The Siberian wilderness was a vast, indifferent killer. The temperature was forty degrees below zero. The wind howled like a banshee, driving snow horizontally with enough force to scour skin.
For a normal man, survival time in these conditions without specialized heated gear was measured in minutes. For Agent 47, it was a calculation of caloric burn versus distance traveled.
His enhanced metabolism was running hot, acting as an internal furnace. He could feel his body shunting blood from his extremities to his core, preserving vital function. He forced his breathing to be shallow and rhythmic, warming the air in his nasal cavity before it hit his lungs.
He had been walking for twenty minutes. The facility was a glowing amber smudge in the distance behind him, rapidly disappearing into the storm.
He wasn't alone.
Through the howling wind, he heard the distinct whine of engines. High-pitched. Two-stroke.
Snowmobiles.
47 stopped. He knelt in the snow, becoming a white lump in a white world. He engaged his instinct.
The world turned gray; the threats might as well walk around naked with the way 47 was sensing them.
Three signatures approaching from the east flank. They were fanning out, cutting for sign. They had thermal optics; hiding was impossible. They would see his heat signature against the frozen backdrop like a flare.
He needed to change the dynamic of the engagement.
He looked around.
A cluster of pine trees stood ten meters to his left, their branches heavy with snow. 47 moved toward them.
He didn't climb; he positioned himself behind the thickest trunk.
The lead snowmobile roared into view. The rider was clad in white tactical gear, a submachine gun mounted on the handlebars.
He slowed, his helmet scanning the trees.
47 had two rounds left in the Makarov. At this range, in this wind, a handgun was practically useless. He needed the rider to come closer.
He broke a branch. The snap was sharp, cutting through the wind.
The rider turned his head. He signaled to his flankers. They revved their engines, closing the net.
The lead rider approached the tree line, gun raised.
He was cautious, professional.
When the rider was five feet away, 47 threw the empty Makarov pistol. He didn't throw it at the rider; he threw it into the snowmobile's exposed drive belt.
The metal gun jammed into the gears. The belt shredded with a sickening screech. The snowmobile lurched and stalled violently, throwing the rider over the handlebars.
47 was on him before he hit the snow.
He grabbed the rider's helmet, twisting it to disorient him, and slammed the man's face into the tree trunk. The visor shattered.
The man went limp.
47 stripped the rider of his weapon—a PP-19 Bizon submachine gun. He checked the magazine. Full. 64 rounds of 9mm.
Better.
The other two riders were circling back, confused by the sudden stop of their point man.
They were two hundred meters out, closing fast.
47 mounted the disabled snowmobile. It wouldn't run, but it was cover. He used it as a shooting bench, resting the Bizon on the seat.
He calculated the windage. The wind was coming from the left at 40 knots. He aimed three feet to the left of the oncoming driver.
Breath in. Breath out. Squeeze.
A short, controlled burst. Thwip-thwip-thwip.
The bullets cut through the storm. The left rider jerked. His snowmobile veered wildly, flipping into a drift.
The third rider saw the muzzle flash. He opened fire, spraying the trees with suppression rounds. Bark exploded around 47.
47 didn't flinch.
He waited for the pause. The rider was pushing his engine to the limit, trying to close the distance to run 47 down.
47 stood up.
He didn't fire.
He watched the snowmobile rushing toward him. A ton of steel and plastic moving at sixty miles per hour.
At the last possible second, 47 sidestepped. It was a move of impossible agility, a matador dodging a bull.
As the snowmobile flew past him, 47 reached out and grabbed the rear grab bar with his left hand.
The momentum yanked him off his feet. His enhanced grip strength was the only thing keeping his arm in its socket. He dragged behind the machine, his boots skiing on the ice.
The rider realized he had a passenger. He reached for his sidearm.
47 pulled himself up, climbing the moving vehicle like a spider. He planted a boot on the running board, grabbed the rider's collar, and hurled him off the back. The rider tumbled away into the whiteout.
47 swung into the driver's seat. He throttled the engine, correcting the slide.
He now had transport.
He checked the GPS mounted on the dashboard. A waypoint was marked: Extraction Point Alpha. It was a small airfield thirty miles south.
That was where the Red Room would be sending reinforcements. It was also his only ticket out of Siberia.
47 gunned the engine. The snowmobile leaped forward, tearing through the powder.
The drive was brutal.
He navigated frozen riverbeds and dense taiga forests at breakneck speeds. His reflexes allowed him to dodge hidden rocks and ravines that would have killed a lesser driver.
Ten miles out from the airfield, the radio on the snowmobile crackled.
"Team 3, report status. Target is moving south."
47 picked up the mic. He spoke in the panicked, breathless voice of the rider he had thrown off. "This is Team 3! I'm the only one left! The target... he's a demon! He took out the others! I'm pursuing, but I'm low on fuel!"
"Hold your position, Team 3. Air support is inbound. An extraction chopper is spooling up at the airfield."
"Copy," 47 said.
He had Intel.
A chopper.
He pushed the snowmobile harder.
He crested a ridge and saw the airfield. It was a single strip of tarmac carved into the ice.
A Mil Mi-8 helicopter was sitting on the runway, rotors turning slowly. Guards were patrolling the perimeter.
47 abandoned the snowmobile at the top of the ridge, letting it ghost ride down the slope to create a distraction.
As the machine careened down the hill, drawing the attention of the guards, 47 began his descent on foot, sliding down the blind side of the ravine.
He moved through the perimeter fence where the snow had drifted high enough to bury the razor wire.
He was inside.
He made his way to the hangar buildings. He needed to blend in.
He spotted a mechanic working on a fuel pump, wearing a heavy orange jumpsuit and a face mask against the cold.
47 approached from behind. A quick chokehold. The mechanic was unconscious.
Two minutes later, 47 walked out onto the tarmac wearing the orange jumpsuit, carrying a toolbox.
He walked with the weary, trudging gait of a ground crewman.
He walked right past two guards.
"Hey, Ivan!" one shouted over the wind. "Check the hydraulics on the bird! Pilot says it's sluggish!"
47 waved a hand in acknowledgment, not turning his head. "On it," he grunted.
He reached the helicopter. The pilot was in the cockpit, going through pre-flight checks.
The side door was open.
47 climbed in.
He set the toolbox down. He walked to the cockpit. The co-pilot turned. "Who are yo—"
47 grabbed the co-pilot's head and slammed it into the instrument panel.
Unconscious.
The pilot reached for his pistol. 47 caught his wrist, twisting it until the bone snapped, then delivered a precise chop to the carotid artery.
Both pilots down.
47 dragged them out of the seats and dumped them in the cargo hold. He took the pilot's seat.
He scanned the controls. It was a standard Russian layout. He had flown similar birds in Kamchatka during the Hayamoto contract.
He flipped the ignition switches. The rotors whined, picking up speed.
"Tower to Chopper 1," the radio barked. "You are not cleared for takeoff! We have a security breach!"
"This is Chopper 1," 47 said, his voice calm, his own voice now. "I am aware of the breach."
He pulled up on the collective.
The helicopter lurched into the air.
Ground fire erupted. Bullets pinged off the armored underbelly. 47 banked hard right, the G-force pressing him into the seat.
He stayed low, skimming the tree tops to confuse the radar.
He flew south, leaving the facility burning in the snowstorm behind him.
He was free.
But he was a ghost. No money. No contacts. No agency.
He looked at the vast, frozen horizon.