A flash of yellow caught my attention a few yards up from the camp, and I saw a lone figure coming diagonally down toward it. By the figure’s gait and general size, I guessed it to be a male, though it was impossible to tell given the oversized parka that enveloped most of the body.
Lita and I both stood in silence as the figure emerged, a small bundle of firewood in hand. The figure didn’t once look up as it wound around the tent and deposited the wood by the fire, the logs ringing out hollow against the limestone.
With its face aimed down at the fire, the figure lowered itself to a kneeling position and grabbed up a stick from the ground, using it as a poker to stoke the coals. Once flames began to lick up into the air, the figure dropped the stick and sat back on its haunches, reaching up with both hands and peeling away the puffy hood shadowing its face.
Dark brown skin came into view, framed by black hair and a heavy beard. A pair of round wire-rimmed glasses were perched on the end of the man’s nose, the tip of which was stained red from the cold.
As his face emerged he looked up, seeing us for the first time. Our eyes locked for a moment, recognition clicking with both of us.
Of every person on the planet I had expected to see sitting by a fire on the shore of Heart Lake, this one ranked at the bottom of the list. The sight of his face, after all this time, hit me square in the stomach, driving the air from my lungs. My legs locked themselves in place, my lips parting a fraction of an inch in silence.
The look on the man’s face showed his response to be exactly the same as mine. All expression flooded from his features, his eyes wide. “Tate.”
“Mateo,” I responded, my voice no more than a whisper. It was the first time I’d said the name aloud in years, the taste of it still bitter on my lips.
Something bordering on relief washed over him as he looked at me, the last reaction I expected. “I knew you would—” he began, but stopped himself as his gaze moved to the side, seeing Lita standing beside me.
“Oh Jesus, you’re with her?” he exclaimed, any thoughts he had on seeing me vanishing into fear. Pure terror filled his features as he scrambled to his feet, pushing himself back from the fire.
“What do you want?” he said, his voice pleading as he stared at Lita.
His reaction seemed to be exactly what Lita was expecting, a look of amusement spreading across her face. “Hello, Mateo,” she said casually, walking forward toward him. “Miss me?”
“What are you doing here?” Mateo said, still pushing himself away, his feet fighting for purchase on the snow-slickened limestone. “What do you want?”
“You already asked that,” Lita said, taking two more steps towards him, shifting the duffel bag she was carrying from her shoulder blade. She dropped the strap of it down into her left hand and dug into it with her right, her hand disappearing halfway up the forearm as she searched for what was inside.
In that moment, it all came together.
The late-season trip. The stilted English. The unusual demeanor. All of it.
She was here to murder Mateo. And she wouldn’t be leaving any witnesses.
The polished black handle of a Heckler and Koch P7 with a contoured grip emerged, followed by the extended barrel of a noise suppressor. My gaze focused on it a full moment, my feet already carrying me backward, my instincts from a prior life kicking into gear.
Without pause Lita raised the gun to shoulder level and fired it at Mateo as his hands and feet still furiously fought to push his body back away from her. Three times she pulled the trigger, oblivious to his cries, a trio of white muzzle flashes erupting between the snowflakes swirling around her.
The first two caught him square in the chest, red splotches growing atop his yellow parka. The third split his glasses in two, cleaving the thin metal frames down the middle and ripping a clean hole through the bridge of his nose. Inside his skull the nine-millimeter parabellum round mushroomed out, sending a plume of blood and brain matter onto the ground behind him.
Rotating at the waist, Lita kept the gun at shoulder level and aimed it at me. Inch by inch I retreated away from her, my hands by my waist, palms facing down.
If it were most anybody else standing across from me, I would have tried to reason with her. I would have told her she didn’t have to do this, assured her that I wouldn’t say a word. Tried anything to keep her from applying the two pounds of pressure that would send gas-powered projectiles flying my direction, doing to me exactly as they had done to Mateo.
I knew there was no point in even trying with Lita, though. This was a woman who had just spent half a day tromping through the Yellowstone wilderness, then mowed a man down after barely saying so much as hello.
I was a loose end, and people like Lita didn’t allow for loose ends.
Despite what my brain knew to be true, my body still acted like there was a chance, calling on the most basic of all primal urges to survive. Without lifting my feet from the ground I nudged my way backward, closing the gap between me and the edge of the rock face.
Lita watched me retreat away from her, the same look of amusement she’d had on her face before she shot Mateo. Knowing what was about to happen, having just seen her pattern, I did the only thing I could.
“Go to hell,” I said, my voice like steel, just loud enough for her to hear me over the sound of the storm.
For one brief moment, the look of amusement faded to one mixed of surprise and something bordering on respect. Just as fast it disappeared, replaced by a fourth and final muzzle flash.
The round slammed into my chest, driving my body back off the edge of the rock shelf. I hung suspended in the air, pain coursing through me, before I splashed back into the water, every nerve ending in my body set ablaze on contact with the frigid water.
Drawing in as much air as I could before going under, I wrapped my arms tight across my chest, letting the weight of my pack pull me to the bottom, the darkness of Heart Lake swallowing me whole.
PART II
Chapter Seven
A pair of double doors opened from the master bedroom onto a sweeping veranda, their curtains swaying in the breeze. The scent of sand and saltwater drifted in with it, filtering through the room, sweeping over Viktor Blok’s naked body as he extracted himself from bed and took his feet. Behind him lay the sleeping figure of a local blonde a decade younger, the latest in his conquests since relocating full time to North America.
For a long moment Viktor stood above her, staring down at her sun-kissed skin, the thin cotton sheet outlining her perfect form, and considered diving back in for more. He could still feel the fresh scratches on his back from the previous night, see the smears of blood where he’d lain, the wounds oozing as he slept.
A small quiver ran through him, stimulating his nether regions, but just as fast he shrugged it off. He turned his gaze away from the girl and took up a silk robe from the chair in the corner of the room, wrapping it around himself as he stepped out onto the veranda.
As he emerged from the bedroom, the warmth of the new day’s sun hit him full in the face, washing over his body, illuminating his pale skin. He walked in a straight line across the Spanish tile on the floor, its surface smooth against his feet, and came to a stop along the waist-high wall encasing it. He pressed his palms down flat on the stucco finish and leaned forward, the fresh scratches tugging as he stretched his shoulders and back.
“I’m beginning to see why nobody ever returns to Russia after they leave,” Viktor said, knowing the comment’s target would be there without looking at him.
“Are you referring to the girl, the house, or the weather?” Pavel Vazov asked, his accent thick, his voice a low grumble.
A wan smile crossed Viktor’s lips as he finished his stretch and turned to face Pavel. He folded his arms across the silk robe and leaned his backside against the wall, shaking his head.
“Why does one hav
e to separate them?” he asked.
“Because they are not the reason we are here,” Pavel said, flint in his voice.
The smile fled from Viktor’s face as he looked at his associate. His features grew rigid as he stared across at the man, the folds of skin near his eyes tightening. He set his jaw in a tight clench, feeling his back molars scrape together as he glared.
“I know full well the reason we are here,” Viktor said. “And Sergey knows it. That’s why he put me in charge, and told you to do everything you can to help me.”
Pavel matched the glare a moment, his body poised. “And I have done that.”
Viktor remained stiff, examining the man in front of him.
Standing halfway between six and seven feet tall, Pavel was an intimidating presence by any measure. His thick shoulders and neck appeared to have oversized links of coiled chain just beneath the skin, bulging muscles that encased his neck on either side. A thin beard lined his mouth and jaw; bushy eyebrows and a thick head of dark hair made him always seem as if he were brooding, about to explode.
Which, in Viktor’s experience, wasn’t far from the truth.
Viktor had not wanted his presence on this endeavor. He hadn’t wanted the glowering beast shadowing his every move, inciting fear in everybody they encountered, no doubt reporting back to Sergey each night on what happened.
“Any word yet?” Viktor asked, his words clipped.
“No,” Pavel said, his features easing just a bit now that the subject had shifted back to work.
“How long since she last checked in?”
“Nine days,” Pavel said, disapproval plain in his tone.
Viktor’s eyebrows ticked upward a quarter of an inch at the information. He knew that a bit of radio silence had transpired, but had no idea it had been well over a week.
“Do we even know if the job is done?”
Pavel met his gaze a long moment before looking away, out over the waves of the Pacific rolling onto the beach. “No.”
Viktor blew a long breath out through his nose and turned back to face the ocean. He could feel the robe sticking to his back as he moved, though if it was from sweat or blood he couldn’t be sure.
“Do you know where she went?” he asked, pressing his chin into his shoulder to speak back to Pavel.
“Montana,” Pavel said, taking a step forward toward the wall but maintaining a wide gap between them. “When we last spoke, she had secured the guide and was heading out in the morning.”
“Remind me why we sent her?” Viktor asked, keeping his attention aimed forward. He already knew the answer to the question before he asked it, but he wanted to make sure Pavel did as well.
Pavel, sensing the same, took a long pause before replying, “Because Sergey ordered it.”
“Right,” Viktor said, nodding as if remembering the way things had played out, in reality relishing the small victory. “Do we think this is serious enough to warrant action? Or will she show up again any moment now?”
Pavel rolled his shoulders one at a time, his massive frame shifting beneath the black T-shirt he wore. He kept his thumbs hooked into the belt loops above his backside and his chest protruded out in front of him.
“This was serious four days ago. By now, it’s an emergency.”
“Okay,” Viktor said, not appreciating the barb tossed in his direction. “Do what you have to. Go find her. Make sure the job is done.”
Pavel grunted in response, nodding for added effect. “I will send Yuri. It will be done.”
Jutting his thighs out against the wall, Viktor pushed himself away and turned back toward the bedroom. He let the robe fall open on either side of him as he walked. The ocean breeze felt cool against his skin.
“No, you go. Make sure it’s finished.”
Chapter Eight
I last saw Don Hutchinson four and a half years ago. We had sat in a makeshift office in a double-wide trailer in the California desert. The rickety structure had been made entirely of plywood, and it had shaken every time a stiff breeze blew in off the Pacific.
He had been seated behind a battered metal desk, a hand-me-down from the naval base in San Diego, and an air-conditioner from the same source had been stuck into the window behind him. The aging machine had pushed out a rattle like a smoker’s cough over the room as it ran, but the heat outside had been too stifling to even consider turning it off.
If we had been trying to talk to one another we would have had to scream to be heard.
As it had stood, there was nothing more to say. I was done, a fact we had both known for a long time, but neither had said out loud.
The front porch of his new home in Alexandria, Virginia, was bright and open as I sat and waited for him. It was a clear fall evening, and the air was a good fifteen degrees warmer than what I’d left behind in Montana. Tucked away on a swing looking out over his suburban neighborhood, I could hear children at play, saw an older man down the street raking leaves.
Nobody paid me any mind as I sat and waited, forcing my façade to remain serene as my inner workings pulsated at ultrasonic speeds.
My wait turned out to be a little shorter than expected, beginning at five o’clock and ending a few minutes before six thirty. I’d made a point to park my rented green Taurus on the curb so he would see it as he approached, making him aware of my presence without raising any alarms.
The last thing I needed was to anger a ranking DEA official, especially when I was there to solicit his help.
The sun was fast fading from the sky above as a pair of headlights rolled to a stop in front of the house. They paused for a moment along the street, no doubt inspecting the Taurus, possibly even calling in a tag check, before proceeding into the drive. Halfway down the brushed concrete his Chrysler came to a stop, its lights blinking out.
The years and change of address had altered him in the ways that were to be expected. As he emerged from behind the steering wheel, I could see his California tan was gone, as was another inch or two off his hairline. In their stead he had added ten pounds to his midsection; a small paunch strained the bottom buttons of his dress shirt.
“Hawk,” he said, standing by the car and assessing me before approaching the front porch. If he was surprised to see me, he didn’t show it in the slightest; he kept his voice, his expression, even.
“Hutch,” I replied, dipping the top of my head slightly in greeting.
“You’re the dumb pilgrim I’ve been hearing for twenty days and smelling for three.”
The corner of my mouth curled up in a smile. Since the first time Hutch had pieced together the origin of my name he’d been quick with a quote from the movie. If not for it being one of my favorites, the practice might have gotten old.
As it was, it was just good to see a familiar face.
The soles of his brown loafers scraped against the concrete steps as he ascended them, his hands shoved in his pockets. He motioned to the small red container on the ground by my feet and asked, “What’s in the cooler?”
“We’ll get to that.”
He walked up without looking at me and took a seat in the Adirondack chair alongside the swing, matching my gaze as we stared out over the darkening neighborhood.
“Tell me everything,” he said simply, his voice low and even.
Again I got the impression that he’d been expecting me, waiting to have this very conversation, but in that moment I didn’t care. I had things to do, and I needed his help in doing them.
“How much do you know?” I asked, not wanting to rehash any more than necessary.
“Assume I know nothing,” Hutch said, his voice the same graveled baritone I remembered.
“She came to see me on October 24, claiming her brother was camping in the park and hadn’t checked in in a few days.” I leaned forward and rested my forearms on my knees, thinking back to that first en
counter just ten days before. “I didn’t want to take the job, not that late in the season, not having any time to prepare, but in the end I caved.”
“The power of the almighty dollar,” Hutch inserted.
“No,” I said, shaking my head, “fifty thousand almighty dollars.”
A small shrill whistle slid out between his teeth, but he refrained from speaking, signaling for me to continue.
“Every day he’d been calling in on a sat-phone, so she had coordinates for his whereabouts. Her story seemed to check out, so I didn’t bother following up on it, just mapped out where he was, and the next morning we went up there.
“Took us a half day to hike in. Her brother was holed up on Heart Lake in the backcountry, a good ways off the beaten path. We found his camp easy enough, and within a minute of spotting the guy she pulled a P7 and put three in him. She almost put one in me, too, but I was able to get away.”
“Returned fire?” Hutch asked. There was no concern in his voice, no tinge of accusation, simply a follow-up question so he could better understand the story.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Got damn lucky. Her round smashed into the buckle on my pack. It crushed the thing to bits and left a hell of a bruise on my chest, but it didn’t penetrate the skin.
“I used the momentum of the shot to launch myself backward into the lake and let my pack drag me to the bottom where I stayed for a full ninety seconds. I could hear bullets ripping through the water around me, see little streaks of white as they sped by, but I was deep enough that even if they hit me they wouldn’t do any harm.”
“Damn,” Hutch whispered. “Bet that was pleasant.”
A nasty, deep-rooted snort rolled out of me, lifting my head a few inches into the air. “About a minute into it I started wishing that bullet had hit flesh. Cold as hell, entire body burning as hypothermia began to set in.
“Once I could take it no more I dragged myself to the water’s edge and slid out.”
Cold Fire Page 4