Guardians of the Portals

by Nya Rawlyns

  The man moved into the kitchen and scanned for his rifle, muttering, "I thought I left it in here," before continuing into the living area. He dumped the wood into the empty hamper and looked around for newspaper or a supply of starter kindling. A stack of newsprint sat by the front window so he grabbed a handful and quickly bunched several pages and threw them into the fire box, then stacked two smaller logs on top. He used the kitchen matches sitting on an end table to light the papers. Tending to a fire was one of the simple pleasures he'd almost forgotten. It had been light years since he'd had a wood stove. He'd never forgotten the fascination of the flames, the heat and wavering orange-red curtain lulling him into fanciful thoughts.

  Satisfied the fire would continue without further attention, he lunged to his feet, his thoughts straying to where he'd left his rifle. It wasn't like him to be so forgetful. It had to be in the kitchen or the coat room. And he needed to put a blanket on the woman so she wouldn't freeze to death. He scooped up the afghan lying on the floor and folded it over his left arm.

  Stalking to the kitchen, he poked through the door and scanned the floor. The rifle was nowhere within sight. He knelt and checked under the counter, then once more in the small niches where it might have slid just out of sight. Annoyed, he moved to tend to the unconscious woman, planning to tear the cabin apart next.

  He stepped down into the coat room and quickly searched along the wall with the coat hooks. A slight creak jerked him out of his reverie. He called out, "Arne?" It was the last question he would ever ask.

  "Arne's not coming, comrade."

  ****

  Wolf shifted the rifle to his other hand and scooped the blanket off the dead man's arm. He raced to Caitlin's side and quickly covered her with the afghan. It barely came to her knees. She was slowly regaining consciousness and her body shuddered and quaked uncontrollably as the cold and shock set in. He set his weapons down and lifted her carefully, clenching his teeth against the surge of energy. Her pale face lolled against his shoulder as he scrambled through the narrow kitchen and into the living area. Gently setting her on the floor, he gathered cushions off the couch and arranged them next to the wood stove. Once he had a resting place set up, he positioned her on the make-shift bed, tucking the cover around her shoulders.

  Wolf raced up the stairs, taking the steps two and three at a time. Caitlin's bedroom was two doors down to the left. He pushed into her room and stripped the bed of the goose down quilt and wool blanket folded on a wood stand. As an afterthought he grabbed two pillows and hustled down the steps, almost losing his footing as he tripped over loose laces, having removed his outer wear in order to prowl about the house undetected. He'd slipped the boots back on without bothering to tie the leather lacings.

  The flames flared and settled. Wolf rolled Caitlin to one side and spread the quilt so her body was encased in a feather cocoon. He laid the over-sized wool blanket on top, then stripped out of his jacket, easing on the floor next to her and cradling her against his massive body.

  Wolf drifted off, exhausted beyond measure. He'd run all the way to the cabin, at least another half mile or more, instead of taking the snow machine. Stalking and dispatching the strangers had robbed him of the last of his strength. His final coherent thought as he wrapped his arms around Caitlin was that their connection felt strong and steady, somehow 'right', exactly the way Eirik had described it. She'd ask about him when she woke up. He wasn't sure how he was going to handle that.

  ****

  "Caitlin? Wake up."

  The sound echoed strangely, coming from a distance. Caitlin tried to move but found she was trussed like a sausage in a tight wrap. She kicked at the covers wildly, grunting and groaning as her stomach roiled and bile rose up in her throat. She felt like she'd been on the mother of all rollercoaster rides, a marathon of insane twists and turns. Her head ached where one of her captors had slammed it against the tree. Her neck itched, then stung, from where they'd jabbed the needle. She needed a bath and she needed coffee and she wanted Wolf. Apparently she was getting two out of three.

  "Caitlin, oh, good, you're up. I have some coffee," Wolf inclined his head toward the tray, "and toast. Sorry, not much else to offer. I can make eggs if you want. Stove works."

  Caitlin rasped, "Coffee, please."

  Wolf poured mugs for both of them and handed her one. Grateful, she sipped at the hot liquid. She felt half dead and probably looked worse. As she wrapped the blankets about her lower body, she realized her jeans were still damp from the snow. Then something other than discomfort niggled at the edges of awareness—something was missing—what was it? The thought faded as practicality intervened. She desperately wanted to feel clean again and find dry clothes.

  "Any hot water?"

  "No, sorry. Electric is still out. We're out of the way up here. All the other places on this side of the ridge are empty this time of year. The line crews will be concentrating on the valleys first. We have a generator but I need to bring it in from the garage and fire it up."

  "Okay. Listen, I, uh, need to..." Caitlin stuttered, suddenly feeling shy and unsure of herself. This was the longest conversation she'd ever had with the man and every word seemed charged with double meanings. The way he looked at her, with a knowing and ... something else.

  He smiled and flicked a finger at the stairwell. "We'll have to use the outhouse pretty soon. Well's not working either. We have enough bottled water to last for a while." He looked her over with concern. "You're wet. Better change. You're still weak. You don't need to add getting sick to all this shit. Uh, sorry."

  Caitlin smiled. "I'll be right down." She walked stiffly to the stairs, pausing at the first step. Something niggled at the back of her mind but she couldn't put a finger on it. Then the realization hit, Eirik was missing and Wolf had said nothing about him. She leaned over the rail to ask the question she suspected had an answer she didn't want to hear, but Wolf had already left the room. With a sinking feeling, she raced up the stairs.

  ****

  Wolf chugged the last of his coffee and headed to the kitchen for a refill. The pine floors creaked as Caitlin moved about upstairs. He turned toward the counter and grimaced when he noticed his figure had been hacked to splinters. That pained him more than it should but he would do a better one for her ... now that he understood.

  He wrapped the bits in the newspaper and carried the small pile, along with his mug, to the stove and added the sad remains to the fire. He heard Caitlin flush the toilet and smiled—old habits. She'd be getting her tush cold using the outhouse unless he could get the generator running. He listened to her footfalls, soft shushing on cushioned feet. She had changed to wool socks. He heard her murmur something and thought, oh shit no!

  He bolted up the stairs and swung right. Eirik's door stood ajar with Caitlin braced against the door jamb, mouth agape and shaking like a leaf.

  Wolf gently wrapped an arm about her shoulders and pulled her toward him, but she jerked away and padded into the room.

  She moaned, a scratchy throaty wail of agony, "No, please, God, no..."

  Eirik lay splayed diagonally across the bed. He'd been shot at close range, execution style. Wolf hadn't bothered to tend to the remains. He'd needed to take care of their problem, then see to Caitlin's health and comfort. There was little he could do for Eirik. Mourning would come later, much later.

  Wolf pulled Caitlin into his arms and led her out of the bedroom. He carefully shut the door and guided the stunned woman downstairs. He would have preferred taking her to his bed but the upper floor remained chilly. They'd be better served to stay warm and hydrate while he worked out a plan. So far the only thing that came to mind was ... run.

  He settled her on the cushions and moved to sit in the chair, but she grasped his leg and urged him to join her. So much of the last months had been a pirouette of non-verbal communication that it seemed natural to continue. The link burned hot and strong, comforting, and he wondered if she felt the same.

  Wolf colla
psed onto the cushion and pulled Caitlin into his lap as she gagged dry heaves, tearless, so swamped with shock and pain and dismay that she teetered on the edge of a breakdown.

  She wrapped her arms around his chest and keened her agony as he gently rocked her quaking body. Death was never easy, no matter how often he saw it.

  Murmuring, "It will be all right," he fervently wished it were true.

  Chapter Eight

  Jake watched the stocky man push through the sea of bodies clustered ten deep—impatience, boredom and distraction with a side of fries. He balanced a tray, stopping for napkins, a handful of ketchup packets and a straw. Ordinary. At odds with his reputation. Merciless. Soul-less. A demon-devil they called him, both within and without the strange circle of combatants he'd fallen into. And his last hope.

  "Trey." Jake inclined his head and motioned for his companion to sit opposite in the booth. Crossing paths with the Falcon was always a dicey proposition. Most of Greyfalcon, including himself, avoided it whenever possible.

  "O'Brien." Equally terse with an edge. Annoyance? Caution, perhaps. He was a difficult read, even for him, even after twenty-five years of hard core and bad-ass. There was that, in spades, but something more. He'd need to tread carefully.

  Jake took a sip of coffee and poked at his salad. He envied the younger man the freedom of artery-clogging red meat and salt-laden fries, though 'younger' seemed not quite right either. There was no way to gauge age when time and all he thought he understood about his world turned topsy-turvy, leaving him with bad decisions and regrets and impossible choices.

  Trey ignored him and dug in, inhaling his meal as his eyes darted nervously to the door and back. Did the devil have one of his own in hot pursuit?

  Jake shoved the salad to the side and dug out a pack of cigarettes. He arched a brow in a 'do you mind' as he lit the smoke and took a deep drag, exhaling on a long sigh. The woman across from them glared, clearly displeased. Jake noted the 'no smoking' sign and watched with satisfaction as the irate patron gathered her tray and stalked off. Privacy with a smoke screen.

  Trey wiped his mouth and grinned. "I'll have to remember that." He crumbled the wrappers and swiped at the table top with a napkin, then moved the tray aside, centering his drink, giving Jake his full attention. "I'm here."

  Jake nodded and cut to the chase. "I need your help." Trey stared, impassive. "We have a situation. I have a situation."

  "I'm listening."

  "It's Kieran." He had the man's undivided attention. There was something there. A bond, maybe. Comradeship, definitely. It, like death, came with the territory. Even enemies recognized and paid lip service to it.

  Jake took another drag and flicked the ash onto the tray, buying time. He needed to move the anxiety aside and let reason through.

  "He's gone."

  "Gone. How can he be gone? I thought you had him..."

  "Yeah, I did, maximum security. Best money could buy."

  "And?"

  "Gunnarr. Signed him out."

  "What the hell for? When I found him, he had tracks up and down his gods-damned arm, laying in his own shit. What the hell was Gunnarr thinking?"

  Jake held back tears. Trey had called him that night and between the two of them, they'd driven Kieran to a secure rehab center in the middle of nowhere. Jake had used Greyfalcon resources to pull strings and get his son admitted with no questions asked. That had been a scant two weeks ago. Just enough time to detox, not nearly enough to expel the demons consuming his boy from the inside out.

  Jake decided to play the guilt card and said, not bothering to hide the accusation, "Because you went walkabout." He held up a hand as Trey hunched forward, anger and remorse and disdain doing an odd mambo across his features. "Gunnarr has his panties in a wad over Knutr. He's looking for," Jake did the finger-quote, "closure." It took a minute while he decided how much he should share with the man. Deciding full disclosure was best, he continued, "He found his cousin holed up in Miami, making nice with the Marcos brothers. He needed someone he could trust to see to the resolution of our problem."

  "The Marcos brothers? Who are they?" Trey smoothly slid past the 'where did you get to' implied in the 'walkabout' barb.

  "Small time. Arms mostly but also drugs and a bit of white slavery on the side. They funnel talent up and down the coast, mostly out of the former republics. Some go through Dubai, others through Istanbul. Gunnarr's brain trust only monitors the crap that's in direct competition with his interests."

  "Shit. The Russians."

  "Yeah, the Red Mafiya. Gunnarr figures they organized the intercept on you and the shipment. Planned to help themselves to a piece of the action, especially when they found out that Knutr had tactical nukes in the stream."

  "About that..."

  "I didn't know. And I can assure you that Gunnarr didn't either. Your father may be many things, but stupid isn't one of them. He's made it his mission to take out everyone involved in that cluster fuck."

  "Starting with Knutr."

  "Yeah. He needed to make a statement to the others. Show he's willing to clean house, even if it is family."

  "And I should have been the one...?"

  "Maybe, but you weren't here. Kieran was. Even doped up, he's one of the best marksmen in the country."

  "Damn it. So where is he now?"

  "Well, that's the question. Nobody's seen or heard from Knutr, but that's expected. He might have been moved out of the country, or the Mafiya might see him as a liability now that the shipment's gone. He may have outlived his usefulness."

  "That leaves Kieran out there with, I assume, no backup and no intel."

  "Basically that's it in a nutshell."

  "I assume you have a plan."

  Jake chugged the rest of his coffee and flipped the cup onto the tray. He added his picked over salad and pulled everything to the edge of the table. Sliding across the plastic seat he stood with difficulty. Trey followed suit.

  "You might not like what I have to say." The man simply shrugged with an I don't give a shit look on his face. "I don't want innocent people around. I've seen you..." Jake let that comment trail off. The man's reputation for being shoot-from-the-hip cold-blooded and single-minded was legion, even outside the close-knit Althing group.

  Trey led the way out of the crowded restaurant. Jake noted the pronounced limp and residual tension bunching the enforcer's shoulders. The man stood a hair's breadth shorter than him and out-massed him by twenty-five pounds or better, all of it solid muscle.

  Jake muttered, "This way," and cut across the parking lot to a decrepit tan minivan. He got in the driver side and waited for Trey to join him. His radar told him they were being watched but it was impossible to tell from which quadrant. They were in a strip mall, with flat-topped roofs and ventilation units churning out a background din. He pulled out into traffic, his passenger content to let it play out at Jake's pace.

  They drove in silence down Route 2. Jake kept an anxious eye for a tail. When Trey said, "I'll watch," he settled into negotiating the shore-bound traffic, blending onto Route 50 and creeping bumper-to-bumper over the Bay Bridge.

  "Two cars back, black Honda, jumping with the blue SUV. Smart."

  Jake spied the Honda, three cars back, not one he recognized. He asked, "One of ours?" The other man shrugged, the answer either a no or indifference. He pressed, "Any ideas?"

  "No, but we've got a fucking parade. What's your play?"

  "South. Towards Crisfield."

  "What's down there?"

  "Chickens."

  Trey muttered, "Huh," but he didn't have a good comeback for that one so he tilted his head toward the side mirror and watched the ballet unfolding behind them.

  Jake swung onto the ramp at the 301/50 split and crawled behind an RV towing a bass boat, content to bide his time. He'd expected Gunnar's people to be shadowing him, maybe even the Althings, but another player in the mix? He wasn't sure why that was a surprise. He had a bad feeling that Kieran had stirred up a
hornet's nest down in Miami. If another group had him, and offered the right incentives, who knew what he might do or say? He'd never spoken about Zack, the shipment, or about the scarring on his once handsome face. Instead he dove into a black hole where no one could reach him. If only Caitlin were still alive. She was the only one who managed to keep a rein on him, even when he'd gone off with his flunkies in school.

  His passenger muttered, "More than one."

  Jake asked, "Althings?"

  "Maybe, they could have picked up chatter on what went down. Your people weren't exactly keeping it quiet. One problem, though."

  "What's that?"

  "They're spread too thin. This is coordinated. Focused. Eirik is more about diplomacy, behind-the-scenes, maximizing resources."

  Jake gunned it past the RV and settled in the passing lane to give Trey a better look at the line behind them.

  "One moved, one didn't. Another, four cars back. Mob?"

  Jake snorted. "Russkies? Possible, but they'd have done a drive-by with AK's blazing. This seems way too subtle for them."

  Trey said, "Maybe," then switched gears and asked, "You think they have Kier? The Althings, I mean."

  "It crossed my mind but I'm not completely sold on it." The possibility of mob involvement seemed more likely the more he thought about it.

  Out of the blue, Trey said with a hitch in his voice, "Did my father ask you to...?" letting the question hang.

  It took Jake a minute to figure out what the man meant. He was fishing to see if they had even a small measure of Gunnarr's support. Just the suggestion that they might need it told him they were treading in very deep water. With no definitive answer to the unasked question, he said simply, "He didn't have to. He's my son. He didn't tell me not to."