to ask. Getting to her feet, she ran as fast as she could.
Once she had made it to the rock and was safe, Harvath raced over and joined her.
Both of the Norwegians there were in bad shape. One of them was actively bleeding out, the icy ground around him pooling with blood.
Grabbing the tourniquet from the man’s chest rig, Harvath tossed it to Jasinski. “Apply it here,” he said, pointing to the correct spot on the agent’s severed leg.
Then, picking up the man’s rifle, he turned to the other agent and asked, “Can you fight?”
Though the man’s left arm looked as if it had been dragged at high speed down a gravel road, he nodded—the pain from his injury evident in his face.
As soon as Harvath asked the question there was an eruption of automatic weapons from the cabin.
The rounds slammed into trees and chewed up the ground around them. When they connected with the slab of rock, large pieces were chipped off and broken away.
Harvath hated gunfights. Both as a SEAL and now as a covert counterterrorism operative, he had seen way too many of them. A gunfight meant you had lost the element of surprise. He hated them even more when there were injured men on his side and the bad guys were holed up in a fortified position.
Quickly returning the Sig beneath his parka, he plucked out his earpiece and let it dangle over his shoulder. The radio was jammed with traffic, all of it in Norwegian and all of it only adding to the chaos.
Checking to make sure the rifle was hot, he flipped the fire selector to semiauto and peeked out from behind his cover.
The cabin was one story, with three windows along its side. The shooters appeared to know what they were doing. They had set up inside, several feet back from the windows, probably prone and atop tables or some other sort of perch. That meant they’d be very tough to take out. But it also meant that their field of fire was limited.
Focusing on the closest window, Harvath let loose with his own volley. The PST agent with the bad arm did the same.
Immediately, gunfire was returned on them, and they were forced to retreat behind the rock.
Nearby, other Norwegian operatives did the same, but it was an anemic response. There weren’t enough of them in the fight. They were pinned down.
When the rounds stopped hitting their cover, Harvath leaned out again. Before he could fire, though, he noticed that the volume of smoke coming from the stovepipe had increased. They were burning more than just logs. Now, they were likely burning evidence. Targeting the same window, he opened up with another barrage of fire.
Emptying his magazine, he leaned back behind the rock and motioned for Monika to toss him a fresh one from the chest rig of the PST agent she was tending.
Swapping the mags, he tried to come up with a plan. The FSK members, though, were already ahead of him.
Unlike the PST—which was Norway’s version of the FBI—the FSK were Norwegian military and kitted out like soldiers. That kit included M320 H&K grenade launchers mounted beneath several of the team’s rifles. Someone had made a decision to end this thing, now.
Maneuvering into place, an operative drew fire while two of his teammates stepped into the open and each launched a 40-millimeter high-explosive round at the cabin.
Only one of the grenades needed to find its mark. In this case, both did, sailing through their respective windows and exploding in a hail of shrapnel inside.
Moments later, a fire started, and thick, black smoke began pouring out of the windows.
Harvath didn’t waste any time. Stuffing the pockets of his parka with extra magazines, he grabbed a thermal scope from the severely injured PST agent and took off for the cabin.
Behind him, he could hear the Norwegians yelling for him to wait—to not go in until backup arrived. That wasn’t going to happen. There was no telling what evidence had already been destroyed. If there was anything left, he wanted to get to it before it was gone.
He used the trees for concealment and moved at an angle. Drawing parallel with the front door, he raised his weapon and crossed the icy ground toward it.
Pulling off his glove, he put his hand against the door. It was already way too hot to the touch.
Slinging his rifle, he flipped his night-vision goggles up, removed his other glove, and drew his Sig. With the cabin