Free Ice Hunt by James Rollins Page A

have ebbed. Maybe they were outdistancing their pursuer. Maybe he had turned back, giving up the chase.
    Matt glanced behind them, slowing his horse.
    With the cycle quieted, the woods seemed to have grown more still and a little darker. The snowfall drifted with a hushed whisper through the trees. Matt reined the horse to a stop. He stood in the stirrups, staring back, his eyebrows tucked together.
    A sharp whistling suddenly pierced the quiet.
    “What—” Craig began, twisting around.
    Matt reached behind, grabbed him by the shoulders, and dragged them both out of the saddle. They fell to the snowy ground, knocking the wind from his chest.
    Craig coughed, gasping. What the hell is—
    Matt shoved his face into the snow, half covering his body with his own. “Stay down!” he growled.
    An explosion rocked the wintry quiet. A score of yards up the trail, snow, dirt, and bushes plumed upward. Leaves and needles were shredded from the surrounding trees.
    The mare bucked, whinnying in terror, eyes rolling white. But Matt was already up, grabbing the reins. Dogs barked and yipped from all around.
    Craig began to sit up. Matt reached down and yanked him to his feet. “Up, up,” he urged, shoving him toward the horse.
    “What was—”
    “Grenade…the bastard has a goddamn grenade launcher.”
    As the ringing in his ears died away, Craig tried to wrap his mind around this concept. He scrambled back up into the saddle. The mountains had gone quiet. Even the motorcycle’s engine had gone silent.
    “He’s coming after us on foot,” Matt explained. “We don’t have much time.” He whistled for his dogs, scattered by the explosion. They all returned, but one was limping. Matt bent to check the injured dog.
    Craig was not so patient. “C’mon…leave the dog.”
    Matt glanced sharply at him, then back to the malamute. He ran his hands down the lame limb. “Just sprained, Simon,” he whispered to the dog, relieved, and patted its head.
    Standing, Matt grabbed the horse’s lead and headed away from the deer trail they had been following.
    “Where are we going?” Craig continued to search both ahead and behind him. His ears strained for any telltale whistle of another grenade.
    “The jackass is trying to spook us.”
    In Craig’s case, the fellow had surely succeeded.
    They tromped through some denser woods, through deeper snow. Craig was forced to duck low branches, getting snow dumped on his back with their passage. It was hard going, slow, too slow, but Matt seemed determined in his direction.
    “Where are we headed?” Craig asked, dusting off his shoulders.
    “To see if some old friends are still around.”
    11:28 P.M.
     
    Stefan crouched by the trail. Gloved, hooded, and cloaked in white, he blended perfectly with the snow. But to him, the world was traced and silhouetted in hues of green. Through his nightvision goggles, he examined the trail. His targets had struck off to the left, clearly scared from the trail by the grenade explosion ahead, just as he had hoped.
    He turned to follow, moving swiftly and silently. He had hunted wolves in the rural hills around his hometown. He knew how to travel a wood silently, to use the available cover. Coupled with the tools of his ops training, he was a most skilled assassin.
    Still, his targets needn’t have feared another grenade. He had left the launcher back at the bike. His rifle was enough…along with his hunting knife, with which he planned to skin the American who had killed his brother. He set off down their new trail, watching to make sure the pair did not split up. But the track of hoof, paw, and footprints remained a steady single course.
    Before leaving the cycle, he had radioed his superiors and reported the events. The storm was too severe to send in reinforcements, but Stefan had assured his lieutenant that they were not needed. Before midnight struck, he would have his quarry contained. His evacuation the next morning had already been