Arctic Floor

by Mark Aitken

  Grabbing at the pen and pad on the armrest, Gallen scribbled on it as Rob’s voice gave him the details.

  ‘The owner of the dark Escalade at the Capitol Motel is Royal Enterprises,’ said Gallen, reading from his note.

  ‘Same as the Simon Smith Visa card.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Gallen, waking up with the coffee and cigarette. ‘Royal Enterprises has lawyers and accountants acting as its directors and its bank is in Los Angeles. But Stansfield recognised the company secretary’s name. He’s based in Denver.’

  ‘Colorado plates.’ Winter stared out the window.

  ‘You okay, Kenny?’ said Gallen.

  Winter nodded, still looking out the window. ‘Yup.’

  ‘I mean it, man,’ said Gallen. He’d seen this sudden change in his men when he was in the field and it usually suggested unspoken fears about a gig, or it came after a soldier had received bad spouse-mail. Either way, Gallen’s job had been to pounce on that introversion before it acted out in ways that got people killed.

  Winter sucked on his smoke and massaged the bridge of his nose as he winced.

  ‘Better out than in, Marine,’ said Gallen, bringing the volume down to a whisper, increasing its impact.

  Deciding to give Winter some time free of eye contact, Gallen stood and walked to the head. Washing his face and drying off, he ran a comb through his thin dark hair and stepped back into the cabin where Winter was looking at the ceiling.

  ‘So?’ Gallen sat down and grabbed his coffee.

  ‘So,’ said Winter, the prairie drawl so slow that a casual observer would think this man simple. ‘That Escalade at Del Rey, with Colorado plates?’

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘I thought it might be a coincidence,’ said Winter, tapping ash, his face having set solid. ‘But it ain’t no coincidence, not after that shit in the Britannia yards.’

  ‘What coincidence?’

  Winter sighed. ‘They ain’t chasing you, boss. They’re after me.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Old shit, from the Ghan,’ said Winter.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t have a name.’

  ‘What do you have?’ said Gallen, annoyed at the evasion.

  ‘Unfinished business,’ said Winter.

  ‘They don’t want to kill you,’ said Gallen. ‘So what? Snatch you? Interrogate you?’

  ‘Both,’ said Winter. ‘You don’t need to be involved.’

  ‘I’m already involved, Kenny—’

  ‘I’m sorting it out, soon as we land.’ Winter nodded slowly in the same way Mike Tyson used to before a fight.

  They held stares for twenty seconds, before Winter turned away. ‘Sorry, boss. That’s the best I can do.’

  ‘Roy,’ said Gallen. ‘He really safe?’

  ‘Safer than me or you,’ said Winter. ‘Please trust me to sort this out.’

  ‘Can I trust you, Kenny?’

  ‘With your life,’ said Winter. ‘I’m good for it.’

  ~ * ~

  Zipping his Carhartt jacket against the cold, Gallen hurried across the car park blacktop, tiny ice crystals crushing under his boots as they approached the white van in the yellow glow of the floodlights.

  Waiting at the passenger door while Winter put a mini Maglite between his teeth and did a quick IED check under the vehicle, Gallen reached into his pocket and came out with a depleted pack of Marlboros. Pushing his fingers into the soft foil, he found the last smoke as the steel pressed firmly into the indentation behind his left ear.

  Gallen dropped the Marlboros and spread his fingers as he lifted his hands. A man’s hand gripped his right elbow and pushed upwards.

  ‘Hands on your head,’ the man whispered.

  As Gallen put his hands on his head, the man’s hand dropped to the SIG in his waistband and whipped it out in a fast, smooth action. The opportunity to attack was gone and as the barrel pushed harder into his head, Gallen watched another man, dressed in black, shuffle to the side of the van with a handgun held cup-and-saucer.

  As Winter emerged, Maglite between his teeth, Gallen was about to warn him but something heavy descended behind his right ear and the last thing he saw was the tarmac racing towards his face.

  ~ * ~

  Gallen, his hands flexi-cuffed behind his back, opened his mouth and allowed the man who called himself Simon Smith to put two Tylenol 3s onto his tongue. Gulping at the offered bottle of water, Gallen got the painkillers down as the volcano in his skull started to erupt.

  ‘Didn’t need to hit me,’ he said, shifting his butt backwards along the lino flooring to get better support against the wall. The room was large and looked like it was part of an abandoned showroom.

  ‘No I didn’t,’ said Simon, who looked to be in his early thirties, sandy hair, pale eyes. He was dressed in a pair of chinos and a plum-coloured polo shirt. ‘But it’s not every day I render a couple hard-ons like you and Winter.’

  Gallen detected an East Coast born-to-rule accent beneath the tough-guy act. ‘Could have asked me what you wanted,’ he said, the throbbing lump behind his ear making him nauseous.

  Simon laughed. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’ Gallen shut his eyes against the stars dancing in his vision. ‘At the very least, you want a man to get hit? Hit him yourself.’

  Simon’s face hardened very quickly. ‘Who said I didn’t hit you?’

  ‘Hah,’ said Gallen, smiling. ‘No soldier’s gonna boast that he hit a man from behind.’

  Simon stood up, a sneer on his face. ‘You’re cocky for someone in such a lot of shit.’

  ‘Cocky is relative,’ said Gallen.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Gallen, conversational. ‘Like, the guy who’s gonna kick your ass, break your jaw? He’s relatively more cocky than the dude who slaps other dudes from behind.’

  ‘Shut up, Gallen,’ said Simon, hand reaching for his pistol.

  ‘You office guys sure like violence for a bunch of pansies who spend their lives avoiding it.’

  The 9mm handgun came out, and found its level at Gallen’s forehead. He looked back, making himself control his heart rate. ‘Safety’s on, Simon. Use your right thumb.’

  ‘Fuck you, Gallen,’ said Simon. ‘The whole war-hero thing doesn’t impress me.’

  ‘I need the news, not the weather,’ said Gallen, flinching from a piece of spittle. The 9mm’s barrel pressed into his forehead and he relaxed, knowing he’d beaten the spook, or whatever he was.

  ‘You could die here today.’ Simon’s face twisted. ‘Medals or no medals, it doesn’t worry me.’

  ‘Where’s Kenny?’ said Gallen.

  ‘Mind your business.’

  ‘You got nice legs, Simon. You do ballet?’

  The pistol slapped across Gallen’s left cheek and blood flowed freely out of his left nostril.

  ‘I said, shut up, Gallen!’

  Gallen had won: the office boy was losing it. Now he wanted him slightly closer.

  ‘That’s a real sissy slap, Simon,’ he said with a smile, as the blood ran onto his lap. ‘Back home there’s girl hockey players with more stand-up than you.’

  A cloud formed under Simon’s face and he stowed the 9mm in his belt as he reached forward and grabbed Gallen’s hair. Simon’s fist drew back; as he readied to throw the punch, Gallen leaned to his right and hooked his right leg, sweeping it back hard against the outside of his assailant’s left knee, dropping Simon to the mat.

  Rolling his left leg across Simon’s body as he fell to the lino, Gallen kneeled over him and ducked into a punch that glanced off his left cheek. Using his momentum, Gallen threw a fast head-butt directly into Simon’s front teeth.

  Hearing the teeth snap and the involuntary gasp of pain, Gallen used the brief moment of shock to force his manacled hands down behind his hips to Simon’s belt. Grabbing the handgun, he rolled away and sprang to his feet.

  Fumbling with the weapon, trying to get the safety off from a back-to-front positi
on, Gallen turned away from Simon and aimed the pistol. The first shot went off before he had full control and the bullet hit the plasterboard. As Simon panicked and tried to crawl backwards on his ass, Gallen felt his hair being grabbed and a barrel being forced into his eyeball.

  A deep voice told him to drop it.

  Gallen’s adrenaline was peaking but the man behind the weapon had killed before, judging by his voice.

  Dropping the 9mm to the floor, Gallen stood straight, panting as he looked at the man behind the pistol.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, looking at the big dark face as he caught his breath. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. ‘Royal Enterprises, huh?’

  ‘King of Chev,’ said Ern Dale. ‘And don’t you forget it.’

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER 53

  ‘I didn’t kill Bren,’ said Gallen, fast as he could.

  ‘I know,’ said Dale, eyes steady.

  ‘You know? Then what’s this about?’ said Gallen, nodding at Simon Smith.

  Several yards away Simon groaned as he found his feet, gingerly touching his mouth, which was bleeding down his shirt.

  Dale shook his head. ‘It’s about boys and men, right, Gerry?’

  ‘Story of my life.’ Gallen sniffed back blood. ‘Where’s Kenny? We’ve got things to do.’

  ‘Kenny’s gonna be spending some time with me, Gerry.’

  ‘He works for me, Ern.’

  ‘Have a seat,’ said Dale, trousering the pistol and walking to a picnic table with three steel-framed chairs around it. ‘Maybe you can help me.’ Pulling a chair out for Gallen, he yelled across the room, ‘Simon, get us some coffee and bring those cookies you hidin’. The chocolate ones.’

  Simon left the room, dripping blood.

  ‘That’s some fancy fightin’, Gerry,’ said Dale, lighting a smoke. ‘Takes me back to the old days and those instructors at Bragg. Made us fight with wrists tied up, with ankles tied up. Hated that trainin’.’

  ‘Fort Bragg?’ said Gallen. ‘That’s Army. Green Berets?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Thought you was Corps? Thought Bren was in your footsteps?’ Ern Dale laughed. ‘No, Bren knew if he walked into an Army recruiting office, I’d know before the day was out.’

  ‘So he joined the Marines?’

  Dale shrugged. ‘I told him, Gerry. I told him, Son, one Dale, in one war—that’s enough for Uncle Sam. I gave up my youth for that shit, and I ain’t giving up no son for that too.’ He looked away and when he looked back his eyes were wet and his face was hard. ‘And he goes out on one job for me, and . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘His funeral’s tomorrow, Fairmount. Fourteen hundred. Bren would want you there.’

  ‘Fairmount?’ said Gallen. He would have expected Dale to be buried at the military cemetery. ‘Not Fort Logan?’

  ‘You think that’s selfish, Gerry?’ said Dale, a challenge more than a question.

  ‘Just surprised.’

  Ern Dale played with his fingers. ‘Yeah, well. He’s in the military section of Fairmount. You be there?’

  ‘I’ll try. If I get out of this alive.’

  ‘Then be straight with me and we all walk away. My word on that.’

  ‘Shoot,’ said Gallen as Simon arrived with a thermos flask and two plastic mugs. He poured the coffees, his face a mess of drying blood.

  ‘Black and one,’ said Gallen, not taking his eyes off Simon, who threw a handful of sugar sachets on the table and dropped the cookies.

  ‘Hands,’ said Dale, pointing at Gallen.

  Simon started to argue, but Ern Dale’s sudden eyeballing worked faster than a TV remote. Snipping Gallen’s wrists free, Simon took a seat away from the table and sat with his 9mm on his lap.

  Dale’s face changed as he turned to Gallen. ‘So, where’s the money, Gerry?’

  Gallen poured the sugar into his coffee. ‘What money?’

  ‘Don’t be clever, Gerry. I don’t want you, just the dough.’

  ‘I don’t know enough to be clever, Ern,’ said Gallen, picking up Dale’s disposable cigarette lighter and using it as a swizzle stick in the coffee. ‘This about Durville money? Oasis money?’

  Dale’s nostrils flared and he offered Gallen a cigarette. ‘You want me to believe you spend all this time with Kenny and you don’t know about the money? Shit, Gerry. Soldiers only talk about two things, and the other one’s women.’

  Gallen shrugged. ‘I mean it, Ern: what money?’

  ‘A lot of money, Gerry,’ said Dale. ‘That’s what money.’

  Gallen’s mind was doing backflips. Kenny had told him on the plane that he was going to deal with the Royal Enterprises connection. But he only said it once the company was connected to Denver— and, thought Gallen, to Ern Dale. Who was Dale working for? He had to tread carefully because a lot of money and a lot of ignorance was a dangerous combination. He didn’t want to mouth off and get someone killed.

  ‘Tell me, Ern.’

  ‘No,’ said Dale, sipping the coffee. ‘You tell me, Gerry. Where’s the money? Where’s it stashed?’

  ‘You think I’m running around in the snow, getting shot at, ‘cos I’ve got a stash?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Dale. ‘But I know something belonging to my friends is now in the possession of a certain Canadian shooter.’

  ‘Your friends?’

  ‘Let’s just say that Kenny goes out to do a little job for some important people and he don’t come back with what he should come back with.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘My friends expect their operators to skim a little, take what they can hide in their pants,’ said Dale, opening his palms in the gesture of a reasonable man. ‘It’s hard out there and no one gets paid what they worth. But when you take the whole fleece from these people, there’s consequences.’

  Gallen sagged a little, dragged on the smoke as he thought about it. What had Kenny got himself into? ‘So this is a spook thing, right, Ern? You doing clean-up duty for the Pentagon? Bunch of spooks missed their pay-day, they call in their old buddy Ern to track it down?’

  ‘Don’t play games, Gerry,’ said Dale, crushing out his cigarette. ‘Where is it? On the farm? You got Roy on the job?’

  ‘No, Ern.’

  ‘That lawyer, right? Or that bank? You were in there an hour and they got safe-deposit boxes down there, Gerry.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Yeah, but Kenny does, I bet.’

  ‘Look, Ern—’

  Dale held up his hand as if something had just occurred to him. ‘Hey, how about this, Gerry? That girlfriend of yours. She keeping something for ya?’

  Gallen blushed. ‘I don’t have no girlfriend.’

  ‘Sure you do, Gerry. Fine-lookin’ filly. Looks like . . .’ He turned to Simon and clicked his fingers. ‘Who that Hollywood actress you and Bren say she look like?’

  ‘Diane Lane,’ said Simon through the bloody rag he was holding to his mouth.

  ‘That’s it,’ Ern said, facing Gallen. ‘Diane Lane. That’s who—’

  ‘Her name’s Yvonne and she knows less than me, Ern,’ said Gallen, understanding that Dale was trying to push him.

  ‘Or Momma? She doing well for herself, Gerry. Got that nice place round Diamond Head.’

  Gallen tried to control his response. Ern Dale was doing to him what he’d just done to Simon. Trying to bust him up a little, get him talking loose and emotional.

  ‘Well, Ern,’ he said through clenched teeth, ‘just as we’re getting all friendly, you have to make it like that.’

  ‘Don’t have to be like that, Gerry.’

  Gallen took a deep breath. ‘You’re not talking to Kenny? ‘

  Dale swapped a look with Simon.

  Gallen didn’t like it. ‘Where’s Kenny? He okay?’

  The noises started as a distant scuffle and the three of them stopped and listened.

  And then a shot rang out.

  ~ * ~r />
  CHAPTER 54

  ‘Simon,’ said Dale, raising his 9mm and waving it at the door. ‘Check it out.’

  Getting to his feet, Gallen looked to the door as multiple shots suggested people firing back.