Unhurriedly, Petrov tipped the jerry can over and watched the gasoline pour out. It sloshed out in waves, flowed through the unzipped door, and rippled across the tent’s polypropylene fabric floor in an amber tide. Satisfied, he stood up and moved back a few meters. Then he pulled out a loaded flare pistol, cocked the hammer, and fired downward through the door.

With a crackling hiss, the flare exploded. A blinding, red-tinged flash lit the inside of the tent, replaced by a flickering orange glow as burning gasoline sprayed everywhere. Coolly, Petrov dropped the spent flare gun and pulled out his pistol. He ignored the agonized screams echoing from Bondarovich and the others. They’d been abruptly jolted out of sleep . . . only to find themselves trapped in a hell of whirling, wind-driven fire. Already blazing like torches, burning men stumbled toward the door, frantically trying to squeeze out through the narrow opening. Methodically, Petrov shot them one by one.

When the screams finally stopped, he lowered his pistol, turned, and walked away toward the distant aircraft shelter. Behind him, dancing tongues of fire licked up into the sky.

Thirty-Seven

On the Spur

That Same Time

Flynn doubled up his thermal mask and used it to mop Takirak’s blood from his eyes, the rest of his face, and the razor-sharp blade of his combat knife. Finished, he tossed the sodden mask away in disgust. Then he took out a field dressing from his first aid kit and wrapped it around his gashed left forearm. Finally, he retrieved his pistol from the ground, brushing off the ice and snow that coated its muzzle and slide before slipping it back into his chest rig.

Off to his right, a little higher up the spur, Flynn heard the faint clatter and rattle of equipment. Six soldiers and airmen, all he had left under his direct command, were moving into position. Below the other side of this hill, his remaining men, Sanchez, Boyd, and the injured Torvald Pedersen, had gone to ground in some bushes a few hundred yards away. He would have liked to order them back to the main unit, but radioing them would be the only means of doing that. It was too risky. For all Flynn knew, their tactical frequencies and encryption systems were one of the secrets Takirak had already passed on to his fellow Russians.

Staying low, Flynn risked a quick look out across the open slope. The white-camouflaged Russian Spetsnaz commandos were still advancing along the valley. Apparently, they hadn’t heard his brutal, hand-to-hand fight with Takirak, probably thanks to the noise made by the northerly winds hissing across hard-packed snow.

Flynn watched the enemy soldiers for a few more moments. It was pretty clear that they planned to bypass this particular piece of high ground—probably intending to climb the main ridge instead, before turning to hit the unsuspecting Americans from behind. Their plan would have worked, if he hadn’t already figured out that Takirak had betrayed the ambush positions he’d first chosen. As it was, leapfrogging forward along the valley floor only exposed the Russian flank to attack from this rocky spur.