He shut the door and spun. Years of experience immediately told him they were not alone. The first shot, little more than a muffled spit, slammed his fellow agent’s head back against the door, the bullet passing through the skull and wood, letting in a beam of muted moonlight. The dead man slid to the ground.

The remaining agent then went for his gun. He was lightening quick, but still no match for someone with theirs already drawn. The next shot took him in the shoulder of his gun arm, shattering the clavicle, acromion and scapula, and making the arm hang useless at his side.

A small light came on then. It was on the shooter’s forehead, making them invisible in the dark behind it.

“Let us be clear, you are a dead man. But how you spend the last few minutes of your miserable life is now up to you.”

The voice was female, but there was no hint of uncertainty or compassion; this was the voice of a stone-cold killer. The agent quickly sorted through his options: charge the light, stall for time, beg for mercy.

He still had one good arm – it is enough. He got ready to run at the light. “Well now…”

The next shot, took him in the kneecap. The pain of the obliterated patella was excruciating, and immediately made the option of charging redundant.

“I have plenty more shots, and plenty more time. My next will be in your testicles.”

The agent groaned, now knowing the promise of death was no warning or bluff, but an absolute certainty. If he had a cyanide pill, this would have been the time to take it.

Fuck it. He owed no one anything.

“What do you want?” he hissed through pain-gritted teeth.

“Tell me, who?”

The gun hand came up, and in the light he saw the barrel lower towards his groin. He told her everything he knew.

*   *   *

Sonya Borashev checked her watch as she ran to her snow sled. The Russian agent had been very informative. As she expected, the hit had been ordered by Brogidan Yusoff, head of the Russian Ministry of Resources and Agriculture, and his henchman, Uli Stroyev.

These two agents were simply ensuring there was no back door, while the real killer was already onboard the submersible. Sonya stopped for a moment, concentrating on easing the shaking in her arms and legs. The tremors weren’t from fear or the cold, but instead from pure rage. That Valery could already be dead made her fury volcanic, and her vision misted red for a few seconds.

For now, she had to assume they were all alive. The team comprised of Valery, marine biologists, and a geologist – all smart people. If she was there, she’d be looking for another way out – so would Valery.