Jesus, the Russian was fast, Flynn realized desperately, rolling away from a lightning-quick thrust that flickered right past his face. Backpedaling now, he narrowly blocked a second strike, but only at the cost of a ragged gash across the outside of his left forearm. He clenched his teeth hard against a sudden flare of white-hot pain from the wound.

Frantically, he thrust back at Takirak. Almost contemptuously, the enemy agent parried his strike. Then he hammered his fist into the inside of Flynn’s right wrist—briefly paralyzing the nerves there.

Horrified, Flynn saw his blade fall out of his numbed fingers. Inside, he knew the advantage was shifting irreversibly to his enemy. So get off your ass and fight, he growled silently to himself.

Or die.

Furious now, he lowered his head and charged. Ignoring a knife slash that glanced off his helmet, he body-slammed the Russian, driving him back against a boulder with enormous force. He heard Takirak cry out in sudden agony. They both went down again, but this time Flynn ended up on top.

Quickly, he pinned the other man’s knife hand with his left knee. Grim-faced now, Takirak heaved up against him. Flynn bore down. His fingers closed on a piece of broken rock and he smashed it across the Russian’s face. He heard bone crunch. Spatters of blood flew across the trampled snow.

Takirak’s eyes glinted fiercely above the red mask of his stone-shattered face. Again, ferociously, he heaved up with frightening strength. This time, Flynn couldn’t keep his hold. He was hurled away from the other man, and fell sprawling on his back.

Furiously muttering obscenities through his ruined mouth, Takirak rolled back upright with terrifying speed. He dove toward Flynn, who desperately scrabbled through the snow beside him. His hand closed on his combat knife. Blindly, he stabbed upward with everything he had . . . and buried the blade in the Russian’s throat, all the way to the hilt. A bright scarlet fountain of blood, steaming in the freezing air, sprayed across Flynn’s face. Above him, Takirak arched backward, clawing at the knife handle protruding from his neck. His eyes opened wide in horror, and then all the light went out of them. He slumped forward, shuddered once, and died.

Crow Field

That Same Time

Alexei Petrov stalked silently toward the tent where Bondarovich, the other mercenaries, and his former copilot, Oleg Bunin, were sleeping. He carried a green steel jerry can containing twenty liters of gasoline. It was one of those they used to refuel their snowmobiles. Several of the fuel cans had been stockpiled at one end of the camp in preparation for their escape to Canada. One side of his mouth quirked upward in an ironic grin. Never let it be said that he had allowed any of the resources so thoughtfully provided by Pavel Voronin and his master, Dmitri Grishin, to go to waste.

Just outside the tent, he set down the jerry can, unlatched its cap, and pulled it open, wrinkling his nose at the sharp tang of raw gasoline. Then, squatting beside the tent door, he carefully unzipped it from the bottom—not far, just a few centimeters. He heard a faint noise from inside as some of the four drowsing men bundled up in their sleeping bags stirred suddenly, apparently disturbed by the icy wind now whipping through the tiny opening.