Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

'Good' grunted Lomax.

'You go.' Sean nodded towards the hotel. 'They don't know you.'

Lomax stepped out and opened a large umbrella, lowering it to cover his face. At that moment, Desny burst out of the hotel, barging into Lomax on the way. Lomax turned and walked back briskly.

The Russian's car took off in a hurry — tyres squealing and burning rubber on the asphalt road. Sean had moved to the driver’s position and made an urgent 180 degree turn, slowing briefly to let Lomax into the passenger seat. He allowed the Russian to gain a lead, then followed at speed.

At thirteen, Alexei Khostov became an agnostic. He was being bullied at school and wanted to show his tormentors that he could be just as disapproving and sceptical as they appeared to be. For a while the scheme worked and Alexei got out of the habit of attending church. He had never entered one since then.

Now he stood facing the Notre Dame de la Dormition, the Russian Orthodox Church of Sainte-Genevieve Des Bois. Khostov marvelled at its beauty, an elegant white facade topped with a blue onion-dome on the roof.

He had come straight from the hotel, wanting to visit the place where so many of his countrymen and women were buried. Perhaps part of him craved sanctuary, but the safety it offered was illusory. Even so, the church seemed to beckon to him. He passed under an ornate portal and walked along the short path towards the entrance. There he admired the painting of the sleeping Mary before mounting the steps to a large arched doorway.

At that moment he heard the roar of an engine. A car, driven at high speed, executed a ninety degree turn. Two men got out and raced up to the gateway. One stopped and withdrew a gun, taking quick aim at Khostov. Khostov crouched and heard a bang. The slug bit into a wooden post behind him. Regaining his wits, he quickly pulled on the huge oaken door and ducked inside.

When Sean saw the Russian car in front accelerate rapidly, he knew they had almost reached their destination. No point in hanging back any longer, he thought, and pressed the accelerator all the way to the floor. Up ahead he saw an archway to a Russian Orthodox church. Two members of the Russian gang were already running along the path to the front door.

Sean quickly sized up the width of the gateway, changed down a gear and pushed the revs into the red. Lomax pulled his seat belt tighter and yanked out a handgun from an inside pocket. Both wing mirrors snapped off as they lunged through the gap, followed by a short metallic tearing sound. Two seconds later they reached the steps.

The first man turned, a horrified expression on his face. In the last fraction of a second he jumped to one side. The second Russian was not as lucky, and the bonnet caught him behind the legs. As the car mounted the steps, the man was lifted up and crushed against the huge oak door of the church.

Lomax and Sean exited fast. Sean signalled to Lomax to follow Khostov, indicating he would go after the second man.

The tall pine trees which surrounded the church cast dark shadows. Wherever Sean placed his feet the subdued crackle of the dry forest litter gave his position away. He stopped and listened, hearing the rain falling through the branches and the distant sound of traffic. Something told him Petrov wasn't going to give up easily.

He recalled some information he had read years ago in a tourist brochure. The graveyard held many famous Russians: writers, painters, and even a Nobel peace prize winner. He remembered a picture of Putin making a visit to pay his respects to the fallen children of mother Russia. A thought flashed through his mind. How ironic would it be to die amongst all the great and good of Russia, while hunting down one of its sons.

Sean scanned the environment. The cemetery was big and had a number of large headstones. Between the graves mature trees gave his opponent plenty of concealment. He moved back to the church, careful to make no noise on the concrete path. Beyond a low wall he saw the tops of some gravestones. He stretched out on the path and slowly crawled to the boundary. Once at the wall, he sat with his back to it and checked the surroundings again. The situation was uncomfortably similar to the approach he had taken at the farm where Finch had fallen. Immediately he checked the thumb of his left hand. It was still, but the right hand which held the gun was visibly shaking.

There was no sound from the person he was hunting; Petrov was talented. At some point in his career Sean knew he would meet someone better than himself. With his shaky gun-hand, today might be the day.

He edged higher to peek over the wall. Immediately splinters from the brickwork pierced his cheek. He ducked back into cover; his adversary was closer than he realised and was an excellent marksman. He touched his face, seeing blood on his hand. A strange emotion stole into his mind. Not fear exactly, but a premonition. This mission would take something from him, possibly even his life. Once more he forced himself to put the thought away and concentrate on the reality being acted out now. He stayed low and followed the wall in the direction of the gunshot.

Once underneath a large pine, Sean decided to cross under the shelter of its spreading branches. He held the coping with both hands, jumping so his whole body remained close and parallel to the edge. He landed heavily in deep shadows cast by the tree. The rain had stopped, and the sun shone on the white marble of the gravestones. A road divided the first plot of graves, and others bisected the plots beyond. Time slowed. Sean noticed a gecko climbing a nearby gravestone, seeking warmth. A flick of blue appeared in his peripheral vision. His eyes focused on a grave thirty metres from him. He lifted the gun and took aim.

A figure dashed away left, too fast for Sean to get off a shot. He scrambled to his feet, and set off running. In order to keep Petrov in sight he had to follow the track at right angles, catching the odd glimpse of him between the rows. By the time he reached the end Petrov had disappeared. As he dropped to the ground to take refuge behind a headstone, he heard the thud of a round striking the marble, just where his head had been. Sean revised his view of Petrov — he was exceptionally skilled.

Sean examined the surroundings. Rows of gravestones marched away on either side of the roadway for a hundred metres or more. Outside the perimeter stood a wood. If the Russian got that far it would need dogs to track him through the densely planted shrubs. At that point he could let him go — he wouldn't hinder Sean's main objective to get to Khostov.

He calculated the distances. To prevent Petrov's escape Sean would need to position himself between him and the border. He put his gun away and crouched under the headstone, both hands on the ground, legs tensed behind him as if about to begin a hundred metre sprint.

Suddenly he pushed off, tearing down the roadway, hoping the intervening headstones would protect him from Petrov's gun. Pebbles under his shoes flew into the air as he gained traction. He eyed a particular headstone. When he reached there he intended to change direction and turn left towards the boundary. This was critical because he would have to slow to round the corner, and his trajectory would take him across the gunman's sight lines.

Sean heard a shot and fell heavily on the path.

Lomax pushed the heavy oak door and entered the church. He stepped to one side, not wishing to be highlighted in the doorway. He waited quietly, eyes adapting to the dim light, taking in the smell of polished wood and a faint trace of incense.

The church was laid out in a simple style. A row of pews sat each side of an aisle which lead to a plain wooden altar. Statues lined the walls and several religious paintings hung in between.