Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Only took about ten minutes to roll the barrel over—gas up the snowmobiles.
Fifteen, and they were back on the trail, cutting a swath through the untouched powder.
Gibson took lead, angling them along a ridge then down into a small basin between a couple of peaks.
The kind that reminded Phoenix of a few missions overseas—ambushes where things had ended bloody.
Having the hairs on his neck prickle as they reached the bottom had him cursing. And he prayed it was just some ugly memories playing with his mind. Like the flashes of the helicopter accident that wouldn’t fade. A constant reminder that he might never fully integrate into civilian life.
Glancing over his shoulder to check his six—seeing something glint off the snow behind them before quickly winking out—turned the prickling to full-on alert.
Had him hitting the throttle—zeroing in on Gibson.
The man looked over at him just as Phoenix banged into his machine.
Knocked it sideways a few feet. Enough that the bullet Phoenix knew was coming only clipped the cowling.
Kicked up a chunk of snow in front of them as it punched through.
That’s all Gibson needed to catch up. To nod when Phoenix motioned to his left. Gibson slowed, or maybe he hit the brakes. Either way, he cut across behind Phoenix, heading for the scattering of trees farther down the slope.
Phoenix followed, doing his best to block any shot.
Using the deep snow to his advantage. Didn’t take much.
He simply rose, planted both feet on one side, then hit the throttle while turning the steering column.
Damn machine bit into the mountain—sprayed snow across the side, obscuring them from the back.
Took him bouncing back and forth—leaping from one side of the sled to the other to carve out a series of turns, but he managed. Kept them covered until they reached the trees.
Not quite enough density to eliminate a hit, but it beat being out in the open.
Until the next bullet splintered the tree beside his head.
That had him reevaluating their position.
Waving at Gib to head for the edge. Phoenix didn’t think it was a sheer drop, though, he’d only glanced at the map.
Couldn’t swear that there would be anything on the other side but rocks.
A few hundred feet of air. Not that it mattered.
They were going over before whoever was behind the scope landed a kill shot.
Two bullets hitting the back end jolted him forward. Sent up a puff of batting as it caught the seat. Probably lodged inside. That removed any lingering doubts. Any worries about whether he’d be able to handle the ridge. Just like back at that warehouse, when jumping had been the only option.
Phoenix hit the slope going fast enough he’d catch some air—wouldn’t tip the thing over if the ground did fall away beneath him. He might not make the landing but at least the sled wouldn’t crush him.
He hoped.
Cresting the ridge—only flying about fifteen feet through the air and down the other side was a nice surprise.
The first one he’d caught since he’d crashed in that chopper.
Glancing behind him, seeing Gibson land the drop, was another stroke of luck.
One that could have ended poorly, with either of them tossed in the snow. Possible broken bones.
Not that Phoenix was celebrating, yet. They might have gotten clear of the sniper—unless he moved.
Made it to an alternate nest before they cleared the next ridge up ahead.
But Phoenix knew the fight wasn’t anywhere close to over.
Whether it was the tingling sensation burning a line down his back or just the years of endless missions.
Of having to adapt because an op never quite went as planned, he wasn’t sure.
But every instinct told him they’d only just put the ambush on pause.
Three snowmobiles cresting the hill to their right, racing toward them with what looked like AK47s hooked over the drivers’ shoulders, confirmed his suspicions.
Made him wish that, just once, he’d been wrong.
Overly paranoid. Not that luck had ever been his forte.
Still, he would have welcomed the change.
Instead, he revved the throttle, cutting to his left, waving Gibson to take lead.
Not that he doubted Gib could hold his own.
Obviously, there wasn’t much the guy couldn’t wrestle into submission, snowmobiles included.
But chances were, these mercenaries were after Phoenix.
Some of Smyth’s men he’d sent as his own personal wet squad.
Or, maybe the asshole had given out that list of people he wanted permanently silenced to more than one gun-for-hire.
Either way, Phoenix wouldn’t let Gibson take a bullet meant for him.
Of course, assassins didn’t usually leave witnesses alive. Even ones who couldn’t ID them, other than three large men dressed in black. So, either Phoenix and Gib eliminated the threat, or they died.
The first option worked for Phoenix. Fewer fuckers alive to track him down, again, later. Which meant gaining the upper hand. Not that he had a clue how to do that. No doubt about it—adapting was always a bitch.
Having two bullets ping off the side of the machine—one gouging a line along his thigh—got him laser-focused.
Gibson, too, as the man sped up, heading for a thicker copse of trees farther down the hill.
They hit the forest going faster than they should—than was wise.
But, Phoenix wasn’t complaining. There was something pure about dancing through the trees.
Using one foot to pivot the machine around before shifting to the opposite side. Curving the other way.
There were a few near misses. The skis grazing some trunks as they squeezed between the evergreens.
A branch springing up as they travelled over it, nearly sweeping them both off their seats.
But they managed. Kept zigzagging toward the next ridge.
Though, continuing on their track wasn’t going to save them.
If Phoenix remembered correctly—and he generally did—the next leg was wide open.
Just snow and peaks and more snow. Which meant ending the threat before they left the cover of the trees.
Not easy when the men were on their tail.
Weaving along with him and Gib. Laying down a spray of bullets whenever the bastards had gained a few feet and thought they could clip them through the trees.
And they’d come close. Had popped a couple in the side of Gibson’s machine.
Maybe grazed his leg like that first shot had done to Phoenix.
He couldn’t tell. Didn’t have time to worry when anything short of killing them, outright, didn’t matter. There would be time to stitch a wound, later. If they lived that long.
Gibson reached the end of the wooded section when a helicopter crested the ridge in front of them.
Blades echoing all around them. A swirl of snow blowing across the mountain.
Gibson banked right, while Phoenix went left.
Nothing they’d planned, just a sound strategy.
Making the gunman choose a direction. Hopefully split them up, too.
There was a moment of pause. As if the men following them hadn’t been expecting Gib and him to separate.
That it hadn’t been considered a possibility.
Sure, if they were after Phoenix, they knew he was former-Delta Force.
That he didn’t leave his brothers behind.
Wouldn’t save his life at the expense of a teammate’s.
The gunmen had obviously planned on the two of them staying together. Fighting as a combined front.
That slight hesitation was all Phoenix needed. He hit the throttle, banking hard, digging the skis into the deep snow. The machine slid sideways on the hill, bouncing off a tree then surging forward. He kept it upright, dodging around snow-laden branches and smaller brush poking through the snow.
The men were moving, again. All three heading his way. Disappearing then reappearing amidst the trees. Snow billowing up behind them, covering everything in a layer of white. Phoenix couldn’t see the chopper, just heard the distant beating of the blades. As if it had followed after Gibson.
He’d worry about the helicopter after he’d dealt with the men.
Which meant staying his course. Weaving through the trees until he got close then standing on the back of the machine as he feathered the throttle.
The snowmobile levered up, still plowing forward on only the back end.
Front blocking out the men—any chance of a shot hitting him.
The machine bucked, nearly tipping backwards as he hit a deep trough. Lost that sweet spot on the throttle. He leaned forward, using one foot to push ahead, until it stabilized. Bouncing down once before he got it back up—managed to hold it until he was passing them.
The men stomped on their sleds. Trying hard to turn in the tight confines of the forest. But Phoenix was already shifting.
Drawing his Sig, then aiming at the men.
Two shots, two hits. Both men’s heads snapping forward before slumping over the machines.
A spray of red against the pristine white as their snowmobiles slowed, then stopped.
The third guy turned hard. Disappeared behind a couple of large firs.
The sound of the motor growing dimmer. Phoenix eased off the gas, wondering why the guy wasn’t making another run toward him, when the helicopter swooped in low.
Skid gear just clearing the tops of the trees.
The downdraft kicking up snow into a swirling mass all around him, before a barrage of bullets filled the forest.