As soon as Bear Crepov saw the cut in the ridgeline, he knew it perfect for an ambush site. He side stepped off the game trail and motioned for the captain to come up next to him. When she stopped beside him, the Kalashnikov lay cradled in her right arm, her finger on the trigger.
"What is it?" she said loudly.
Bear winced and nearly slapped her. "Quiet, you bitch! Do you want them to kill us?"
She blinked at him, whispered, "Are they close?"
"They have to be. Get your pet corporal into the brush line over there," he pointed, "and I'll take cover on the other side of the trail. You pull back into those spruce behind that large mound, I think it's a rock."
"Are you worried for my safety?"
He quickly searched her face for signs of mockery, but found none.
"I think you can take care of yourself," he said slowly. "But if there's shooting I want you out of the way. You're the only one who knows why we're doing this." He skied ahead another thirty meters, stopped, took his skis off, and hid his equipment in the brush.
The corporal quietly disappeared on the other side of the trail. Crepov glanced back down the trail but could see nothing of the woman. He carefully pulled the slide back on his weapon and chambered a round.
The quiet of winter settled on him. No birds this time of year, they had all gone south to the Confederacy and New Spain. He must be his own sentry.
A voice broke the stillness. Bear couldn't make out the words, but he knew it for human. He tensed when he heard skis on snow, moving fast.