Puppeteer

They entered the clinic through a rear door. The sounds of shouting followed by gun shots stopped them where they were. The two were unarmed and from the tumult, decided they were outnumbered. Without a word, Ed slipped the latch so the door would lock, and they stepped outside into the cold again. There were so many tracks in the snow it would be difficult for trackers to tell one from the other. But they couldn’t use their cars. As soon as an engine turned over, it would be heard by the intruders. They retraced their steps and angled through the frozen undergrowth, around toward the front of the compound. Both were eager to see who had come calling on Dr. Spregg. As they made the circuit, Ed put his hand on Sir James sleeve. They halted. Up ahead on a rise, which met the end of the parking lot, stood a tall figure holding a rifle, its scope and size betrayed its Russian manufacture. The two men crouched down, blending into the winter landscape. Ed calmly pulled the string from the hood of his parka, and as his father watched, quickly fashioned a small strong garrote. He made his way up the rise, and smelled the acrid cigarette smoke from the man.