Felix Orlov crawled up the muddy shore and shrugged off his rucksack, exhausted from the long swim. He rolled onto his back and rested in the fetid sludge, staring at the clear night sky. The fire raging across the lake flickered at the bottom of his field of vision. After he’d caught his breath, he turned his head to see who else had washed up on shore with him. One lay in the muck about forty feet away, where the lake broke off into a cove. He couldn’t tell if they were facedown or on their back. Another clambered out of the water between them and dropped flat. Ksenia, judging by the longer hair. Just two?

He propped himself up on his elbows to scan the lake. The third slogged through the water about fifty feet out, kicking and splashing hard enough to suggest panic. That had to be Lashev. The sniper had spent more time trying to convince them to somehow paddle one of the half-sunken pontoon boats across the lake rather than fessing up that he could barely swim. None of them had wanted to abandon most of their gear and swim several hundred yards to an unfamiliar shore, but the M249 machine gun Felix had chosen to leave in the helicopter had made the decision for them.

And staying on the other side of the lake, trusting their fate to whoever called that camp home, wasn’t a viable option. Not after the small war that had been waged out there for close to fifteen minutes, not to mention the helicopter explosion that had probably rattled windows and set off car alarms for miles. The police would be all over this place soon, the several-story-high bonfire rising above the treetops serving as their beacon. The team was better off on their own, which meant a long swim.

Felix got up on wobbly legs and reentered the water, wading halfway to his struggling colleague, before he could no longer feel the bottom of the lake. He sidestroked the rest of the way and made the mistake of approaching Lashev directly. Like all terrified swimmers in a near-drowning situation, his teammate instinctively grabbed on to Felix the moment he arrived, intent on dragging him to the bottom, too. He pounded Lashev’s face a few times, stunning him long enough to implement a forced-rescue hold—and start swimming.

He dragged Lashev to waist-high water and let go. The operative thrashed for a few seconds before realizing he could stand. He immediately waded to shore and sat next to Ksenia. Oleg got up from his spot near the break in the shoreline and plopped down beside Lashev.