sound of a machine waking up. The Oscillator. The doomsday clock had started ticking.
He was alone on the mountain. The hunters were gone, taking the living and leaving the dead. The snow was falling faster now, beginning to cover Kulagin’s still form. Sineus uncurled his fingers. The sergeant’s locket was warm against his cold skin. He looked at his own reflection in the dented, polished brass. He saw a face fractured by the curve of the metal. A broken, hollow-eyed man. The face of defeat.
The wind carried the scent of ozone and cold stone. The snow fell, silent and indifferent.
