“This is Edmond Dantès calling.” His code name referenced the famous prisoner who escaped a life sentence in the Dumas masterpiece The Count of Monte Cristo. “We have gotten out of the Château d’If.”

“Edmond,” came Max Hanley’s happy reply. “Ready to go find your treasure and exact your revenge?”

“The treasure’s going to be sent to a numbered account as soon as we’re back aboard, and revenge has never been my intent.”

“How’d it go?” Max asked, dropping all pretense that he hadn’t been concerned for Juan’s safety.

“No problems as yet. The squib bombs worked better than we’d hoped, and Gomez could have thread that chopper through a needle if he’d needed to.”

“You’re on speaker here in the op center, Chairman,” George Adams drawled. “I heard that and won’t disagree for a second.”

Juan could picture the handsome Texan, with his drooping gunslinger mustache, sitting just behind and to the right of the command chair in the middle of the Oregon’s high-tech nerve center. While Cabrillo was being transported to the prison, Adams had flown the drone Kamov from the ship and pre-positioned it near the complex with another of Yuri’s loyalists waiting to fire up its engine when he received Juan’s signal.

“We’re in position and standing by,” Hanley cut in.

“Okay, Max. Yuri and I will be there in about an hour.”

“We’ll keep the light on for you.”

Juan patted the seat, and Borodin legged over to straddle the sled just behind him. Two handholds had been sewn into the back of Cabrillo’s snowsuit for him to hold on to, saving both men the ignominy of the Russian clutching Juan’s waist. Juan could have jacked Borodin’s helmet into the snow machine’s onboard communications set, but that would mean he would miss any incoming calls from the Oregon as they tracked both the drone Kamov and the prison’s big Mil chopper in hot pursuit.

The Lynx accelerated like a rocket and shot out of the pines with the swift agility of a startled hare. In minutes, they were blasting over the snowpack. Because of the sophisticated suspension and the heated suits, the ride was remarkably comfortable. The deep core chill Cabrillo had suffered was soon replaced with enough warmth that he had to dial down his heater. He barely felt the vibration of the sled cutting through the snow, and the whine of the two-stroke engine was a muted purr in his helmet.

If not for the fact an armed Russian helicopter would soon be hunting for them, he would have enjoyed the ride.

It was only fifteen minutes into their dash for the coast that Max Hanley called to report their drone helicopter had been shot down and that its cameras had survived long enough to tell them the Russians knew the aircraft was unmanned.