Don Pendleton - Dark Savior

And the Executioner was used to those.

A heavy-laden branch snapped under Bolan’s feet. One second he was balanced, pausing to wipe his goggles, and then his perch dropped out from under him, its crack sounding as loud as rifle fire.

Sixty feet of empty air yawned underneath him, broken only by the branches that would bruise and break him as he fell. Bolan had one hand on a limb, and he felt his fingers slipping through the slush. His free hand found another one in time, but only just, and dangling there in space, his shoulder sockets burning, Bolan knew he was in trouble.

He would have to find another branch to stand on, then use as his next handhold, which meant moving closer to the pine’s trunk, and inching to his left or right until he found another limb to take his weight.

A bare inch at a time, he worked his way toward the trunk. It was too stout for him to wrap his arms around, but with one hand on the branch overhead and the other hugging the tree, Bolan was hopeful he could extend a leg to the left or right and find another perch before he lost his grip and fell. The pine’s bark, normally as rough as ancient alligator hide, was glazed with ice that made it slicker than a polished fireman’s pole.

It took the better part of ten minutes to pull it off, each minute giving an advantage to his enemies if they were closing in on Holy Trinity. Even if they weren’t—say that the storm had overtaken them in the foothills somewhere and prevented them from getting to the monastery—time still mattered. Bolan had to find the place, wangle a way inside, find Arthur Watson and convince him that he had to finish up the job he’d signed on for.

All that, and then get Watson out alive through snow that might be chest-deep by then, with no flat, open ground to let Grimaldi land, if he could even fly in the blizzard. Did Watson have cold weather gear? The monks, presumably, would stay inside when weather canceled gardening or other chores, huddling by their simple fires or meditating in their Spartan living quarters. Bolan would carry Watson out swaddled in homespun blankets if he had to, but he didn’t like the odds of surviving that scenario.

Bolan’s foot found the branch he had been searching for and he shifted his weight forward, still bracing against the trunk. When he was certain the limb would hold him, he swung his other leg onto it, leaning into the tree for stability. He rested briefly, and when he could feel his arms and hands again, resumed his grueling descent toward whatever awaited him below.

* * *

THE SNOWCAT WAS A Thiokol 601 Trackmaster, designed originally for the U.S. military and adapted over time for various civilian tasks. It was bright orange—or had been, before snow and ice had crusted over it—and reminded Spike O’Connor of a school bus jacked up to accommodate tank treads. The heater worked all right; in fact, he felt a little sweaty, packed in with eleven other guys. The heavy-duty windshield wipers were another story, snow-clotted and leaving more behind than they were clearing on each pass. Not that it mattered in the near-whiteout conditions they were facing.

Denikin handled the driving. Who better to navigate a winter wasteland than a Russian who had done part of his Spetsnaz training in Siberia?

O’Connor left him to it. The other members of his team, clad in all-white uniforms, were from Germany, South Africa, Australia, Israel, Italy, England and the USA, but each possessed that look common to men who had been tested in the fire of battle and proved themselves. Their weapons had been chosen for utility and uniformity. O’Connor and the seven others carried Galil MAR assault rifles, the compact models with folding stocks and eight-inch barrels that still provided the parent rifle’s full firepower, feeding 5.56 mm NATO ammunition from thirty-five-round magazines at seven hundred rounds per minute in full auto mode. Two men packed Benelli M4 Super 90 shotguns, twelve-gauge semiautomatics with collapsible stocks, loading six rounds in the magazine plus one up the spout. Two others, their snipers, carried Accuracy International Arctic Warfare rifles topped with Schmidt & Bender 3-12x50 PM II P telescopic sights. They fed 7.62 mm NATO ammunition from ten-round detachable box magazines, but O’Connor’s marksmen rarely needed second shots to do their job.

As far as handguns went, he’d left it up to each individual, half of them choosing Glocks, most of the rest drawing various SIG Sauer models. The lone exception was their German, Kurt Mueller, who carried a Walther P1 identical in its appearance to the old P38 his forebears might have carried into battle during World War II. Nostalgia, maybe, or brand loyalty to the Fatherland.

O’Connor was frustrated by the snowcat. They were grinding along at ten miles per hour at best through the drifts and high winds, but at least they were still on course, their vehicle’s GPS device providing turn-by-turn navigation to Denikin. There were no cliffs in the immediate vicinity, and even if the Trackmaster veered off the narrow, snowed-in road a bit, its treads would bring them back in line. O’Connor’s major worry now was fallen trees, which could prevent the snowcat from proceeding and leave them on foot, with five miles left to go.

If that happened, so be it. They had a job to do and had been paid half in advance. The snafu in New Mexico had been a setback, but O’Connor wasn’t dwelling on it. If they failed this time, however, then they might as well die trying. Their employers were like elephants, forgetting nothing, and they didn’t know the meaning of forgiveness.

This was do or die at thirty-five below and dropping, arm’s length visibility and winds that forced a strong man to hunch over.

This time we get it right, O’Connor told himself, or we’re not going home.

* * *

WHEN BOLAN’S BOOTS met solid ground he stopped and leaned back against the pine tree’s massive trunk to get his bearings and catch his breath. The air he inhaled through his woven mask was frigid, making his throat burn, while the hairs inside his covered nostrils had a crisp and brittle feel. His arms and legs were strained from the descent, but there was no time to relax, no place to sit or lie down in the snow, which was more than knee deep and was accumulating rapidly.

He had to push on. Forty-odd lives depended on his perseverance, along with the indictment of three parasites who had grown bloated on the blood of innocents.

Before proceeding, Bolan shed his parachute harness, took a lightweight parka from his field pack and slipped into it, then removed a GPS device from one of his jumpsuit’s pockets. Switching it on, he waited for the LED display to orient him in a world of blinding white. The screen told him he was 1.5 miles south-southwest of Holy Trinity.

He spent another moment checking out his hardware: a Steyr AUG assault rifle with white polymer furniture and translucent double-column magazine; a Beretta 93R selective fire machine pistol; six M26 fragmentation grenades; and a Mark I trench knife with a seven-inch blade and a brass knuckle handle. When he’d verified the items were in their proper places, all undamaged, Bolan struck off through the drifts.

Fighting the wind, which was against him, and the snow, which made each step feel as if his feet were mired in tar, he strode toward Holy Trinity. Flakes were settling on his hood and shoulders, clinging to his sleeves and gloves. He’d kept his tinted goggles on, to guard against snow blindness and the biting cold, and he scanned the white landscape incessantly, watching out for movement and for any sign of tracks.

So far he seemed to be alone.

No reason why the hunters should have come this way, of course. In fact, he highly doubted that they would have jumped into the mountains as he had. He figured there had to be a team, as in Las Cruces, when they’d taken the U.S. Marshals down and missed their prize. Multiple jumpers in the storm likely would have been separated, maybe scattered over rugged miles, losing precious time while they regrouped, assuming all of them survived.