Chapter 11 - Fire on the Ridge
The wind howled through the skeletal branches of the pine forest, driving sheets of wet snow horizontally across the clearing near the old pump house.
Adrian moved through the brush like a ghost, his boots sinking silently into the fresh layer of powder that muffled every step. Behind him, spaced ten yards apart in a textbook wedge formation, moved Marcus and two veteran operatives from the Brooklyn detail, their night-vision goggles casting an emerald glow across the dense undergrowth.
“Target confirmed,“ Marcus’s voice crackled softly through Adrian’s earpiece, distorted slightly by the howling wind. “Two men by the structure. Barrel fire for warmth. Amateurs.“
“Hold position,“ Adrian whispered back, his breath pluming white in the freezing air. “Don't fire unless fired upon. I want them talking, not bleeding.“
He crept forward, sliding behind the rusted corrugated-metal wall of the abandoned pump house. Through a cracked window frame, he could see two men in heavy fur-lined parkas huddled around a smoking steel drum, drinking vodka from a dented metal flask. Their weapons—short-barreled assault rifles—were leaning carelessly against a rotting wooden crate six feet away.
Adrian didn't hesitate. He kicked the wooden side door inward with a sharp bang that echoed like a pistol shot over the wind, stepping into the cramped room with his weapon leveled at chest height.
“Hands on your head. Now,“ Adrian ordered in Russian, his voice cutting through the damp air like a razor.
The two men froze, the metal flask dropping from one man’s gloved hand to clatter loudly against the concrete floor. The taller of the two—a scarred brute with a thick blond beard—slowly raised his hands, his eyes darting toward the rifles by the crate.
“Moretti,“ the bearded man spat, a cruel grin cutting across his chapped lips. “Boss said you were hiding out in the sticks like a sick dog. Didn't figure you'd have the balls to crawl out of your kennel yourself.“
Adrian stepped closer, the cold barrel of his pistol hovering an inch from the man’s nose. “Viktor sent you to test the fence. How many more are waiting down by the highway?“
“Go to hell,“ the man snarled.
Before he could lunge, a heavy thud echoed from the doorway as Marcus stepped inside, the butt of his carbine descending in a swift, merciless arc that dropped the bearded operative to his knees in a heap of snow and gravel. The second man raised his hands higher, shaking violently as Marcus’s weapon locked onto his chest.
“He's not lying, boss,“ Marcus muttered, pressing his earpiece. “Sensors just tripped on the northern access road. A second team is coming up the ridge from the river path.“
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Adrian spun toward the open door, his jaw tightening as the erratic flutter in his chest threatened to return. He forced a slow, deep breath into his lungs, steadying his grip.
“Vincent,“ Adrian spoke into his comms. “They're coming up the river trail. Lock down the main house and secure the perimeter.“
