True Patriots

by Russell Fralich

  Daniel saw Touesnard run into the apartment, and MacKinnon follow right behind, guns drawn.

  He heard a voice yell “Police.” Sounds like Touesnard, thought Daniel —

  Then MacKinnon’s voice, “Don’t move. Drop the gun. Drop it.” A silence. Then, “Drop it!” followed by a pop, then another, then a cacophony of bangs. The air in front of the open door crackled with bursts of light, the charcoal tang of gunpowder, and the angry staccato of concussive sounds. The wall opposite the open door splintered as bullets knifed into the cement. Daniel ran from the exposed position in front of the elevator and crouched in the doorway of the neighbouring apartment.

  He heard a scream of pain in between shots. Next, a thud. Then the sound of something heavy sliding along the floor.

  MacKinnon emerged, crouched, panting, attempting to fire his pistol with one shaking hand. His face strained as he dragged a motionless Touesnard into the hallway and tried to veer out of the line of fire. Directly in front of the apartment door, they had no cover from the onslaught coming from inside Claire’s apartment.

  MacKinnon staggered backward as another bullet slammed into his Kevlar vest. He stumbled against the hallway wall directly opposite the open door while his damaged hand released Touesnard. He managed to fire again toward the unseen assailant just as the force of the impact against the far wall knocked the pistol from his hand.

  It spun wildly until it stopped beside Daniel’s left foot.

  The gun called to him. Daniel grabbed it on instinct.

  The handle was still warm. It felt comfortable, like the company of a long-lost friend who you could just pick up a conversation with, as if no time had passed since the last time you met.

  Daniel’s brain shifted into a well-worn routine. He pulled the clip down and saw that three rounds remained. And one in the chamber. He shoved it back in until he heard the reassuring click and pulled the slide. Ready to go. He scanned the situation. MacKinnon lay dazed in the hallway, trying to get up, and frantically looking for his gun. Touesnard was unconscious in the middle of the hallway, blood seeping from a wound on his neck. He had been hit just above his Kevlar vest. Poor guy. His weapon was nowhere to be seen.

  Daniel marked the important information: there were two guns he couldn’t see.

  He approached slowly, shuffling his feet while holding the SIG with both arms outstretched and keeping it level, his right eye tracking a simple, straight path for any bullet he might launch.

  His brain searched for any movement or threat. A shadow emerged from the apartment. It advanced in small steps until Daniel saw an arm, outstretched, holding a pistol, aimed directly at MacKinnon, ready to finish the job. But the man stopped, surprised to see someone else standing on the extreme left side of his field of view.

  Maybe Daniel saw the face of a surprised Mr. Wang, the last person he targeted with a gun. Perhaps he didn’t want a repeat of the mess in Hong Kong. So Daniel didn’t shoot, just ran straight at the assailant. After four steps, he crashed his right shoulder into the man’s chest, surprising him, throwing him off balance, and knocking the man’s gun into the air. The man slammed into the edge of the open door. He grunted with the pain of his back crunching on the sharp corner of the doorway. He bounced back and shoved Daniel backward from a football tackle position. Daniel crashed onto his backside, and struggling to get up, lost control of his weapon. It dropped to the floor as the man regained his balance.

  There was a moment as each man processed his memories, trying to identify the other.

  Larch saw his final witness at last — a more important target than the wounded policeman on the ground.

  Daniel came face-to-face with the soulless killer who had been trying to hunt him down.

  No words were spoken. They recognized each other simultaneously. Survival would depend on who had the fastest reflexes.

  Daniel, already on the floor, lunged for his pistol three feet away. Now on his stomach, he extended his arm, gripped the pistol, rolled onto his side, and raised the gun.

  Larch was leaning down, fetching his weapon.

  Daniel, with his gun already aimed straight, had the advantage.

  He squeezed once, slowly, holding the far end steady despite his shaking hands. He fired into Larch’s right side, as close to the centre of mass as he could estimate, where the heart would be. His body shuddered from the gun’s recoil.

  Larch looked down, surprised, at the point where the bullet struck him, his body trembling from the impact. He continued moving his gun higher, closer to aiming at the prostrate Daniel.

  Daniel didn’t flinch and fired again. And again. Each time, a spent cartridge hopped away from his pistol, and Larch’s body quivered until it thumped against the wall beside the open apartment door. The gun dropped from Larch’s limp, lifeless hand as he crumpled, with a sickening crunch, headfirst to the ground into an expanding crimson puddle.

  MacKinnon had seen everything from his prone position on the floor and looked as surprised as Larch had been. He pulled Touesnard closer and tried to stop the bleeding with his hand. He struggled to talk, barely whispering into his commlink, “Officer down. Shots fired. Need medical assistance.”

  As Daniel hopped up, he could hear the response through MacKinnon’s earpiece. “Copy. Backup ETA two minutes. Ambulance dispatched to your location.”

  MacKinnon gestured toward the apartment.

  One gun was still unaccounted for. Daniel didn’t know if there was a second shooter still hiding in the apartment. He popped the magazine from the handle and confirmed one remaining bullet before jamming it back in and pulling back the slide. Ready to fire.

  He burst in, hugged the wall in the kitchen, and faced a small living room. No one there, but the furniture was scattered, the chair on its back, a broken lamp. There had been a struggle. He picked up the pistol on the floor. Daniel quickly examined the kitchen on the right and then darted straight ahead to the bedroom.

  Claire was trying to worm her way off the bed, her arms and legs tied up, face covered with sweat and dried blood, her mouth covered with silvery duct tape. Her eyes were wide, scared, but also relieved.

  She’s alive.

  “Anyone else here?” He was still holding the SIG at the ready.

  Claire shook her head.

  He peeked into the bathroom, just in case. No one.

  He knelt down, put the SIG on the bed, and removed the tape over her mouth with a quick tug.

  Claire screamed in pain.

  “You got that maudit fucker?” she said.

  Daniel nodded.

  “Where are the cops?”

  Daniel gestured toward the hall as he searched for and then found a knife on the floor. “They’re hurt. Help is on its way.” He cut the tape around her hands.

  “Since when do you know how to handle a gun, câlice?” She looked up at him as she rubbed her wrists.

  He continued cutting tape, freeing her feet. “It’s a long story.”

  “Hé, I’m not complaining.” She was breathing fast.

  He looked directly into her eyes. “Are you okay?”

  She considered the question for a moment. “He was waiting for you.” She seemed angry with him, but Daniel assumed this was the adrenalin talking.

  “Yes, I know.”

  He looked at the puffy pink log that was her left arm. “You look like shit. Your arm’s in bad shape. You’re going to need a medic. Ambulance is coming.”

  She smacked his arm as she stood up. “So now we’re even.”

  With Claire safe, and no other threats about, he remembered MacKinnon and Touesnard in the hallway. “I have to help them. You stay put.” He grabbed a towel from the bathroom and ran back to the hallway, where he wrapped it around Touesnard’s neck.

  MacKinnon knelt beside Touesnard, concern etched on his face. He looked at Daniel. “Thanks.”

  Daniel nodded but kept his focus on Touesnard. Two police officers, guns drawn, sprang from the stairwell, followed by two paramedics
, each holding orange bags of gear. MacKinnon gestured for the officers to reholster their weapons. One paramedic made a beeline for Touesnard, while the other checked out Larch. He quickly moved on to Touesnard.

  MacKinnon said as he pointed to his colleague, “I’m okay. He needs help. Gunshot wound in the neck.”

  “We’ve tried to stop the bleeding,” Daniel said to one of the paramedics, “and there’s someone else who needs your help.” He motioned to the apartment. “Hostage we just rescued. Her arm needs attention.”

  MacKinnon wobbled as he stood up, pushing against the wall to steady himself. “You going to give me back my weapon?”

  Daniel gave a sheepish look before spinning it around and handing it to MacKinnon grip first. MacKinnon popped out the magazine, confirmed the remaining round, jammed it back into the gun, and slipped the pistol back into his holster.

  MacKinnon said, “So that’s what you did in China.”

  Daniel nodded as he sprinted back to Claire, who was examining a wallet while a paramedic examined her arm. She dumped the wallet’s contents on the bed. “This is his.” She pointed back to the open front door, where she could see Larch’s leg jutting out from the hallway.

  “California licence. Nick Pulovski.” She found some tickets, stubs, and a hotel key card in the front pocket. “Looks like he was staying at the Westin. He’s got a rental from Enterprise. Had a meal at the Bicycle Thief. Wow, two hundred dollars for dinner.” She held the credit card receipt in her shaking hand.

  Daniel took her hand, steadied it. “Big spender.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Claire pulled her hand away. Daniel leaned over, picked up the man’s pistol, popped the magazine, and ejected the lone bullet still in the gun, rendering it safe.

  “I’ve been staring at this damn thing for too long. Beretta with a silencer. He was very cool. Professional.” She looked at Daniel.

  Daniel said, “You think he would have killed you?”

  “Definitely. He didn’t tell me that exactly — he wasn’t a big talker — but he made it clear … He didn’t talk much to me, but he was texting someone.”

  Daniel found Larch’s phone on the bedside table beside a small box with a cable.

  “He kept texting someone for instructions.” He tossed the box over to MacKinnon. “And he’s been following us with this phone thing.”

  MacKinnon looked at it carefully. “Wow, an IMSI-catcher.”

  Daniel looked at him, not understanding.

  “Each cellphone has a unique number. With this gadget,” he said, patting it, “you can track the user and listen in on calls. Very sophisticated. We have to borrow ours from the RCMP.”

  Daniel returned to the cellphone in his hand. The text conversation was with someone called “Client.” He reviewed the short conversation, which ended with No loose ends. Do it now. The hit man took orders from this person.

  MacKinnon took the phone and saw the phone number had a 403 area code.

  “Alberta,” said Daniel.

  “Not so fast,” said MacKinnon. He saw the paramedics hoisting Touesnard onto a gurney in the hallway and rolling him to the elevator. MacKinnon opened his own phone and dialed. When a voice answered, he said, “I want an identity and trace on this number.” He read out the digits.

  In a few seconds, the voice said something that Daniel couldn’t make out.

  “Keep a trace on it.” MacKinnon stuffed the phone into a pocket on his Kevlar vest. “It’s a burner phone. A prepaid account. Paid in cash. It’s only been active for six weeks.”

  The hit man’s phone buzzed as a new message arrived. Status?

  MacKinnon showed it to Daniel and Claire. “What do you think we should we say?”

  Claire shrugged. “Give him the answer he wants and see what happens?”

  “Sounds good to me.” MacKinnon typed Done and pressed send.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  THE CRIME SCENE BUZZED with activity. Police officers swarmed the hallway, some rolling out yellow “Do Not Cross” tape, others interviewing shocked neighbours about what they had seen and heard. Touesnard’s and Larch’s guns were sealed in evidence bags. A medical examiner knelt over Larch’s body.

  “Careful,” Claire protested at the paramedics bandaging her left arm. At least she was right-handed.

  MacKinnon held up the hit man’s driver’s licence. “So who was Nick Pulovski?”

  Daniel was puzzled. “I think I used to know someone by that name. But I can’t remember where or when. The name sounds familiar.”

  Claire clutched a red passport. “But that’s not the name in his passport. It looks like him, but he’s Mitchell Gant here. British.”

  I’ve heard of that guy, too, thought Daniel.

  MacKinnon flipped open his notebook. “There was only one black Cadillac SUV rented two days ago. To someone named Walt Kowalski, using a fake U.S. passport.”

  “It must be the same guy,” said Daniel.

  “Odd choice of names,” said Claire.

  “I’ve heard these names before.”

  “Anything else in his bag?”

  Claire dumped the contents on the floor. Another passport, American. Ben Shockley.

  Daniel flipped through mental images of men with these names. He felt he had met all of them, and though he couldn’t recall the exact circumstances, he was sure that he knew them.

  He squeezed his memory for one image. Mitchell Gant. In a plane. It was military. But Daniel couldn’t recall ever being in a military plane. But the image was sharper now, the face coming into view. A stern face, with a bit of stubble. Sharp, shifty narrow eyes. Eyes with a terrible purpose.

  Then a second image. Shockley. He was in the back seat of a crappy car, next to a young prostitute, driving through a scorching desert. The same eyes, the same face.

  Somehow they were the same person.

  MacKinnon typed the first name, Nick Pulovski, into the Google app on his smartphone. He scowled at the answer. Same reaction after punching in the name Ben Shockley. And with Mitchell Gant.

  “They’re not real people at all,” he said. “They’re characters played by Clint Eastwood in different movies.”

  “Our hit man was a Clint Eastwood fan?” said Claire.

  Daniel cracked a thin smile. He felt ahead of the curve for the first time since he had received Forrestal’s phone call on Monday morning.

  Daniel’s cellphone pinged with a new text message. We need to talk.

  His heart leaped. It was from Vanessa, no doubt at her parents’ house in trendy Devonport, across the bay from Auckland.

  Sure.

  When can you come visit?

  I’ll find out. Soon. How’s E?

  She misses you.

  I miss her more. Where are you?

  Mum and Dad’s. We have things to discuss.

  Are you coming back?

  That’s what we need to talk about. How’s your situation?

  Improving. Hope to be able to come in a few days. Will let u know.

  K.

  Daniel wondered if the distance had deadened her anger toward him. Maybe he could see Emily after all, now that the assassin was no longer a threat.

  Larch’s phone beeped. A message from the client. Leave town ASAP. Setting up major action tomorrow. Victoria Park. Noon.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  THE MILITARY-GRADE EXPLOSIVE, innocently called Composition C-4, tumbled noiselessly in his knapsack. It had arrived Thursday in the one shipment from the U.S. by sea. Aspen confirmed its on-time delivery, in spite of some interference from the RCMP and Border Services. He expected more, but with the most recent consignment intercepted by a navy patrol, he had to make do with the four kilograms in the bag.

  Opening the box, he saw a number of short, rectangular sticks wrapped in black. Inhaling that crisp scent transported him back to a unique summer camp in Idaho years ago for new AIM recruits where mornings were for weapons training. Early one sunny day found him breaking pieces of the mallea
ble material into different sizes, sticking a shiny detonator rod into each, learning how to use it safely, how to judge how stable it was, and how the blast radius varied. That evening, in the arid mountain air, sitting around the campfire, he swapped tall tales of the resulting destruction scenarios with his fellow AIM brothers. One man’s terrifying story and bandaged stump of an arm reinforced the most important lesson: keep the nine-volt battery and detonator rod in separate pockets in your jeans.

  Today, his task was simple. Garth had instructed his driver, a loyal AIM member — what was his name, Ted? — to park around the corner and out of sight while he strolled down Spring Garden. The street was devoid of traffic or people, apart from the pair of pedestrians leaving the McDonald’s beyond the opposite corner. With the jet lag pulling him down, he didn’t care if it was seven or four in the morning as he saw the first spray of light from the coming dawn. This was his final chance to derail the opponents of the campaign and save the dream of a country of his own. He couldn’t fail. He would do it himself. He imagined Brewster’s grinning face as he watched news reports of the carnage in Halifax in a few hours.

  When he stopped in the shadow behind the statue to tie up his boot, no one noticed. No one was around to remark on his forgetfulness. They couldn’t see when he stabbed the detonator into the plastic, clipped the battery into its holder, and set the timer. As he walked to the garbage can beside the tree, he took another quick glance at the two people on the otherwise empty street. All clear. He closed the small grey backpack and tossed it in the can. He listened to the thunk as it hit the bottom while he felt the pistol in his pocket for reassurance. He covered the backpack with the trash already in the bin. Then he just walked away, lost in his thoughts. Like the two people now at the corner, staring at the sidewalk, waiting for the light to change on a way-too-early Sunday morning.

  Nice to be in Nova Scotia. Garth stretched his arms and arched his back. Then he walked to the just-opened Smitty’s for a well-deserved breakfast, careful not to stay too long.