The bright flash momentarily blinded everyone looking that way. And Vance’s thermal scope, set to find human body heat, was completely whited out by the massive heat signature. “Damn it!” Vance instinctively flinched, shielding his face from the heat and light, and ripped the now-useless goggles from his head.
That second of hesitation was all Mike needed. While the enemy’s attention was fixed on the fire, the Ghost moved. He covered the last fifty feet to the cabin wall in three massive bounds.
Pressed against the logs, he heard Vance’s heavy breathing and Mrs. Gable’s sobbing above him. Now came the hard part—getting onto the roof unseen. There was no ladder, but the corner of the cabin was notched in a way that left protruding log ends.
For a normal person, it was impossible. For Mike, it was a ladder. He slung the rifle over his back so it wouldn’t snag and started climbing.
His gloved fingers dug into the frozen wood, his back muscles screamed, and old wounds flared with sharp pain, but he climbed stubbornly and silently. On the roof, Vance, blinking away the spots, raised the launcher again. “You want to play with fire, Mike? Fine! Eight!” he yelled nervously, swinging the tube around.
He’d lost visual contact and was starting to panic. The mercenary psychology, used to total superiority, cracked when the situation went south. Mike hauled himself up and rolled over the ridge of the roof, coming up behind Vance.
The snow on the roof was slick; one wrong move and he’d slide off. “Nine,” Vance started to turn, sensing something or perhaps hearing the snow crunch. “Ten,” Mike said softly, standing up.
Vance spun around. Two veterans stood facing each other on the narrow, icy roof, lit by the glow of the burning snowmobile. Between them, a small woman in a wool shawl knelt, her eyes squeezed shut in terror.
“You…” Vance breathed. His face, scarred and aged, twisted with hate. He still held the bulky launcher.
At this range—three steps—firing it was suicide. The blast would kill them both. “Drop the tube, Vance!” Mike said calmly, keeping his hands down.
He didn’t reach for a weapon. He knew Vance wouldn’t fire the LAW. The Vulture’s survival instinct was always stronger than his hate.
Vance snarled and threw the launcher aside. The heavy tube clattered down the roof and vanished into a snowbank. “You think you won?” the Colonel sneered, pulling a sidearm from his holster.
“I’m ten years younger than you. I’m in peak condition. And you’re just a relic rotting in the woods.”
“Age is wisdom, Vance. And you’re still as arrogant as ever,” Mike replied. Vance raised the pistol.
But Mike was waiting for that exact moment. He didn’t dodge or drop. He threw a handful of snow he’d scooped up while climbing right into Vance’s face.
A simple playground trick, but effective. Vance reflexively blinked, and his shot went wide, whistling past Mike’s ear.
In the next heartbeat, Mike closed the distance. He kicked Vance’s wrist, knocking the pistol away. The gun flew into the dark.
The hand-to-hand fight began. It wasn’t a movie fight. It was a dirty, lethal struggle on a slick, slanted surface.
Vance was physically stronger. He landed a heavy punch to Mike’s chest, knocking the wind out of him. Mike stumbled, nearly sliding off the edge.
Vance followed up with a knee to the ribs, aiming for the liver. The old operator gasped, pain lancing through him, but he stayed upright. He caught Vance’s arm, used the momentum of the next punch, and went for a throw.
But on the icy roof, the move was sloppy. They both crashed onto the shingles, rolling together. “You’re dying here!” Vance hissed, trying to gouge Mike’s eyes with his thumbs.
Mike was suffocating. The odds were against him. The years were catching up…
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