Goliath

by Richard Turner

Outside, a heavy, blowing snow had blanketed Mitchell’s rented car.

  Silently, a shape moved out from the snow-covered pine trees lining the road to Reid’s cottage. Slowly, the form coalesced into that of a man dressed in military-style, winter-white coveralls. Clenched firmly in his hands was an AK-74 with a long suppressor on it. Stopping a meter away from the driver’s side of the rental car, the man raised his AK to his shoulder, took aim, and noiselessly fired off three rounds into the vehicle’s engine block, instantly disabling it.

  Cautiously, the man looked about and then, with a slight wave of his hand, four more men, all dressed in white, emerged like ghosts out of the blowing snow and walked over to the assassin.

  “All right, I want this done quickly and quietly. Listen up; I do not want the woman to be harmed in the slightest. As for the old man, keep him alive long enough for him to give us what information he has. After that, kill him. The other man inside is a former soldier and is highly dangerous, so don’t hesitate, kill him on sight,” explained Teplov to his men, his voice as cold as the snow falling to the ground, covering their tracks.

  The mercenaries nodded their acknowledgment. With precision learned from years of brutal fighting deep inside Chechnya, the men silently fanned out and took up fire positions around the building.

  Teplov was pleased with the operation thus far. It had taken a lot of money to get his weapons of choice delivered to Alaska on such short notice, but Teplov always knew how to find men who only needed money to look the other way. Like his men, all Teplov cared about was money, lots of money, and as long as it flowed he was willing to take the risks. A series of quick clicks sounded in his earpiece. A crooked smile crept across his scarred face. His men were all in position, and ready to begin the assault.

  Inside the cottage, Sandy raised her ears. Sitting up, she began to growl at the front door.

  “Be quiet, Sandy,” ordered Reid.

  Mitchell looked over at the dog and instantly felt his pulse race. Something’s troubling the dog. He had been with teams who had used dogs in Afghanistan, and knew that the dog was bothered by something unseen. Something dangerous.

  The dog growled more deeply. Sandy slowly crept toward the front door, baring her teeth to ward off the approaching threat.

  “Sandy, come here,” said Reid, snapping his fingers to get the dog’s attention.

  Mitchell’s instincts kicked into high gear. “Mister Reid, do you have any guns here?” he asked, looking around for exits. Mitchell gritted his teeth. He had underestimated the persistence of his opponents. He would not do that again.

  Reid nodded, walked over to a closed wooden closet in the kitchen, and then opened the doors, revealing an old double-barreled shotgun.

  Mitchell practically sprinted over and snatched the shotgun out of the closet.

  Sandy growled again and moved over beside her master, defiantly protecting him from the invisible danger.

  “What’s going on, Ryan?” asked Jen nervously.

  “Not sure, but I don’t think we’re alone,” answered Mitchell.

  Pleased to see that Reid kept his shotgun in pristine condition, Mitchell grabbed a couple of shells, swiftly loaded them in, and then slammed the shotgun closed. He stuffed more shells into his pockets. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Mitchell pointed the shotgun at the front door.

  “Sir, is there another way in or out of here?” Mitchell asked Reid over his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the door, expecting to see an unwanted guest at any second.

  “There’s a back door and the one leading to the garage,” replied Reid, reaching for his thick, red hunting jacket.

  “Is your car in there?” said Mitchell, edging back from the front of the house.

  “My car’s in town, getting repaired. It was giving me trouble, so my friend Julie gave me a lift in and out of town yesterday,” Reid said.

  Mitchell was about to say something, when suddenly, the world around them exploded in a hail of bullets, broken glass, and wooden splinters, as gunfire tore through the house. Reid never had a chance. Hit dozens of times in his chest, he staggered backward, before falling straight back onto the floor, dead.

  Mitchell barely had time to pull Jen to the floor, covering her with his body.

  The deadly torrent of bullets tore through the cottage, sending bits of wood and furniture spinning through the air. Mitchell tried lifting his head to see where the gunfire was coming from, but with the volume of fire tearing through the house, he couldn’t see a thing. Their opponents were too well hidden. Unlike before, Mitchell knew he was facing professionals.

  Jen screamed; the noise was deafening as bullets continued to tear the old wooden cottage apart. It was as if a giant were taking a buzz saw to the whole place. Wooden debris and pieces of chewed-up books rained down on Mitchell and Jen.

  The shooting stopped. Silence filled the air.

  Mitchell knew what was coming next. Moving away from Jen, he quickly brought the shotgun up to his shoulder and took aim at the front door.

  Simultaneously, the front and back doors of the house exploded inward. The doors shattered into thousands of pieces by the force of the shaped charges placed against them.

  Mitchell felt the explosions deep inside his body. His ears rang from the blasts.

  “Stay down!” yelled Mitchell at Jen, just as a white shape appeared in the blown-out entrance to the house. It dropped to one knee and raised its AK, intent on spraying the inside of the house with a deadly fusillade of bullets.

  Mitchell did not hesitate. Pulling back on the first trigger, the shotgun roared in his hands. Flames leaped from the barrel of the old weapon as the 12-gauge pellets hit the attacker square in the chest. The force of the impact threw the man backward, and out into the yard. His dead body lay there, the falling snow slowly covering his bloody chest.

  Mitchell spun around on the floor and aimed the shotgun over the top of Jen, and toward the destroyed back door. Without waiting for a target to appear, he counted to two in his head and fired.

  The Russian attacker coming in the back door had not anticipated anyone surviving the initial assault on the house. His complacency cost him, as he stepped into the opening and was hit by the blast from Mitchell’s shotgun. Screaming in pain, the man tumbled forward as the pellets tore into his groin and upper legs. The man let go of his rifle as he fell to the floor, reaching down in agonizing pain for his bloodied legs. In anguish, the man rolled around on the floor, swearing at the top of his lungs in Russian.

  “Grab the notes and stay behind me,” said Mitchell to Jen, as he stood and quickly loaded a couple more shells into the shotgun.

  Behind them, Sandy lay silently on the floor beside her master.

  Mitchell looked around quickly at the dead man at the front of the house and the wounded one at the back, and instantly decided that their best chance of survival lay in getting as much distance as they could from their attackers. He knew that he had only delayed, not stopped, their assailants. With the shotgun firmly tucked in his hands, Mitchell edged toward the destroyed back door.

  Cold air rushed in, cooling Mitchell’s sweating body as he edged forward, carefully peering out into the blowing snow. He was relieved to see that there were no more mercenaries waiting for them outside, but something told him to be wary. It would be dark soon, but not soon enough.

  The wounded man cursed Mitchell and reached for a pistol jammed into his chest harness.

  Mitchell saw the motion out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he lowered the shotgun butt straight onto the man’s head, knocking the man unconscious with a loud thud. His body lay in a bleeding heap on the hardwood floor.

  Mitchell bent down and picked up the wounded man’s AK, checked the magazine to see that it was full, and then handed the shotgun to Jen, who took it but gave Mitchell a look that said she had no clue how to use it.

  “Point it at the bad guys and pull the trigger if you have to,” whispered Mitchell, his voice barely loud enough to hear
. “We need to get to the garage,” he added, motioning for Jen to keep close behind him.

  Jen nodded; she was scared beyond belief, but trusted Mitchell with her life, so she did as she was told.

  “Okay, let’s go,” said Mitchell as they quickly darted into Reid’s musky-smelling and dimly lit garage. There was no heat inside. Mitchell could see his breath and felt the growing cold starting to envelop his sweating body.

  Mitchell knew there was only one way out. He ran to the closed front door of the garage, unlocked it, and opened it barely an inch before doubling back and opening the side door on the ice speeder. Quickly ushering Jen inside the aged vehicle, Mitchell jumped in and closed the door behind them. The interior was bare, except for two old canvas chairs bolted to the floor, for the driver and a passenger. Mitchell took a seat behind the controls and looked down at the paint-chipped console, trying to find the ignition.

  Jen pointed at a large red button on the driver’s side. “I think that might be it,” she said, crossing her fingers for luck as Mitchell reached down and pushed the button. A split second later, with a loud bang, the engine loudly coughed and sputtered to life.

  Quickly looking down, Mitchell was happy to see that there were a gas pedal and a hand brake to control the speed of the craft. There was no time to waste. Mitchell smashed his foot hard on the gas and felt the speeder lurch forward. A second later, they hit the garage doors, throwing them open. Blowing snow instantly rushed inside, blinding Mitchell for a moment, but he was not going to hesitate nor slow down. With a sharp turn on the half-moon-shaped driver’s wheel, Mitchell turned the speeder away from the house and headed for the frozen lake, leaving a swirling white cloud of powdered snow in his wake.

  Teplov stepped into the doorway of the wrecked cottage; wood and glass crunched underfoot. His blood boiled as he stared down at the lifeless body of one of his men. He had not heard from the other attacker, and knew that he was either dead or incapacitated. He shook his head in disgust. How could one man be such a pain in the ass?

  Teplov keyed his throat-mic. “Anatoly, Isaak, this is Teplov, I think both Pasha and Petya are down,” said Teplov, his voice unemotional as he reported the news. “Stay alert, I think they got out through the back door,” Teplov added as he walked through the house to confirm his nagging suspicion about his men. Heading into the kitchen, Teplov saw Petya lying by the back door. He was still breathing, but his legs were a bloody mess. Teplov doubted that he would live much longer from the loss of blood and the onset of shock. Time was against them; he could not spend the time to care for the wounded man, nor could he risk him being taken alive by the police. Lowering his rifle, Teplov fired a bullet into the dying man’s skull, sending him on his way. Finding he could no longer control the anger racing through him, Teplov lashed out with his foot, sending a small coffee table flying against the far wall, shattering it into pieces.

  The sound of an engine coming to life in the garage outside caught Teplov’s attention. He edged to the back door with his weapon at the ready. Teplov was stunned to see an old red ice speeder burst out of the garage, picking up speed as it raced off. Quickly firing off two shots, he ran forward to get a better view, only to be blinded by a blowing wall of snow thrown up by the escaping speeder’s fan.

  Teplov snarled into his mic at his accomplices. “Get back to the car right now, or I’ll leave you for the police!” Seeing the speeder reach the lake, Teplov swore, turned on his heels, and then dashed back through the trashed house and out toward their waiting H2 SUV.

  “I hope there’s a working heater in this icebox,” said Jen, as she rubbed her cold hands together, trying to get some feeling and warmth back in them. Neither Jen nor Mitchell had had the time to grab their warm winter clothing during the attack, so both now sat in the speeder, shivering in the cold. Looking over the control panel, Jen saw a small toggle switch. She reached over, flipped up the switch and hoped for the best.

  Seconds later, warm air started to blow into the cabin of the speeder. Jen leaned forward and put her hands over the vent, letting the heat warm her near-frozen hands.

  Mitchell was happy to feel the heat start to warm the cabin. The snow was coming down in thick clumps, making it more difficult by the second to see through the plastic windshield of the speeder. The last thing he wanted to do was smash into a sunken log sticking through the ice, or run head-on into an outcropping of rocks. To do so would mean severe injury or death for the two of them.

  “Any idea where we’re going?” asked Jen as she looked over at Mitchell.

  “I think we’re heading south. So, we’re going in the right direction back toward town,” replied Mitchell.

  Mitchell reached over and rubbed the fogged up window with his hand, trying to see outside as he drove the speeder down the lake through the deteriorating winter storm.

  “Hopefully, we should be in Palmer in the next five to ten minutes,” said Mitchell as he peered out of the frosty windshield, trying to discern any landmarks that they may have passed earlier, hoping that they might help tell him where they were.

  Jen was about to say something, when a dark object appeared directly in front of them, coming out of the swirling snow. Mitchell thought for a second that it was an abandoned ice-fishing hut and was about to steer around it, when the mass started to race at them. At the last second, Mitchell realized that it was a vehicle.

  The sound of bullets tearing into the side of the speeder forced Mitchell and Jen to duck down as the car raced past, barely a meter away from them, a man wildly firing his AK from his open window.

  “Who the hell was that?” a terrified Jen yelled, as Mitchell looked over her shoulder at the Hummer as it disappeared into the thick blowing snow.

  “It would appear that our friends are back. They must have a really good GPS, and some top-of-the-line snow tires on their damned Hummer,” he explained as he floored the speeder’s gas pedal. The engine surged as the speeder skimmed over the icy surface of the frozen lake. Mitchell knew the speeder was old and probably wouldn’t take much more punishment, but he didn’t care. At that moment, he needed all the power the aged vehicle could give him.

  In the SUV, the driver, Anatoly, cursed as he turned the wheel hard over in his calloused hands. He felt the tires of his Hummer struggling to grip the snow and ice beneath him. He let go of the accelerator, turned into the slide and felt his vehicle’s tires find purchase. With a practiced move, Anatoly swiftly turned the vehicle around, floored the accelerator, and then, like a charging Siberian tiger, the Hummer sped back into the blowing whiteout and after the fleeing speeder.

  “Don’t let them get away this time,” Teplov said from the passenger seat, as he loaded a fresh magazine into his AK.

  Anatoly’s blood was up. He smiled to himself; the hunt was on again.

  Mitchell strained to see if the car was still after them; his frustration grew when he realized the storm was getting worse by the minute. All he could see now was the snow as it accumulated on the speeder’s windshield. Looking over, Mitchell realized their side mirrors were also caked with snow, rendering them useless.

  “Do you think we lost them?” asked Jen, trying to see their pursuers in the whiteout.

  “They won’t quit, not now. Unlike us, they don’t need to see where they’re going. All they need to know is how to read their GPS’ electronic map.”

  “At least we’re both in this awful weather,” Jen said, hoping that their adversary was as blind as they were, but somehow, knowing her luck, she doubted it.

  Mitchell gripped the speeder’s steering wheel hard the instant he heard the sound of the Hummer rapidly approaching from somewhere behind them. He turned his head just in time. The SUV emerged out of the blowing snow like a charging tiger intent on getting its meal. With a loud thump, the Hummer smashed into the driver’s side of the speeder, easily crumpling the thin aluminum box.

  Mitchell cursed under his breath. He was growing desperate. Taking a deep breath, he turned the speeder
into the Hummer, hoping to cause their attacker some damage as well.

  Both vehicles swayed from side to side like drunken prizefighters. The Hummer may have been heavier, but the speeder had the advantage of mobility and traction on the ice. With a quick flick of the wrist, Mitchell turned the speeder away from their attacker and sped off, hoping to use the cover of the blowing snow to escape.

  “We can’t keep this up forever,” said Mitchell, reaching down and picking up the AK that he had taken from the wounded killer. “Jen, I need you to take over,” he said as he edged out of his seat, making room for her.

  “I was hoping you would ask,” said Jen with a shaky smile, as she jumped from her seat and quickly took over the speeder’s controls from Mitchell. “Guns are your forte, but I can drive, and now that I’m scared out of my mind I’m sure I can drive like the wind.”

  Mitchell squeezed Jen’s shoulder, and then moved over to the side door of the speeder. Looking out the tiny side-door porthole, Mitchell couldn’t see more than ten meters in the blinding snow. “Okay. I know this going to sound crazy, but I want you to trust me on this one. Jen, I want you to slow down.”

  “Are you nuts?” said Jen over her shoulder. “I thought we wanted to get away, not give in.”

  “We’ll never outrun them, so let’s have them come to us,” said Mitchell, with a tight grin.

  “Ryan, I hope you know what you’re doing,” Jen said as she took her foot off the gas pedal. The vehicle began to slow down to a mere crawl along the ice.

  Anatoly cursed the weather as he peered into the near-impenetrable wall of snow. He had been in many whiteouts in Russia, but never one when he was in pursuit of someone over a frozen lake. His stomach was in knots. If he failed to find the Americans, Teplov would surely gut him and his partner without hesitation. Peering down at the GPS, he saw that they were nearing the shoreline of the lake. A dark shape in front of them began to emerge through the snow.

  It can only be one thing, thought Anatoly. Speeding up, he raced to close the distance before they tried to escape once more.

  Mitchell saw the Hummer coming for them. He took a deep breath and opened the door. The bitter, cold wind whipped inside, freezing Mitchell to his core.

  Unexpectedly, the front ski on their speeder hit the top of an ice-covered boulder sticking through the ice, sending it bouncing up into the air. Mitchell barely had time to shoot out his free hand and grab onto of the open door, stopping himself from being thrown out of the vehicle and onto the frozen lake.

  “Sorry,” called out Jen. “I must have hit a rock or something. I think we’re getting close to the shoreline. I’ll try to take us back out onto the lake.”

  “No! Keep going straight. If it sucks for us, it will for them, too.” yelled Mitchell, as he struggled to pull himself back inside the speeder. Mitchell saw their opponent’s car racing at them. He brought the AK up to his shoulder and took aim.

  Jen yelled something, but Mitchell never heard her; his mind was too fixed on the vehicle speeding at them.

  The Hummer was now only seconds away; it was so close that Mitchell did not even need to aim. Flipping the AK’s selector to full auto, Mitchell pulled the trigger and held it down as he emptied the entire thirty-round magazine into the vehicle. Bullets shot into the windshield of the approaching Hummer, shattering the glass and tearing into the hapless driver, his body jerking violently as the bullets struck his body.

  The dead driver’s hands still clenched the steering wheel. His lifeless body slowly slumped over, turning the wheel hard left. Blinded by the blowing snow and wind whipping inside their vehicle, Teplov struggled to reach over and pull the dead driver away from the wheel. Jamming his foot down hard on the brake pedal, Teplov fought to bring the SUV to a stop before they hit something and ended up flipping over on the ice.

  Mitchell slammed the speeder’s side door closed, dropped the empty AK onto the floor, shook the snow from his body, and moved over to Jen. He slid down into the passenger seat, looked over at Jen and smiled. If she was scared by everything that was happening around her, she surely didn’t show it.

  Mitchell peered out the frosted window and saw what he took to be a cottage set back from the edge of the lake. “Jen, head over to the right,” he said, pointing at the dark shape in the distance.

  Jen nodded and then turned the speeder toward land.

  They were less than ten meters from the shore when disaster struck. Unseen in the blowing snow was the top of a log lodged deep in the ice. The speeder hit the log head-on. In the blink of an eye, their speeder came to a bone-jarring halt. Jen screamed as she was thrown forward by the impact, her head hitting the dash, knocking her out cold. Blood streamed from a deep gash on her forehead. Mitchell raised his arms to cover his face as he flew straight through the plastic windshield, his body tumbling end over end until he came to a stop beside a small ice-fishing cabin.

  With his hand raised to block the blowing snow, Teplov brought the battered SUV to a halt beside the destroyed speeder. He picked up his AK, he jumped from the vehicle, ran over to the side of the speeder, and pulled open the side door. Thrusting his weapon inside, he expected Mitchell to be there waiting for him. Instead, all he saw was Jen lying facedown on the dash, slowly being covered by the snow blowing in through the damaged front end of the vehicle.

  “Get her and put her in the car,” said Teplov to the last surviving gunman with him. Gripping his AK tight in his hands, Teplov moved to the front of the speeder and looked around for Mitchell. The wind had picked up, making it hard for him to see more than a few meters in front of his face. He looked down but could not find any tracks leading away from the destroyed speeder. If Mitchell survived the impact, he’s long gone, reasoned Teplov. He ran back and helped Jen into the back of their SUV. He covered her with a blanket, jumped into the driver’s seat, and turned the vehicle toward the shoreline. Minutes later, they were on the road heading back toward Palmer, where he intended to steal another vehicle and then make their way to Anchorage, where a private jet awaited his return. It had been a costly venture, but Teplov had obtained the woman for his employer. With this one act, he’d restored his tarnished reputation. Now, an even more challenging mission lay ahead for him in the deserts of West Africa.

  A numbing cold filled Mitchell’s body. He saw the impact repeatedly in his mind. He tried to move, but found that he was pinned underneath something. Mitchell forced his near-frozen eyelids open and saw that his feet had come to rest under a bench that had sunk into the snow, pinning him to the ice. Out of the corner of his eye, a dark shape appeared. It seemed to hover over him for a moment, before reaching down for him. With a painful tug, Mitchell felt his legs being pulled free. He tried to speak, but found that his vision was narrowing. A second later, he blacked out.

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