Assignment by Craig A. Hart & S. J. Varengo

Author:Craig A. Hart & S. J. Varengo [Hart, Craig A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Craig A. Hart

10

After feeding Panuk and the hunter to the famished dogs, Karazmovsky tied the animals to the cabin porch and went inside. He spent forty-five minutes there, fifteen for eating the hunter’s moose stew and thirty for sleep. Then he was up and ready for the final leg of the trip. He had watched his guide carefully over the miles, memorizing every move, every command, trying to internalize how the man handled the sled and dogs. He would not be an expert, but Karazmovsky felt he would at least be able to cover the remaining ground without the help of Panuk—especially now that he had fed the dogs. The man who fed the dog became the dog’s master.

The remainder of the journey was uneventful, and he knew this to be a good thing. He had already left too much of an imprint on this land. But Karazmovsky craved action and he felt more relaxed having killed.

While Juneau is not accessible by roads in the traditional sense, with the dogsled, he was able to traverse through the terrain and deep snow to reach his destination. He would not have been able to manage this by foot, and the ferry would have likely left him vulnerable to exposure. He didn’t know how much the Americans knew, if anything, but he couldn’t take any chances.

On the day of the open house, Karazmovsky arrived beyond the area locals referred to as “Out the Road.” The snow was falling at a rapid pace, an early blizzard for the coastal town of Juneau. But he felt happy for the storm, even though it heightened his chill—it made it easier for him to move about undetected.

Using the memorized coordinates, Karazmovsky located a boulder that sat between two trees. He halted the sled and dismounted. He waded through the snow to the large rock and dug beneath it, at last pulling out a plastic bag containing a satellite phone, a pistol with an attached suppressor and an extra magazine, and a laminated set of blueprints. He smiled grimly when he saw the phone. On the back were written several digits—contact information for his American counterpart. He still resented having someone else to account for. He had always worked best alone. The more people involved, the more things could go wrong. And Karazmovsky hated it when things went wrong.

He stared at the dogs. While killing his fellow human beings did not concern him in the slightest, he was less eager to kill animals—dogs, at least. He’d always had a soft spot for dogs. However, he couldn’t simply leave them here to freeze or starve, and he had no way of knowing when someone would find them. He checked the pistol and found it was already loaded. He was about to fire, when he checked himself. The sound of a gunshot, even one through a suppressor, would likely travel a good distance in this weather. The stillness would betray any foreign noise. He felt in his boot for a knife.

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