I hung on tight with my calves like a solo eventer riding the White Turf at St Moritz. The road dissolved into a blur, a continuous frozen stream of white-water rapids. I looked up and over Boynou’s ears, focused on the way ahead. But I could see almost nothing. Snow spattered my face, filled my eyes. I blinked and was blinded, wind lashing my cheeks. I moved the crop and the reins to my left hand, and wiped the ice from my vision. As I opened my eyes, the village lights of Yachmenevo sped past to the right. The frontier with Estonia was only thirteen hundred metres to my left – but there was no path through the thick forest and I knew I couldn’t make it that way. I pressed Boynou onwards, as far out of the saddle as I dared, my head sheltering behind his neck, my shoulders just above his. The trees on either side of us slipped past in the darkness – a white-crusted mass of shadows that flanked the road, giving it shape, form.

I twisted in the saddle and looked behind me. If anyone was on our tail, they were engulfed in the pale veil of snow kicked up by Boynou’s hooves. And then as I turned back around: headlights – dead ahead. Distance was impossible to gauge exactly. I kept going. It was too late to stop, and there was nowhere else to go. A third light appeared above the first two – brighter, cutting a focused beam towards me. Boynou galloped another two strides.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Tracer fire arced out of the spotlight towards me, past me. Then more. A lot more. Bright green rounds whipped through the snow, streaming either side of Boynou’s head, zooming into the void behind. I dropped as low as I could, all the way down on to his right flank – every tracer chased by four invisible high-velocity rounds. I dug into my jacket pocket, frozen fingers fumbling for the Makarov. Then I saw them clearly.

Ten metres ahead, two soldiers manned an all-terrain vehicle. They were stationary. The driver was leaning into a PKM. Spent brass from the belt concealed in its magazine box spewed into the night. A bullet nicked Boynou’s neck. His blood sprayed across me. But the gunner had opened up too late, too high. He struggled to get his barrel around far enough, fast enough.

I pulled the pistol clear of my pocket and swung my arm up. The first trigger pull was heavy, cocking the semi-automatic as well as dropping the hammer. The pressure, the gallop, the cold – everything was against me. The shot went wide. I drew parallel and fired again. And again. The third shot hit home and the tracer leapt into the sky, sending a stream of green bullets into the ether. The ATV disappeared behind me in Boynou’s white wake.