That would be righted soon enough. As Milton crunched across to the skidoo a snowflake landed on his nose. Thirty seconds later and a blizzard had started.

* * *

Milton looked at the others with wary caution. They were checking their weapons for damage from the jump, ensuring for a final time that magazines were full and that their complement of grenades and blasting charges had not fallen from their pockets or been detached from the velcro holding straps. They worked quickly and in silence, completely professional. Each one of them was lethally dangerous. Trust was impossible and yet, each of them had to cover the back of the others if the mission was to be a success. Milton had thought about whether to ask for more bodies. He had even considered asking for every operational member of the Group but he had decided that they stood a better chance with a smaller, more agile unit. The six of them would be a match for twice as many guards, but success depended upon the element of surprise and ruthless execution of the plan. There were variables: perhaps Shcherbatov had increased the security, maybe Pope had been moved after all.

There was nothing that could be done about things that were out of his control.

Their weapons had been strapped to the chassis of the skidoos. Milton undid the bindings around his M4 and checked the carbine and the M320 grenade launcher that was slung beneath it. Both had survived the descent without damage. He removed the magazine and then pushed it back again. The carbine was shorter than a full length rifle and better suited to close quarters combat. It was a good gun but dependant upon regular cleaning; Milton had taken it to bits and reassembled it after he had finished with his handgun. He had his Sig in a shoulder holster, four magazines for the M4 in a mag pouch, two hundred rounds of ammunition, six fragmentation grenades, two blasting charges and a Benchmade Infidel knife.

There were three Snowmobiles and six of them. Milton straddled the nearest skidoo and started the engine. The headlamp flicked on, a beam of golden light filled with fat flakes of snow. Hammond crunched through the crust of snow and rode pillion. The others got onto their own vehicles, two to each machine. The other two engines started with issue. Milton took off the goggles, shoved them into his Bergen and replaced them with a pair of Oakley Ballistics.

“One, Group,” Milton announced into the radio. “Comms check.”

“This is Eight. Comms check affirmative.”

“Two, affirmative.”

“Six, loud and clear.”

“Nine, check is good.”

“Ten, affirmative.”

He consulted his satnav. “Twenty clicks,” he said. “Couple of hours provided the road is where it’s supposed to be,”

“And that it’s clear,” Hammond said.

“Don’t worry about that. Ivan keeps his roads open, no matter what. It’ll be clear.”

Chapter Forty

It took them a couple of hours to reach Plyos. They hid the Snowmobiles in the grounds of an empty dacha on the edge of the village and tracked the rest of the way on foot. The six of them were split into three teams: Alpha Team was Spenser and Underwood; Bravo Team was Milton and Callan; Charlie Team was Blake and Hammond. On Milton’s signal they dispersed to their prearranged attack points. Milton and Callan scaled the side of an empty barn that, from the gently sloping roof, offered a good view of Shcherbatov’s dacha.

Milton watched as Alpha and Charlie Teams took their positions. Spenser and Underwood ducked behind a parked car a hundred feet from the entrance to the dacha. Blake and Hammond held position behind a low wall.

The roof was thick with snow and Milton sunk down deep into it as he lay flat. Callan took position next to him, settling his M110 semi-auto sniper rifle on its bipod and taking aim through the scope. Below them and away to the east, Spenser was prone on the ground beneath an old Soviet-era Lada that was so buried beneath snow that it couldn’t have been moved for weeks. He, too, had set up his rifle and was taking aim.

Milton swept the IR binoculars left and right, studying the dacha. He matched the compound’s layout against the video from the overflight of a Russian TU-300 Korshun drone from earlier that afternoon and what he could remember from his brief visit earlier that week. Everything was just as it should be. It was encircled by high stone walls with a large decorative wooden gate guarding the entrance. Beyond that was a short drive through a thicket of trees. Two large buildings, the main residence and a smaller guest house, had been constructed inside with a neat and tidy courtyard between the two. A Russian army jeep was parked near to the residence. An armoured Tiger personnel transport was next to the jeep.

He focussed on the heat traces from the guards.

“One, Group. Eyes on four tangos: two lookouts on the first floor, east and west third floor balconies. Two foot patrols, one at the gates and another in the grounds.”

“Two, One,” Spenser responded. “Guard dogs?”

“Negative. I’m just getting those four. The others will be inside.”

“Six, One. Can you see what they’re carrying?”

“AK-9s, AS-Vals,” Milton reported. “They’ve got night vision goggles. Can anyone make out an officer?”

No-one could.

“No sergeant, either. If anyone is here, he’s keeping warm inside.”

“See the Tiger?” Callan reported. “Engine’s cold, fresh snow on the roof, been there a while.”

“Affirmative. Could come in useful. Can anyone see anything else? No roving patrols?”

The replies came back in the negative.

“One, Nine. Have you confirmed all phone and power and data lines are above ground?”

“Confirmed,” Underwood said. “I’ll cut them on command.”

“Alright then. We’ll assume half a dozen inside…”

“Unfair odds for them,” Underwood said.

“But there’s a chance that they’ve got a relief bivouac down in the village. We’ll have to be quick and alive to avoid getting flanked.”

The mission had been constructed with a thirty minute envelope in mind. Local Russian security forces and police would know that they were here soon enough and they didn’t want to be in situ when they arrived. There would be no immunity for them if they were caught. They would be cut loose and left high and dry.

“We know what we’re doing, Milton,” Spenser radioed back tersely.

Spenser was the ranking agent. Milton taking control must have rankled him.

Tough shit.

“One, Group. All units, safeties off, weapons tight.”

Milton held the glasses to his eyes and waited an extra second, just to be sure.

“Alpha, Bravo, Charlie. Status check, comms check, sound off. On my mark.”

He watched a moment longer, waiting for the guard on the facing balcony to turn his head away.

“Execute.”

Milton lay still and observed. The opening of the assault was terrifying in its efficiency. Underwood cut the power to the compound and all of the lights were extinguished at once, plunging it into darkness. Just as the lights cut out, Spenser and Callan fired single shots from their suppressed rifles. Milton watched through the IR; he could see the tracks of the bullets, made hotter by friction with the air, like tracer fire. The guards on the two balconies were both struck, one of them toppling over the balustrade and thudding into the deep drift beneath.

Hammond, who had crept from cover to cover until she was behind twenty feet from the gate, popped up and squeezed off two, short, silenced bursts. Another spray of tracer in the goggles. The guards who had been stationed at the street entrance were peppered and fell to the ground.

“One, Group. Weapons free, let’s go and get Pope.”