That night the temperature dropped again, locking the mud in place. A hard slick crust formed over the snow. Victor packed a light frame backpack with methodical care. A thermos of strong black coffee, a coil of paracord, dry wool socks. He wrapped the casing carefully in a clean handkerchief and placed it in the inside chest pocket, zipping it all the way shut.
He stepped over the creaking threshold before dawn. The woods met him with a dead, ringing silence. Snow crunched loudly under his heavy boots. Victor moved fast, with a steady purposeful stride, using a long birch pole for balance.
By noon he reached the edge of a wide peat bog. Here began an old corduroy path—a half-sunken trail laid with dark logs long ago. On both sides stretched black icy muck. The air was thick with the choking smell of sulfur and rotting wood.
Victor stepped onto the first log. It gave a wet groan and sank a little into the murky water. He took a few more steps, testing the footing with the pole. Then he stopped dead in the middle of the path.
On a layer of gray moss covering the next log lay a fresh cigarette butt. Cheap cigarette, no filter. The dark tobacco hadn’t even gotten wet yet from the damp bog air.
Victor slowly lowered the birch pole into the water. Then he lifted his eyes beneath the brim of his cap. At the far end of the narrow path, right where it reached solid ground, stood three men. They wore plain mottled rain jackets with no insignia, no department patches.
In the hands of the man on the end, the long blued barrel of a rifle caught the light. The same .308 caliber.
There was nowhere to run. On both sides lay bottomless black bog. Victor felt through his coat the hard metal outline of the brass casing. The man at the far end of the trail calmly raised the rifle to his shoulder…
