Mountain Ghost: A Polar Task Force Thriller, Book #2 (PolarPol)

by Christoffer Petersen

  Evelyn risked a look around the door frame as one the men called the name out a second time.

  “Roberts? Is that you?”

  Mats peered around the side of the table. “Who’s he shouting at?”

  “I don’t know,” Evelyn said. “Stay down.”

  She risked another look.

  Another crack of the rifle drew a flurry of expletives from the two men, followed by a burst of bullets from the woman. Evelyn squinted into the snow, curious that the bullets had not hit the cabin – not even close.

  “Who the fuck are you shooting at?”

  Evelyn smiled as one of the men chastised the woman. Clearly he couldn’t see what she was looking at, and thus the first signs of dissent and confusion were sown among their ranks.

  “Evelyn,” Mats said. He stood up when she ignored him. “Hey.”

  “Mats get down,” Evelyn said, only to flinch as a three-round burst of bullets clipped the windowsill and slammed the young Swede’s body into the back wall. Evelyn thrust her pistol around the door frame, shouting as she fired a series of six shots, emptying the magazine, before scurrying across the cabin floor, staying low, cutting her hands on the splintered glass, before reaching Mats and pulling him down behind the upturned table. “Fuck,” she said, as she opened Mats’ jacket. “They’ll come now.”

  Evelyn exposed the wound in Mats’ side. She tore at his thermal shirt, pressing her fingers into the ragged sides of the bullet hole, ripping the shirt open and then tearing off strips to pack into the wound. She changed magazines, smearing Mats’ blood over the pistol, then spinning around and squeezing off a bullet as someone burst into the cabin.

  “Don’t shoot,” the man said, as he kept going, rolling across the floor as Evelyn put three more bullets into the floor, pressing the man into the corner, before pulling the trigger on an empty chamber. “I said don’t shoot.”

  “Fuck off,” Evelyn said, cursing the half magazine she had slapped into the pistol, exchanging it for a new one – the last one.

  “I’m with you,” the man said. “Kind of.”

  Evelyn looked up as he slid the rifle across the floor towards the table.

  “Take it,” he said. “Start firing back. I’ll see to your friend.”

  Evelyn leaned around the table, keeping her pistol trained on the man as she reached for the rifle.

  “Do I know you?” she said, curious that was something familiar about him.

  “We’ve met.” The man paused, as if choosing his next words carefully. “We were not on the same side then, but we could be now.”

  “Where?” Evelyn pulled the rifle into her lap, giving it a cursory glance as she considered her options.

  “You’ll put the gun down, if I tell you?”

  “I might.”

  “It doesn’t work that way. I just gave you a rifle. You could show me a little trust.”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Then your friend bleeds to death, or you shoot me. You’re going to have to do something, Evelyn.”

  “You know my name?”

  “And more besides.” The man raised his hands. “Evelyn,” he said. “My name is Byrne Cantrell. We’ve tried to kill each other before. In Iceland.”

  “Cantrell.” Evelyn took a breath. “Why are you here?”

  “I think you probably know.” Byrne pointed at the table. “He has something I need.”

  “But you’re not with them.” Evelyn waved the pistol at the door.

  “No, but if we don’t figure this out, then that really isn’t going to matter, is it?”

  “I guess not.”

  Evelyn spun to her left at the sound of a heavy tread squeezing air out of the snow at the door. She fired three times, putting two bullets into the man’s stomach. Byrne followed up with three more into his chest.

  “Fine,” Evelyn said. She grabbed the rifle and crawled to the door. “We work together.”

  “Good plan,” Byrne said. “Now, keep their heads down while I have a look at your friend.”

  “His name is Mats.”

  “Got it.”

  Evelyn worked the bolt of the rifle, ejecting the last spent round, jacking the next into place. It was newer, and lighter than her dad’s old hunting rifle. She missed the scratch of the bailing twine against her skin. But not the recoil. This new rifle kicked like butter, and Evelyn decided she liked it.

  “That’s it,” Byrne said, tearing another strip from Mats’ chest. “Keep them busy.”

  Evelyn worked her way through the magazine, calling for another and slamming it home without a second thought to what Byrne was doing behind the table. She fired again, happy to have something with more punch than the pistol and a greater range.

  The blossom of colourful stars in the sky over the distant towns and isolated farmhouses, distracted her for a second. Enough for Evelyn to turn and look back at Byrne, cursing as she saw him stuff something small into his pocket, zipping it closed and pressing the flap flush against his chest.

  “Fuck,” she said, as she turned the barrel of the rifle towards him, pointing it straight at Byrne’s chest.

  Chapter 27

  The stink of cordite prickled at Byrne’s nose as he stared at the rifle in Evelyn Odell’s hands. He raised his hands, keeping one eye on the situation outside, aware that he might have to reach for his pistol at any moment, and risk getting shot twice. Probably dying in the process, he thought as he remembered the skill with which the Alaska State Trooper handled a firearm.

  “We should probably talk about this,” he said, keeping his voice level, but adding a twist of urgency when he said, “When everything has calmed down.”

  Byrne saw the flicker of concern in Evelyn’s eyes, and could just imagine what she was thinking. If the situation was reversed, he knew that he would have shot her already, taken the USB, and then fought his way out of the cabin. But, fortunately, she was police, and Byrne intended to make the most of her conscience, especially as his own was so diluted.

  “After all these years,” he whispered.

  “What’s that?”

  “I didn’t say anything.” Byrne shrugged. “At least nothing important.”

  The radio in Byrne’s pocket crackled, capturing Evelyn’s attention for a second or more, as a man’s voice with heavily accented English filtered through the speakers and into the cabin, requesting an update.

  “I should take that.”

  “Who is it?” Evelyn asked.

  “A man called Ivarsson.” Byrne smiled as Evelyn’s aim dropped, if only for a split second. “You know him?”

  “I know the name. He’s ex-SÄPO.”

  “Yes, although I think he might be playing both sides still.” Byrne turned his head away from Evelyn and looked out of the window, adding, “They’re going to storm the cabin any minute. You have a decision to make, and it has to be now.”

  “Give me the USB and I’ll let you go.”

  “You’ll let me go?” Byrne laughed. “I walk out that door and I die. The same goes for you. Then, whoever is waiting out there will get the USB, and this guy…” Byrne glanced at Mats groaning softly on the floor. “Well, to be honest, he doesn’t have much time left. So, whatever we decide to do, we have to do it fast. Now, you’re handy with a rifle, and a pistol, and between the two of us, we probably have a fair chance. But I’m not giving up the USB. Unless you want to die here, I suggest we work together and then work out our differences later.”

  “I don’t like ultimatums.”

  Byrne frowned. “I’m not sure I gave you one.”

  “You didn’t. But here’s mine. You help me secure the cabin, then you give me the USB. If you don’t,” Evelyn said with a shrug, “then I will shoot you. That’s my ultimatum.”

  “Fair enough,” Byrne said. He lowered his left hand, then waved his right. “I’m going for my pistol now. Okay?”

  “Yes.”

  Byrne drew his pistol, then worked his way out from behind the tabl
e, crossing the floor in a crouch until he reached the wall. He moved to the window, nodding at Evelyn that he was ready.

  “Just say the word,” he said.

  Evelyn swapped the rifle for her pistol, figuring that whoever was outside was closer now, and the rifle’s long length would make it awkward to use at such close quarters.

  She checked the pistol, cursing at the half magazine remaining.

  “Who are they, anyway?” she asked, slapping the magazine back into the gun.

  “British mercenaries. Contractors – if you prefer.”

  “And they’re here for Mats?”

  “Actually, I think they’re here for all of us.” Byrne looked at Evelyn, catching her eye, before adding, “But I think you knew that already.”

  “Suspected it,” Evelyn said. “Everything seems to connect to Iceland.”

  “Yep,” Byrne said. “Not one of my finest moments.”

  “But you were there. Why?”

  “Well, up until a few weeks ago, I was a private contractor. I took the job in Iceland…”

  “Why?”

  “Money.” Byrne sighed. “A lot of money. But not enough to make up for what happened.”

  “Your wife,” Evelyn said. “She’s the one who died.”

  “Thank you,” Byrne said. “For a second there, I thought you were going to say she fell off the roof. We both know it wasn’t the fall that killed her.” Byrne felt a tremor in his hand and stared at it, curious that it was the first time he had experienced it. “He’s here, by the way.” Byrne turned towards Evelyn. “The Icelander.”

  “Hákon’s here?”

  Byrne nodded. “He came with these guys. Which is curious, don’t you think?”

  “Etienne said he was looking for you in London.”

  “I did see him in England. But…” Byrne paused, tilting his head to listen. “It’s too quiet,” he whispered. “Get ready.”

  Byrne turned his head as a small black canister thumped into the snow outside the door. A second tumbled inside the cabin, exploding in a brilliant flash and a concussive bang immediately after the first. Byrne pushed away from the wall, raising his pistol, pulling the trigger, only to feel something hard slap the back of his hand, followed by something else – equally hard – slamming into his face. Blood streamed into Byrne’s mouth and he spat it away, slapping at the hands pulling him to his feet as he tried to open his eyes, blinking away the shock of the stun grenade.

  “This is a surprise, Cantrell,” Ansel said, as he dragged Byrne to the cabin door. “I almost had you in England.”

  “No,” Byrne said, spitting another gob of blood from his mouth. “I almost had you.”

  Byrne blinked again, saw a woman in black dragging Evelyn by her hair into the snow outside the cabin. Then, after another blink and a twist of his head, Byrne saw the same woman stagger back inside the cabin, blood pluming from her chest.

  He squirmed the toes of his boots into the floor, slipping on the glass, before finding purchase and pushing up, trying to break free of Ansel’s grip, using the woman’s death as his surprise initiative. Byrne was rewarded with a crack on the back of his head, dropping him to the cabin floor, as Ansel checked the woman’s body, then tugged the MP5 from her chest rig.

  “Perfect,” Ansel said. “I guess that’s everyone now.” He flicked his head to one side, catching Byrne’s eye. “If you took out Roberts?”

  “That’s his rifle,” Byrne said. “I followed his snowmobile tracks.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “You have to ask?”

  Ansel swapped magazines in the submachine gun, then made his way to the door, ducking his head around the door frame, searching for a target. “Humour me,” he said.

  “I went looking for the high ground. Turns out your man Roberts did the same.”

  “But who the hell is out there?” Ansel spat on the floor. “That’s what I want to know.”

  “The Icelander,” Byrne said. “I’m just guessing.”

  Ansel shook his head. “Not with his leg. He’d never get up the mountain. You shot him in the foot, remember?”

  Byrne held up two fingers. “Twice.”

  “Right.”

  “Either way,” Byrne said, curling his hand around a thick shard of glass. “We have to finish this, one way or the other.”

  Byrne pushed off the floor, slamming into Ansel’s chest, slashing at his neck with the glass shard. With more momentum and more power, he might have pushed Ansel all the way out of the cabin. Instead, the two men scrabbled for footing in the doorway. Ansel fired a three-round burst from the MP5, splintering the door frame, until Byrne grabbed his chest rig, pulling him backwards and out of the door, before Byrne stumbled, tripping over Evelyn’s legs.

  A single shot rang out, followed by the thwack of a bullet that creased the side of Ansel’s forehead. Ansel blinked, shaking his head to clear his vision.

  “Fuck,” he said. “It wasn’t meant to go this way.”

  Byrne gripped the sides of Ansel’s chest rig, straightening his arms and pushing him up in anticipation of the shooter’s second or third shot, both of which came seconds later, snapping Ansel’s head back, spattering blood onto Byrne’s face, until he flipped the dead Spurring man onto his side.

  “Stay down.”

  Byrne rolled onto his side, looking for the shooter, half expecting to see the Icelander stalking towards him, wondering what he would do if he did.

  “You’ve got me, officer,” Byrne said, raising his hands.

  “It’s Inspector,” Etienne said, as he approached. “And you?”

  “Cantrell. We’ve kind of met.”

  “I know who you are.”

  Etienne crouched beside Evelyn, keeping the MP5 trained on Byrne as he turned her over, smiling as she complained about a thumping headache.

  “That’s all?”

  “Pretty much,” Evelyn said, slipping her hand to the back of her head. She pulled it back, nodding when she saw her palm was stained with blood. “Thought so.” Evelyn lay back in the snow, making the most of the natural cold compress.

  “So,” Byrne said. “Everyone’s okay?”

  Etienne ignored him as he checked Ansel’s body, then the woman’s, and, finally, the body of the man in the snow just to the right of the cabin door.

  “You did this?” he said, looking at Byrne.

  “We did.” Byrne flicked his finger back and forth between him and Evelyn. “Combined effort. Team effort…”

  “Don’t push it,” Etienne said. He took a single step into the cabin. “Mats?”

  “He’s inside, behind the table.” Byrne pointed towards the back of the cabin. “We’ve packed his wound, but he’s going to need help very soon if he’s going to make it.” Byrne shrugged. “I’m not too optimistic, to be honest. But go see for yourself.”

  Etienne hesitated, then slung the MP5 over his shoulder as he walked into the cabin.

  Byrne waited until he was gone, glanced at Evelyn, and then rolled to his feet. He pressed his hand to the front pocket of his snowsuit, searching for the USB, and then ran, forcing his way through the deep snow, ignoring Evelyn’s warning shouts as he recalled what he could remember of the effective range of a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun.

  “Just keep moving,” he said, cursing as he fell in a deep drift of snow at the beginning of the chute below the spur.

  A burst of 9mm bullets disappeared into the snow in front of him. Byrne rolled to one side, picking himself up and running again, twisting to the sides in anticipation of the next burst of bullets. He jinked left, then further left, before pulling back to his right. He almost thought he heard the clack of someone changing magazines, and smiled at the thought of the Mountie, letting his man get away.

  “Such a cliché.”

  Byrne allowed himself a brief moment of hope as he reached the spur, now beyond the effective range of the submachine gun – no matter how skilled the shooter.

  “Shit,” he sa
id, as he risked a look back at the cabin.

  The MP5 wasn’t the only weapon available.

  Byrne took a breath in anticipation of the shot he knew was coming. His finger twitched as he imagined the pressure the Alaska State Trooper applied to the trigger as she drew a bead on him, pitching him onto his side as the bullet from the long rifle slammed into his shoulder.

  “Fuck.”

  Byrne crawled a few metres up the spur, before sliding into a long depression in the snow, like a thin channel made by skis. He picked himself up, staying low as he pressed his hand to his shoulder, cursing Evelyn for following up on her ultimatum, but curious that she didn’t shoot him in the chest.

  Maybe she tried, he thought, only to remember the USB in his pocket. Byrne shook his head and grinned at the thought that she took the trickier shot so as not to damage the intel.

  “She’s good,” he said, as he straightened his back to run the last stretch of the spur.

  Byrne paused at the lip, looking down at a straight run between the rocks into the gully below. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been sledging, before determining that sliding down the mountain would be less like sledging and more like falling.

  “No choice,” he said, and leaped over the edge.

  Byrne saw the Icelander standing in the middle of the slope as he reached the halfway mark, after which he realised there was little chance he could avoid him, and even less chance the Icelander wanted him to.

  Chapter 28

  Hákon planted the end of his walking stick into the snow like an ice anchor. He gripped the knotty handle, idly scratching at the crust of frozen blood and gore with his thumbnail as he watched Byrne’s wild descent down the slope towards him. The irony of having chased Byrne through the south of England, only to have him delivered, at high speed, straight into Hákon’s arms brought a grim smile to the Icelander’s lips. Never mind that Hákon was injured, still healing from his last encounter with Byrne Cantrell. He was buoyed by the sense of finishing things, and, not least, putting an end to the concerns he had for the safety of his family.

  So long as Cantrell lives.

  The casual observer might wonder about Hákon’s intentions. Was he a selfless bystander, putting himself in harm’s way to arrest the fall of a climber? Or, perhaps, if that same observer moved closer, would they see the murderous intentions in the Icelander’s eyes, the blood and brain matter frozen to the thick walking stick – more like a staff, really. Would they think he was selfless, a sociopath, or just a loving father doing what was necessary to save his daughter, and his family, from hands of a cold-blooded killer.