Snow Rising (The Great North Woods Pack Book 4)

by Shawn Underhill

  Rolling along, Lars took an extremely deep breath, holding it in for a few seconds. The wind rushing by him was cold but refreshing after sweating. He looked away from the wounded wolf. Her body was heaving, struggling for air, and he did not wish to see her die. He saw pavement passing under him and watched the roadside trees whipping by. Trucks were coming south—pickups and big flatbed work trucks equipped with winches for servicing the logging company’s fleet. The cleanup crews. They certainly had their work cut out for them now. The road would require a lot of kitty litter to obscure the blood.

  Near Ed’s driveway he gave a shout. The old man slowed and he hopped off the bumper. His feet hit the ground running and he sprinted up the long gravel driveway. He was breathless again by the time he reached his truck and slid in. He fired it up. Tore out of Ed’s driveway. Gunned the poor old v-8 mercilessly and roared north.

  Approaching the center of town, he slowed to a coast. His eyes were scanning all around. He spotted the navy Chrysler parked close to the trees which bordered the convenience store’s generous parking lot, which merged with the lot for the restaurant. He rolled on north. Passed out of sight of the occupants of the Chrysler. Turned around in Joseph Snow’s driveway and pointed the old truck south.

  He came down the main strip coasting, easing past Grandma’s Kitchen. It was closed. As were all the businesses. The parking lots were desolate. He got a few sips of water as he coasted and twisted the cap back on. Dropped the bottle on the seat. Easing the steering wheel, he moved off the road onto the diner’s parking lot. He aimed the truck’s nose at the driver’s side doors of the Chrysler, then jammed the gas pedal to the floor.

  The Chrysler’s driver started to move the car forward once he realized what was going to happen. But by then it was too late. Lars braced himself, followed the car with small adjustments to the wheel, and smashed into it doing over thirty. The old truck’s steel bumper caved the newer car’s doors in nicely. The rear end kicked around behind, the tired steel squeaking and rattling. He barely felt the impact. In the moment he was too charged with adrenalin and focused anger to feel anything beyond his determination to eliminate all opponents.

  Stepping from the truck, he held his cocked .45 out before him. Hearing the guys in the car complaining and groaning, he stepped into the shade of the trees. He stood there twisting his suppressor from his inside coat pocket to the end of his pistol, watching them work to gather themselves after the jarring impact. The side airbags had deployed and the two in the front were struggling to get free.

  The first to stagger out was the guy from the back seat. He had taken the least punishment. Lars moved back further into the dark shade and crouched, watching the guy keenly, wondering if he truly wanted to fight or not. Then the guy spotted him. Started raising his pistol to fire. Lars shot him in the leg. The shot was by no means silent, but certainly wasn’t anywhere near as booming as the typical report of a .45. The guy collapsed instantly. Once he was down, he looked up again at Lars in time to receive a bullet to the face. The slug passed right through, moving down at a slight angle. The car door behind him absorbed the bullet as well as a fair amount of the contents of his head.

  In the next second Lars looked up and saw the passenger hauling himself up and out of the car. He was struggling to gather his wits and aim an M4 into the shade with the sun in his eyes. Lars shot him in the chest. Through his Kevlar vest, the hit must have felt like a kick from a horse. As the guy bent over in pain, he sent a bullet straight down through the top of his skull. The guy fell on his face, instantly limp, and lay in an ugly heap next to the first guy.

  Last was the driver. He was already hurting as Lars looked to him. His head was turned toward him. He had watched the other two die and now he was holding one hand up, begging for his life. His other hand was applying pressure to an apparent leg wound. Probably a cracked femur. His face was all contorted from pain and fear. Evidently he hadn’t counted on dying today. Merrill was the one who was supposed to die.

  Lars stood there pointing the gun at him. His chest was still heaving. His face felt grimy from sweat and smoke and gunpowder. He realized vaguely that there were damp leaves of varying colors plastered to his pants and coat. If he appeared anywhere near as angry and unstable as he felt, he must have been a disturbing sight to behold.

  He was operating on the sort of whipped-up hostility which enabled men who no longer wished to be soldiers or killers to go on killing whoever they must. He blamed the man before him for everything, though he knew deep down that Kraft was the ultimate cause. On the surface, to keep himself going, he blamed this man for the hunting and harming of the wolf pack. He blamed him for the other dead men south of town and the injured female wolf—he couldn’t recall her name. He blamed this man even for the memory of An African Story, seeing him as the one who brought down the old elephant and celebrated as it died slowly and painfully.

  “Crawl out of there,” he told the guy. “Now.”

  “My leg’s busted, man,” he replied. “I—”

  “Take your gun out of your coat.”

  “I don’t want to fight, man. You win. Okay?”

  “No?” Don’t wanna fight?”

  “No, no,” he said. He was shaking.

  “You just wanted to kill a guy and bring his cargo back to the boss, right?”

  The guy looked blankly at him and muttered, “Doing my job. It’s my job, man. You know.”

  “Yeah,” Lars said. “I get it. And I’m just doing my job. Now, get your gun out.”

  “You win,” the guy said again.

  “I won’t shoot you. Unless you keep arguing. Now get the gun out of your coat before I start beating you.”

  The guy finally complied, clumsily. His hands were shaking. He was repeating that he didn’t want to fight. He needed to go to a hospital. His leg was busted.

  “Clear the chamber and eject the mag,” Lars said.

  The guy did it, his hands fumbling.

  “Toss it all towards me.”

  He did.

  Lars holstered his .45, kicked the guy’s gun to the woods, and dragged the two dead guys completely into the shade. One at a time. Then he went over to the Chrysler, reached in and grabbed the driver’s shirt collar. Hauled him out groaning and begging. Stood him up. Spun him. Kicked his ass to make him hobble toward the truck. He opened the tailgate and let the guy roll into the steel bed.

  “C’mon, man,” the guy said. “Call me an ambulance, will ya?”

  Lars closed the gate and climbed into the cab without a reply. He started toward the farm. He was still working to regulate his breathing and calm his heart.

  A short distance up the driveway, he heard the guy screaming. Panicking. So he stopped. Got out and checked behind the truck’s seat for some rope or straps. He found old ratchet straps with rusty hooks. He went around and opened the gate and dragged the guy out again. Hauled him to the front of the truck and slung him onto the crinkled hood.

  “What, what?” the guy was saying. “C’mon, man, what?”

  “You were screaming and hollering ’cause you didn’t like the bed,” Lars said. He was tying the straps to the guy’s wrists, preparing to secure the hooks under the fenders and pull them tight. “So, you can ride on the hood for the rest of the way. How’s that for something to scream about?”

  29

  “Change of plans,” Joseph said. He pointed for Paul to take the cases back out of the trunk.

  “I don’t understand,” Merrill said.

  “I’m guessing Kraft intends to kill you,” Joseph said.

  “But—”

  “Did you hear that firing?”

  Merrill wasn’t sure what he had heard. He sat there looking blank and confused.

  “Whatever Kraft told you was a lie.”

  “I assumed most of it was.”

  “Everything,” Joseph said. “I guess he was biding his time, waiting for your sister to perfect her technology. Now, assuming that she’s gone, he’s making a
decisive move to acquire the cases.”

  “I’m to take them to him,” Merrill said. “There’s no way he’d come himself.”

  Joseph shook his head as he said, “He’s only using you to get them from us, not to get them to his place. He probably would’ve left you dead on the roadside. Now, you’ll stay here until we’ve figured out what to do next.”

  ***

  “Let us see by sky,” Ohan said. He had heard the distant firing and for minutes after had felt an increasing sense of tension.

  “Yes,” Mah agreed, then looked to the wolves as Ohan spread his wings, started down the hill, gave a great beat, and lifted off heavily.

  “You may be seen!” Evie said.

  “Risky,” Matthew chimed.

  “Stay with the new wolf,” Mah said. “We will keep low and evade. We have come to be of help, not to hide.”

  Evie, Matthew and Janie watched the great eagle take flight as Ohan had, slowly and heavily. He moved off nearly skimming the treetops, then was quickly gone from sight.

  The eagles swooped low over the pastures of the big farm, sending the cows and horses scattering. Climbing again, they went above the trees once more and circled slowly south. All the while their far-seeing eyes were scanning the skies. They neared the center of Ludlow within a few wide and sweeping circles.

  “Look,” called Mah.

  “I see it,” Ohan returned, holding his eye on two tiny dots moving toward them over the tree tops.

  Both banked sharply around north and flew fast for the farm. They came over the barns and saw a truck coming to rest between the greenhouse and the big farmhouse. A man was tied to the truck’s hood. Joseph Snow and his son appeared to be speaking with men in a silver car. Others of the family were attending to a wounded wolf before the opened garage bay doors.

  They alighted one by one on the grass by the house. Joseph Snow walked to them, seemingly watching the silver car with one eye.

  “Human helicopters approach from the south,” Mah said. “Traveling due north.”

  “No,” Joseph said, his face dropping.

  “Find us stones and heavy objects,” Ohan said. “We can defeat them easily ourselves.”

  ***

  Lars had just stepped from his truck when the eagles arrived. He was downing a bottle of water when they alighted a dozen yards off the driveway’s edge. He saw Joseph walking to them. Saw him tense up. He turned, looking shaken. Then he heard him say, “Help me.”

  After a deep breath, Lars got moving. He saw the old man run to the stonewall that bordered the western edge of the yard near the family cemetery. He caught up to Joseph as he was hoisting a chunk of granite larger than a basketball.

  “Grab one and run,” he said.

  Lars nodded in passing, took a breath, hefted a slightly smaller stone, and turned and followed him. The old man was moving double his speed with a heavier stone. They were going straight for the eagles. He couldn’t imagine what for. With his heart pounding the way it was, he couldn’t yet hear the beating rotors of the approaching helicopters.

  “Choppers,” Joseph said as Lars dropped his stone a few yards from the two massive eagles.

  “What?” he said, hoping he’d misunderstood.

  “Two helicopters coming straight at us,” Joseph said. “Could be nothing or could be real bad news.”

  They stood back as the eagles clutched the stones with both feet. They put their entire bodies into the effort of painstakingly rising from the earth while bearing burdens. Swaying, thumping their wings in slow, heavy strokes. It reminded Lars of watching a heavy C-130 Hercules lift off a runway with full cargo. Gradually they climbed, banked, swooped and picked up speed. They circled just above the pastures with a hundred yards between them. Guarding it. Ready to strike. Using the dark tree line as a backdrop of cover.

  Lars went to his truck and got his M4. He could hear the choppers now and their pulsating beat and he was cursing himself loudly for not bringing more ammunition.

  “Get Erica into the garage,” Joseph shouted.

  Lars looked and saw the old man retrieving a rifle from his own truck. It struck him hard. First he’d seen him appear visibly shaken. Now he was brandishing a hated firearm. It was unsettling to see the great elder so unsettled.

  Forget it, he told himself, hearing the choppers. Stay focused. If they’re hostile, they gotta be knocked down.

  He knelt by his truck and ignored the dazed man blabbering on the hood. The guy was in shock and making no sense. He switched his selector switch from safe to auto. There were six of the hot rounds to begin with. With careful aim he would make them count. He breathed and blinked his eyes and prepared to start watching through the scope.

  The first chopper came over twenty yards above the trees, close to the house. The noise of it with the downdraft shook everything and then from the open side door, where a news camera would be mounted in the old days, a man strapped in tightly began strafing the big greenhouse with an automatic rifle. Glass began to shatter, the high sound of it mingling with the deep, vibrating beat of rotors.

  Within seconds Lars had sighted the small rear prop—the one which kept the chopper stable. He was working to breathe, worrying about his ammo, and focusing to lead his sights just ahead of his moving target. He squeezed the trigger and held it till the magazine was empty. He saw the first few hot rounds miss, then the final few struck home in a line along the tail leading to the rotor. The standard rounds followed and he saw the puff of smoke start from the tail before lowering the gun to change the mag.

  He clicked the next magazine in and watched over the top of his rifle as the chopper banked hard and away. The pilot had evidently felt the prop fail just as he’d noticed a massive eagle swooping down on him. The first eagle dropped his stone. But it was just icing on a cake. The pilot was already losing control and altitude. The chopper went into a spin that carried it helplessly into the trees at the far edge of the pasture. The big rotor ripped into the earth as the fuselage broke apart. Dirt and debris and tree limbs erupted from the crash. The wreckage began to smolder.

  The second chopper passed over the southernmost field below the barns. Having just seen the other go down, they strafed from a great distance and then tried to turn sharply south. The pilot could not see the second eagle because his eyes were fixed on the first, in disbelief. The second eagle fell in directly above the chopper, and just as it began to turn, he released his burden. The sound of the stone striking the rotor was almost like a gunshot. Then the chopper nosed down as it fell fast to the ground, carrying all its speed toward impact. It broke apart in flames and thumping rotors as frightened cows groaned and stampeded to the barn.

  Lars turned and saw the white wolf starting across the upper pasture. He arrived at the first crash site just after one of the eagles landed. He watched through his scope as they checked for survivors. The gunner was limp, dead on impact. The pilot was alive and in bad shape. Pinned in his seat. But his troubles were soon over. In a fit of fury, the white wolf tore him from his seat in pieces.

  Silence descended on the farm. It was a hollow sort of nothingness after all the commotion. Silence, not peace.

  Lars walked heavily to his truck and set his rifle on the seat. He took his second bottle of water, walked to the grass south of the garage, and sat down and drank it. He had been in some rough situations before, but never one that gave him such an urgent feeling of potential personal loss. Not loss of himself, but still a very personal sort of loss. Loss for the whole town, the family.

  After a minute he lit a cigar and just sat there. Numb. His mind went over the battle like a song being looped. He stared at nothing and sat completely still. He heard the activity around him but it became like faint static. More family members arrived. Earl’s daughter was tended to. The wolves from the road fight returned. Joseph Snow interrogated the man on the hood and then took him away. Lars never saw what was done with him. He knew that it was all going on around him, but he felt very much detached
from it all. He did not stand again for nearly an hour, when Joseph came and shook his hand and then told him to go home and rest until further notice.

  He did as he was told. Drove slowly along the long driveway. Went back to McCall’s. Showered. Dressed. Lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. Dozing. Staring and remembering. Not thinking purposely but simply remembering. He kept hearing the sound that Earl had made when seeing his wounded daughter bleeding in the road. He thought of big black taking the blame and then of the white wolf and what he’d done to that pilot. Though he wasn’t trying to think of anything, he saw it and heard it all over again in precise detail.

  If there was one thing that he was consciously thankful for, it was that he was not expected to aid in the cleanup efforts.

  30

  At 4:00 pm his phone sounded. He answered the call and Joseph Snow instructed him to drive to the airfield.

  He went out McCall’s front door two minutes later and saw David Wilson leaning on his truck. He was wearing dark clothing and dark boots.

  “How’s the girl?” he asked, almost afraid for the answer.

  “Very sore,” David answered. “But if she’s made it this long, she’ll pull through and be tougher for it.”

  Lars shook his head at the thought of such suffering. Then he said, “What’s up with you?”

  “Just waiting for you. Wherever you go, the action is.”

  “I wasn’t told that you were going.”

  “I am,” David said, his face stern. “Joseph can kick me off his jet personally if he wants. But I am going over there with you.”