Arctic Floor

by Mark Aitken

  Parking the SUV in an overgrown farm driveway, they removed the gear bags and checked their stash. It was all there, including each of their preferred weapons.

  Ford pulled out the black nylon bag and quickly assembled the Klepper folding kayak, one of the large three-man versions favoured by the British Special Boat Service.

  ‘Guess you don’t need a hand,’ said Winter, tiger-striping his face.

  ‘In the Navy they’d make us do this in the dark,’ said Ford. ‘You get it wrong, you get wet.’

  ‘Only get it wrong once,’ said Winter.

  After covering the Suburban, they dragged the Klepper to the council drain that ran just off the road. According to the Society of Canadian Ornithologists’ map of southern Ontario, the drains through the Grey-Bruce counties of Ontario were the size of decent creeks and were navigable for twenty or thirty miles at a time. That was great for bird watching, thought Gallen, and it might even be useful for a snatch.

  Doing a last-minute check with Tucker, Gallen showed him the bridge he wanted him to park on.

  ‘This bridge gives you an excuse to monitor the river,’ said Gallen, pointing at the map. ‘It might even give you an elevation, let you see the farmhouse.’ He pointed at their target. ‘But we’re going silent for this one, okay, Liam? When I need you it’ll be three clicks on the radio. Then you come in hot.’

  ‘And if I think they’ve spotted you in the creek, I give three clicks?’

  ‘Got it.’

  The Klepper slipped along the creek, which meandered across wetlands and pastures, under bridges and through culverts. After twelve minutes, Gallen checked the homing device and realised they were close by. Carrying the kayak over a large beaver dam, they paddled for another five minutes and found themselves at the back of a farm.

  Stealthing onto the river bank they dragged the Klepper under bushes and checked their weapons. They glassed the ground, which sloped up gently across three paddocks to the farmhouse, set off slightly from an old ramp barn. Each paddock was bordered with cedars and ash, giving them cover as they moved.

  Looking at his G-Shock, Gallen yawned: 7.41 am.

  ‘Single file, boys,’ he said. ‘Kenny, your lead.’

  They jogged across the paddocks, uninterested cattle chewing as they closed on the blind side of the barn, hidden from the house. Small patches of snow lay under the trees and Gallen could feel the cold through his jacket.

  They crouched behind a pile of old lumber sixty feet short of the barn, heaving for breath as Gallen checked the homing screen. Using the magnify option, he looked closer.

  ‘I don’t think she’s in the house,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’ said Winter.

  Gallen pointed at the barn.

  On the far side of the barn, three horses walked to the top rail of the fence and looked over at them. Lying as flat as they could, the men waited for the nags to lose interest: if any of the kidnappers were farm people, they’d immediately see the horses’ attention had been caught.

  ‘Why can you never get a horse focused on any damn thing, until they take an interest in precisely the wrong thing?’ said Winter, lying under the lumber. ‘Fricking nags got a brain like a pea.’

  After five minutes, Gallen raised his head and saw the rail was empty. Getting to their feet, they closed on the barn via the horse yards. Peering through the gap made by the horse door and the upright, Gallen saw an empty line of stalls inside. Gently, he slipped his knife up the gap and slipped off the latch that was holding the door from the inside.

  Letting themselves into the cold barn, they moved along the empty stalls, the breeze making a loose piece of ceiling flap slightly. The homing signal said she was close by.

  Rounding the corner, Gallen looked down the main lane of the barn, horse stalls leading off it. The smell of burning emanated from somewhere and Gallen stealthed to the first stall. Nothing.

  At the second stall, he opened the door and looked in, pistol raised. The smell was coming from a burnt-down brazier. Florita Mendes lay on a bed of straw against the far wall.

  Gallen made to move and Florita shook her head, wide-eyed. Gallen froze, and looked down. A few inches from his shin was a filament line that ran across the doorway and up the wall. Gallen saw where it ended: a frag grenade taped to the ceiling.

  Gallen mouthed, ‘Where are they?’ and she responded with a pointed finger. Leaning back, he caught Winter’s eye. The Canadian had seen Florita’s signal and he and Ford moved softly down the lane of stalls to where an office sat at the end.

  Holding his breath, Gallen waited until Ford stuck his head out of the office with the thumbs-up. Winter came out wiping his blade.

  Regrouping, Gallen whispered, ‘I think we can make the snatch, take her out in the boat.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Winter.

  They cut Florita loose and walked out of the barn the way they’d come. As they crossed the horse yards and made to jog across the fields back to the Klepper, a shot sounded. They turned. The shot had come from the direction of the house, but it sounded further away. More shots sounded.

  ‘Get eyes,’ said Gallen, pulling Florita back into the lee of the barn.

  Winter got his binoculars free and had a look. ‘Shit,’ he mumbled. ‘Looks like they got Liam pinned down.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Gallen, pulse thumping in his head. ‘Mike, get Florita to the boat, retrace back to the RV. Can do?’

  ‘Got it,’ said Ford, grabbing Florita by the elbow and dragging her into the horse paddock.

  Winter and Gallen checked their weapons for load. ‘Wanna just rush ‘em?’ said Winter, screwing a suppressor onto his SIG 9mm.

  ‘Let’s finish it,’ said Gallen, falling in behind the Canadian as they set off across the lawn that separated the barn from the house.

  Gunfire was still coming from the other side of the house. They jogged to the front door and Winter stamped it down. Gallen brought his suppressed handgun up to a cup-and-saucer grip and turned left into the kitchen where the pistol spat twice, the brass hitting the floor louder than the shots. A woman fell to the boards.

  Swinging back, Gallen watched Winter stalk into a living room, where a sliding door opened onto decking. They walked through the door and onto the deck where Winter put two shots into a gunman’s face before ducking back to join Gallen at the ranch slider door.

  ‘Two shooters, assault rifles,’ said Winter as bullets tore into the ranch slider and the wall they were hiding behind.

  Gallen brought his rifle to his shoulder, put two bursts of three-shot at one of the shooters and thought he hit a leg as the man dived behind a tree.

  Another shooter emerged from the same maple tree and fired at Gallen, the remains of the ranch slider exploding as Gallen hit the floorboards.

  Winter leaned against the frame of the destroyed sliding door and slid a grenade into the launcher. He fired at the branches of the maple tree and they watched the leaves scatter and the trunk split as the grenade went off, making the man they knew as Raffa run from his hide for another tree.

  Gallen got a bead on the injured man and shot him in the chest as he tried to let more fire go at the house.

  Jumping off the deck, they tracked Raffa until they saw the Israeli camped behind the fourth tree in the line. The Mossad man fired at them again and then came an empty click: dead man’s hammer.

  Gallen watched as Raffa discarded the assault rifle and switched to his handgun. Diving to the cover of trees as the handgun levelled, Gallen was too slow and felt the slap of a 9mm slug in his left shin bone. Gasping with pain as he hit the grass, Gallen sucked air, trying to beat off unconsciousness.

  ‘You okay, boss?’ said Winter, joining him behind the tree. More shots came in, ripping the bark off the maple.

  ‘It’s a leg wound,’ said Gallen, stars at the edges of his vision. ‘But it got the bone.’

  ‘I think that’s a Glock,’ said Winter. ‘You counting his shots?’

  ‘I have twelve,�
� said Gallen. ‘If he’s got a standard clip, he’s got three shots in the can.’

  Winter took off his shirt, draped it over his rifle barrel, and pushed it out, making it dance like a puppet. Three shots came in, one of them taking the shirt off Winter’s rifle.

  Standing, Winter took his time showing himself. Gallen raised himself to one knee, but couldn’t put his weight on his left leg.

  The Israeli leapt from his hide and aimed-up at Winter. ‘So, the famous Kenny Winter finally comes into the open?’ he taunted.

  ‘Pity to waste it,’ said Winter, pulling a smoke from his jeans pocket and lighting it.

  The Israeli fired but all that happened was a loud click. Gallen watched him discard the weapon and fish a military Ka-bar knife from the small of his back. He started circling the big Canadian, his muscular body bulging out of the Levis and black jumper.

  ‘You gotta be careful with those,’ said Winter, keeping his chest pointed at the Israeli. ‘Those Ka-bars are sharp, dude.’

  ‘You and that redneck Gallen,’ said Raffa. ‘You really chased us all the way out here? Are you fucking mad?’

  ‘Mad enough to get even,’ said Winter, exhaling a plume of smoke into the early morning air.

  ‘Leave it, Kenny,’ said Gallen, gasping with pain.

  ‘I don’t know why you bothered,’ said Raffa as if Gallen didn’t exist. ‘You know who she is?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mendes, idiot!’

  ‘Oh, her,’ said Winter. ‘She signs the cheques. Did I pass?’

  ‘You’re a smartass, Winter,’ snarled the Mossad man. ‘Why don’t you drop that rifle, see what happens when you’re not assassinating lawyers and bankers? Anyone can shoot an office guy.’

  ‘Didn’t know the Mossad was using cattiness as a weapon these days,’ said Winter. ‘Although it suits you, Raffa.’

  ‘Come on!’ yelled the Israeli. He was in a crouching stance, knife in his left hand. ‘What are you scared of, tough guy?’

  ‘Clowns,’ said Winter, ‘and grown women with pigtails.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ said the Israeli, rushing at Winter, who sidestepped the attack, dropped his rifle and picked up his shirt, wound it over his left hand.

  ‘Leave him, Kenny,’ said Gallen, finally getting to his feet and limping towards them with his SIG. ‘I’ll finish him.’

  ‘No, you carried enough weight, boss. I’ve got this.’

  Raffa lunged again, this time with more caution, clearly realising that although Winter was a big guy he had some athletic balance.

  They wheeled and circled, Raffa looking for the opening, but none came. Finally, Raffa lunged and pulled back and Winter stepped forward quickly, kicking the smaller man in the chest and knocking him onto his back. Then Winter pounced, grabbing the knife hand as he came down on the Mossad man and throwing a fast left elbow into the man’s teeth, stunning him. As Winter lined up a head-butt, the Israeli leaned away and struck at his attacker’s eyes.

  Gallen struggled to keep his feet, the SIG now trained on the two men who rolled across the grass, the knife still firmly in the Israeli’s grip.

  Winter emerged from the melee with a lock on Raffa’s knife wrist, which he turned into a quick inside elbow. It knocked Raffa’s chin upwards and made the Israeli drop the knife.

  Training his SIG, trying to keep his eyes focused, Gallen watched as if in a dream. Grabbing the Israeli by the hair, Winter slapped his massive right paw on Raffa’s neck. A cry of anguish echoed around the farm as Winter’s grip tightened, his thumb crushing the throat.

  Gallen could make out the dying plea from the Israeli as he was choked. ‘We’re professionals, please.’

  Swinging Raffa’s head like he was wielding a bowling ball, Winter cracked it into the trunk of a maple tree in one sudden movement. Raffa’s body went slack and he collapsed like a sack in the grass, the broken neck finally finishing it for him.

  Winter turned. ‘Sorry ‘bout that, boss,’ he said, as Tucker pulled up in the Ford. ‘Forgot myself for a minute.’

  ‘Don’t matter,’ said Gallen, gasping for breath to stay conscious as the pain from his shin pulsed through his body. Letting his legs give out beneath him, Gallen fell to the grass before Winter could make it to him. More than four years of special forces combat gigs, and never taken a bone shot, thought Gallen as Tucker moved towards them. And now here he was, taking lead for some oil executive.

  Tucker stumbled. And then Gallen could see why: he’d been pushed. Behind him was a large man in a black field jacket, holding a submachine gun.

  ‘Shit,’ said Gallen, recognising the gunman from three weeks earlier, outside a meeting in Kugaaruk.

  ‘Well, well,’ said the thug in a strong Russian accent. ‘It’s the funny man, don’t give his name when asked.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ muttered Winter, his hands slowly rising.

  ‘Oh, you’re fucked alright,’ came an American voice.

  Turning his head to his left, squinting to focus, Gallen felt the air expel from his lungs and his jaw drop. The man in front of him had his left arm in a sling and a patch over his left eye. But his dark hair was still receding and the Annapolis ring was where it always was.

  ‘Mulligan?’

  ‘The thing I love about Chase Lang?’ said the spook, pallid as the sun tried to warm up the morning. ‘His vests are genuine Kevlar.’

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER 69

  The farmhouse kitchen was warm and the body left by Gallen’s shot had been dragged out, leaving a smear of blood on the timber floor. The Russian tested the coffee pot with his hand and poured. He’d duct-taped Gallen’s and Winter’s wrists to their ankles.

  Wincing at his shoulder injury, Mulligan eased back in a Mennonite chair, waiting for the coffee to be placed in front of him. Through the windows Gallen saw other gunmen roving around the farmhouse.

  The coffee steamed and Mulligan turned on a fake smile. ‘So, Ace—where’s Florita?’

  Gallen shrugged. ‘What you want with her?’

  ‘Mind your business.’

  ‘You made it my business, Paul,’ said Gallen, his leg aching despite the painkillers. ‘Remember?’

  ‘I remember bringing you in to run a personal security detail for Harry Durville,’ said Mulligan, picking up the coffee. ‘Nothing in there about Florita Mendes.’

  ‘I got promoted,’ said Gallen.

  Mulligan laughed at that. ‘Here’s my deal, boys. You return that woman to me now, this morning, and I fly away into the sunset, leaving you here with sore wrists.’

  ‘Or?’ said Gallen.

  ‘I don’t make threats,’ said Mulligan. ‘You know that.’

  Gallen thought quickly, avoiding looking at Winter. They had a few seconds to get this right and no margin. No second chances if Mulligan sensed a trick.

  ‘She’s with my guys,’ said Gallen.

  ‘So tell your guys to bring her,’ said Mulligan, smiling like a lizard. ‘You’re just a soldier, Gerry. No heroes, right?’

  ‘Right, Paul,’ said Gallen, wanting to punch the guy. Gallen and Mulligan had once been in a pre-op briefing in the Khost region of the Ghan: Mulligan was the spook from the Pentagon, Gallen was running the men. To end the briefing, Gallen had given his customary sign-off of ‘No heroes,’ and Mulligan had laughed.

  Mulligan opened his hands. ‘So get her back. Time is money, Ace.’

  His mind spinning, Gallen tried to think through the fog of the Tylenol 3 tablets. The shock of the bullet wound had turned into an all-body pain.

  ‘Gimme a minute, okay,’ he said, his eyelids drooping. ‘Can I get a glass of water? I’m not feeling well.’

  He tracked his brain backwards in time like a computer programmer looking for a piece of data while the big Russian got the okay from Mulligan. He used his old tricks of memory—tricks you used when you carried every piece of information in your head, when RV coordinates and exfil call signs had to be totally accurate, when chopper registrations mat
tered and secure-burst radio frequencies had to be right first time, because you only got half a second to use them and you didn’t want them flying off into space when you had tired and wounded men to lift out.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, after the Russian had tipped the glass of water into his mouth. ‘How do we do this?’