Page 33 of What is Found

A sudden, shortbapruptured the darkness.

Gunshot.Flinching, he turned so quickly he nearly slipped and had to clutch the side of the van to keep from falling. Shoving the active sat phone into a pocket, John dropped to a crouch alongside the van and reached for a weapon when he remembered.

No weapon.He’d left his Glock behind. Teeth clenched in frustration, he replayed the last few moments: where he’d been standing, what direction he’d faced, how the sound of that gunshot had echoed. If he could just nail down a source!Where the hell was that com?—

Another flatcrack.

Shot came from the far side of the van.Still crouched, he eased up for a peek over the van’s hood. There was nothing and no one here he could see: no one on thetrail, no vehicle. Just snow, ice, darkness. If there was someone taking potshots, he had lousy aim. The van was a much bigger target, and he’d not heard so much as apingof metal smacking metal.

And now, a thirdcrack—followed by the thin, stiletto note of a scream.

Matvey.

THREE KINGS

NOVEMBER 2023

CHAPTER 1

Later,he would not remember how fast he went or how long it took to reach the summit. Less than five minutes, he thought, but a lot could happen in thirty seconds, never mind a few minutes. What he remembered was tearing up the switchbacks, grabbing the guide rope for balance and jamming the point of his crampons into the icy path, pushing off with all his weight, digging in with one foot before catapulting himself forward with the next step and the next and the next.

Then he was at the top, swinging around from the path, passing the icy wooden stairs on his left but keeping himself in a low crouch so as not to become a target. The screams, which hadn’t stopped, were very loud now, coming in blasts, at regular intervals, as if the screamer paused only to haul in the next breath—and then a fourth shot followed by the almost instantaneous ping of metal against metalabove his head. For all he knew, that bullet had just drilled a hole in the cargo container’s roof.

He threw a quick look with his flashlight at the path. No tracks but his own, nothing new. Crouching, he shuffled fast to the shipping container’s door that was still open because of the paraffin heaters. Inside, the boy, Matvey, was still screaming and now that he was close enough John understood what the boy was shouting—and the words chilled his blood.

“Pomogi!”Matvey screamed.“Chawn, Chawn, pomogi!”

Help! John, John, help!

CHAPTER 2

Oh,no. Davila, something’s wrong with Davila!

That was his first thought. But the second, fast on the heels of the first:Could be a trap.Matvey had been in on the con, after all.Kid got hold of a gun, killed Davila, and now he’s just waiting for me to come crashing in.

Still keeping low, he stretched a hand, grabbed the cargo container door and pushed it all the way open hard and fast enough that the door let out a loud clang.

At the clap of metal against metal, Matvey abruptly fell silent. John waited a beat and then two. Nothing whistled through the air; no bullets snapped past. Still in a crouch, he snatched a look around the corner and felt his blood slush.

Oh, no.

“Chawn!”The boy still had the Glock in both zip-tied hands but instantly dropped the weapon thenpointed at Davila and rattled off something in Russian.

For once, he needed no translation. Davila was on his back along the opposite side of the container where he’d collapsed.His legs moved in a herky-jerky shuffle and spastic little kicks and what looked like the beginnings of terminal jitters: a full-body shuddering and flapping that preceded brain death. His good left arm was outstretched, his right kinked at the elbow, but the hands of both were clawing, fisting, clenching, and unclenching.

“Davila?” Dashing inside, crampons chattering against metal, he grabbed his medic’s pouch and was by Davila’s side in less than two seconds. “Davila?Taz?”

Davila didn’t answer. His head, still swathed in bandages, lolled from side to side as he arched, his back bowed; his eyes had rolled back in their sockets until only the whites showed. His mouth was open, gawping, but there was nothing coming out, no sound, no air, nothing, even as the cords in his neck bulged and the veins stood in fat giant blue worms…nothing came out of Davila’s mouth.

Because Davila couldn’t breathe.

He’d missed it, he’d missed it!He knew what was happening, knew he had to act fast, right now. Davila had only seconds. This was why Davila had complained of shoulder pain and a stiff neck.

Only I thought it was the rib, the bone pain.Ripping open his medic’s bag, he found what he wantedslotted in with his supply of needles.I’m so stupid, I can’t believe I was this stupid…

Davila had decided to take his advice and get up and off his back, go for a turn around the cargo container. The movement…that’s what probably did the rib in, which had finally splintered or perhaps had been splintered all along. Whatever the sequence, the result was the same. Davila’s left lung had collapsed, and this was déjà vu all over again. This was the day the bomb went off at Abbey Gate and this was Harris, kicking in the dirt, blood everywhere, his back bowing in a frantic effort to pull in a breath of air…

Got to decompress the chest cavity.Moving fast, he unzipped Davila’s parka, tore open his shirt, shoved up his thermal top, stiff from dried blood, and then?—

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