Late at night in Murmansk Port, this narrow street off the main road seemed forgotten by the world. Wind swept in from the Arctic Ocean, threading through gaps between stacked containers and rusted steel frames, letting out a sharp, ceaseless wail.
Dozens of corpses lay sprawled face-down across the ground, their frozen pupils blankly reflecting the wavering patches of dim yellow light miserly cast by the broken streetlamps.
Blood was the most vivid pigment on this frigid canvas. It had spread wildly from bullet wounds and frozen solid, mixing with the dirty snow, oil stains, and dust on the ground into vast, grotesque abstract patterns.
The heavy, rusty stench of blood stubbornly occupied the air. Even the cold wind could not disperse it, only stirring the breath of death more evenly and driving it into the nostrils of everyone who approached, awakening instinctive discomfort and chill.
The Federal Security Service's follow-up support team had silently taken control of the scene.
The armed force Odin had sent withdrew as decisively as the tide once they confirmed that the "Saintess" had escaped the Far North's control. They left behind no unnecessary traces and had even taken their comrades' bodies with them.
The wounded members of the Alpha Group special operations team that had been ambushed had been urgently sent to a military hospital near the port. Several members with only light injuries, or who had luckily avoided being shot, remained behind to coordinate with the arriving support forces and Captain Sasha's party from the Yamal.
In the distance, the local police had put up a symbolic yellow cordon, but they did not approach this area, which had already exceeded their authority.
Captain Sasha remained aboard the recaptured Yamal. First Mate Ivan stepped over the ground crusted with frozen blood, crouching down to