Field of Fire

by Marc Cameron

  Bowen followed the Cajun’s gaze out the front window to see a familiar tall woman with broad shoulders unfold herself from a little red Miata that had pulled up to park along the curb in front of them. Ronnie Garcia wore the car like a cute little blouse that was a touch too tight. Full, ebony hair hung over each shoulder, dappled in the shade of a sycamore that stood like a sentinel between the playground and the strip club. Bowen couldn’t take his eyes off of her as she leaned down to get her purse from the passenger seat. It was a pretty sure bet Quinn would have shot him had he been there to see him gawking.

  Garcia backed out of the Miata with her purse and pulled on a zippered hoodie.

  “Hey, boys,” she said, after Bowen had regained the partial use of his brain and rolled down the passenger window on the Taurus. “Palmer gave me a quick brief on Nikka while I was driving over to meet you.” She rolled her bad shoulder for effect. “Maybe I’m still on the injured list, but I think I can still be of some use getting information in an upstanding establishment like this.”

  “Palmer tell you she’s a fighter?” Thibodaux said.

  Garcia grinned. “Yo también.” Me too. “But I’ll leave the fighting to you he-men. If we want to find out if Nikka’s hiding Petyr, then we need to get inside without giving him a chance to run. Crashing in like you boys were about to do is likely to get us nada.”

  Bowen nodded and shot a quick glance at the Cajun, who’d wanted to do just that, but didn’t linger long enough to gloat.

  “I have an idea that will get us inside,” Garcia said, throwing open the back door to climb in behind Bowen. “You boys avert your eyes a minute.”

  A series of grunts and cursing came from the backseat for the next few seconds, followed by a black sports bra flying forward to land on the dash. “Thanks, boys,” Garcia said. “No way a girl of my . . . stature could do that in the Miata with a bad shoulder.” She opened the door again and got out, stopping beside Bowen’s window to draw a folding knife from her jeans. Flicking it open, she stuck the point under the fabric of her polo shirt below the bottom button, and cut a small slit. Returning the knife to her pocket, she used both hands to tear a three-inch rip in the garment—sending a shudder up Bowen’s spine.

  “Anyway,” she said through a tantalizing smile. “I think you get the gist of it. I’ll explain the rest on the way.”

  * * *

  It stretched the bounds of believability to think that the sad-eyed waif swinging idly around the center of three dance poles was a day over seventeen years old. O’Hearn had been dead right. Cheekie’s was not the sort of establishment that liked to leave much to the imagination, and the poor thing wore little but a hungry look and a back covered in fading bruises. Techno music thrummed and blared, heavy with base. Multicolored lights flashed and spun in a layered haze of cigar and cigarette smoke, smoothing out the girl’s flesh and muting her injuries, but Bowen saw them clearly enough. His knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists, walking between the front row of semicircular booths that surrounded the stage, hunting for someone to punish. Two sorry looking men in their late forties slouched over half-empty beer bottles, either still glassy-eyed from a long night, or getting an early start on a day of drunken leering. Bowen considered busting a bottle over each man’s head on principle alone. Ronnie must have felt him tense and let her head loll against his shoulder as they walked past the men.

  “Remember,” she said, “we’re here to see what crawls out of the woodwork, not send everyone running. You’re my manager, not Dudley Do-Right here to save the day.”

  “Got it,” Bowen grunted. “But when we’re done here, I’m smackin’ the hell out of somebody.”

  Regaining a semblance of control over his emotions, Bowen gave a toss of his head toward a big-jawed fat man who pecked away at a laptop computer at the farthest booth from the door. The stubby big toe of a cigar smoldered in a ceramic ashtray beside the computer, providing the fat man with his own personal cloud. Greasy black hair was slicked backward from a high forehead and bristled over the collar of a dingy white shirt. A minuscule pair of reading glasses perched on the end of a large nose. The glasses didn’t quite reach the fat man’s ears and seemed held in place by the sheer width of his face. A green lamp sat on the table in front of him beside a stack of cash-register and credit-card receipts.

  The man snatched off the glasses when he saw Bowen and rubbed his eyes between a chubby thumb and forefinger. His vision apparently cleared enough to see Ronnie and a fleshy smile took over his jowly face. His cheeks moved upward at the effort, causing him to squint.

  “Word is you’re looking for dancers,” Bowen said over the thrumming noise. He gave a toss of his head toward Garcia.

  The fat man picked up a handheld remote control and turned off the music, throwing the strip club into a startling quiet. The skinny thing on stage continued her half-hearted gyrations, and the two men in the booth behind them didn’t appear to notice the silence.

  “I always have need for dancers,” the fat man said, his eyes crawling up and down Ronnie like bugs. “Provided price is right.” He spoke with a strong Eastern European accent that Bowen couldn’t place—like Russian, but not quite. “It also depends on what she is willing to do on side.”

  “Take a look at her first,” Bowen said, imagining he was showing a prize racehorse—barely able to hide his disgust. “Then we’ll talk specifics.”

  Ronnie winced when he took her by the arm and nudged her forward, gritting her teeth and drawing away. Bowen had forgotten about her injured shoulder, and his heart sank to think that he’d hurt her. The fat man grinned. It was common for men in this business to tenderize their female merchandise.

  “I am Gugunova,” the fat man said. The drooping smile on his face was absent even a shred of kindness. “Those fortunate to work for me call me Gug.” He pronounced it Goog, and Bowen wondered if he knew how fitting the name seemed for his ponderous size.

  Gug canted his head to one side, squinting through the smoky bar haze at Garcia. “What is your name and where are you from?”

  “Veronica Dombrovski.” Ronnie began to speak in halting English, playing the nervous girl fresh to the big city. “I am from Moscow, er, Drezna really. My parents . . . my brothers, they work textile mills. Very poor—”

  She launched into a string of perfect Russian, presumably saying the same thing again to make sure Gug believed her story.

  Bowen, who was lucky to get the grammar correct in an English sentence found himself mightily impressed.

  The fat man held up his hand to shush her. “You speak English well enough for Drezna River kitten.” He flicked fat fingers in a circle beside his face, motioning for her to turn around. “Let us see if you speak the important language, Veronica Dombrovski.” His eyes slid up and down her body. Bowen grabbed the edge of the booth to keep from slapping the man’s eyes out of his head. Gug suddenly turned to look at him, eyeing the injuries on his face.

  “And who are you to her?”

  “Manager,” Bowen said, knowing that if he said any more he’d come unglued.

  “How would someone like you manage beautiful kitten like our Veronica?” Gug scoffed. “It appears to me that you have trouble managing yourself.” He looked at Ronnie again and licked his carpy lips. “The world is a mean and lowly place, kotyonok. I think you are in need of real manager to take care of you.”

  Bowen took a half step forward, but Ronnie blocked him with her hip. Her eyes flew wide, more innocent than Bowen knew them to be. “I dance maybe?” she said.

  A new man wearing a tight, muscle-mapping T-shirt swaggered in through the darkness from some door beyond the leather booths in the back. Knee-length gym shorts showed off his cantaloupe calves. Obviously Gugunova’s muscle, he stood behind his boss with folded arms, glaring at Bowen as if he’d been summoned to throw out the garbage. Younger than the deputy, probably not yet thirty, he wore an overconfident smirk along with the tight gym clothes. His head was shaved, his face shiny an
d youthful—oblivious to what he was about to get himself into. It made sense that the corpulent boss would have a duress button somewhere under the private table. Guys who called themselves Gug were not likely to stomp their own snakes.

  A slender Asian woman wearing a tight halter top and white short shorts seemed to materialize from the same darkness to ask if Bowen wanted a drink. She shot Ronnie a look of pleading despair, as if warning her not to jump into this pit of vipers in which she found herself.

  A tinkling bell of the front door preceded Thibodaux’s entrance. The big Cajun took a minute to look around the place, as anyone would when walking into a dark strip club in a shady part of town. Apparently satisfied, he waved at the Asian waitress to get her attention, and then took a seat at the booth on the other side of the two drunks. He would have a good view of the stage and it put him within launching distance of Gug’s table should Bowen need assistance.

  Bowen looked back and forth from Jacques to the muscle-bound kid standing behind the fat man, before tapping Ronnie on the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I don’t trust a man who has to call in his ugly bodyguards to watch a chick dance.”

  Roaring with laughter, Gug smacked the flat of his hand on the table, causing the Asian girl to flinch as if she’d been slapped.

  “I only have one bodyguard, Mr. Manager,” the fat man said. “This new gentleman is not on my payroll. He is patron. People come to my place for entertainment. How about you let Veronica Dombrovski entertain?”

  Bowen leaned in so only Ronnie could hear. “We can still stop this,” he whispered.

  “Let’s see what happens,” Ronnie whispered. “Just try not to swallow your tongue.” She tossed him a mischievous wink before climbing up onto the stage.

  Chapter 22

  Alaska

  Quinn approached the lodge quickly, wanting to cover the distance between the airplane and the front door before anyone decided to shoot him. His mother had often told him that there was “no right way to do a bad thing.” It was a great sentiment, but the older Quinn got, the more he realized that bad was on a more or less sliding scale. His particular skill set dictated a job that routinely found him neck deep in things that would have made his mother weep—no small feat for an Alaskan middle school teacher. Heaven knew he’d given her enough to cry about over the years, so he tended to keep most aspects of his life to himself.

  Still, his mother’s credo stuck with him, and when he found himself doing something bad—or particularly dangerous—he at least did his best to do it quickly.

  Moving just short of a committed trot, he kept his head on a swivel, eyes flicking across the face of the lodge as he neared the imposing log structure. Set in a gentle oxbow of the Bornite River, a few hundred meters from the Kobuk, the lodge was at least fifty feet long. It was built of peeled spruce as thick as Quinn’s waist and varnished a rich honey color for protection against the bitter winters and rainy summers of interior Alaska. Four connecting balconies jutting from second-floor windows formed a porch over the front door and lower windows of the building.

  Quinn trotted up the steps, wondering how many eyes had watched his approach from behind any one of eight sets of curtains.

  He didn’t have long to find out.

  An older man who had to be Adam Henderson opened the door, moving like an automaton. Quinn didn’t wait to be invited and brushed past the man to get inside. To her credit, Beaudine moved two steps to the left rather than staying directly behind Quinn after they came through the door. The warmth of the room hit Quinn immediately, along with the almost imperceptible static of fear.

  An older woman with silver hair, still damp from a recent trip out in the rain, sat in an overstuffed chair with her back to a floor-to-ceiling chimney of melon-size river rock that occupied the center of the vaulted great room. Her face was slack, and she seemed to be avoiding any eye contact with Quinn. A large man with full red beard and an erect military bearing stood behind her, his hands low and behind the chair so Quinn couldn’t see them.

  On the far side of the fireplace, to the woman’s right sat a young man with a forced smile painted on his sallow face. A blossom of bright red blood stained the shoulder of his tan Carhartt jacket. Quinn tagged him for the young bush pilot who had a crush on Lovita. It looked like he’d been shot, but he was still sitting upright and breathing. Quinn couldn’t help but think he and Beaudine had interrupted a little group interrogation by the Russians.

  A hallway, presumably leading to guest rooms, ran off the far end of the back wall behind the injured pilot. A stairway of split logs rose up beyond the fireplace, leading to a long balcony complete with varnished log railings. Another large man, this one with shaggy hair and a matching beard the color of a rusty nail looked down on them from the balcony. This one looked twitchy, half hiding behind a thick log support column. Quinn figured they’d interrupted him searching for Volodin on the upper floors. Like his partner, he “bootlegged” his gun, keeping it ready, but behind his thigh and out of sight.

  There was no sign of Dr. Volodin or of the young girl who’d supposedly departed Nome with him. Quinn took a deep breath, noting the position and distance of each person in the room. The woman at Tusk Charters had said there were three Russians—which left one unaccounted for, a fact that added to the nagging feeling that pressed against Quinn’s gut.

  Once back inside, Adam moved toward his wife. Quinn caught him by the shoulder with his left hand, never taking his eyes off the big man standing at the chair.

  “Stay behind me,” Quinn said, the cold hiss of his voice leaving no room for argument.

  Henderson did as directed but couldn’t help but call out. “How you doin’, Esther?”

  The silver-haired woman cleared her throat. “Just fine, Adam,” she said, swallowing hard in an attempt to get the words out.

  Hearing the terror in his wife’s voice was too much for Adam and he started to move again. Esther tried to rise and go to him, but the bearded Russian grabbed her shoulder and yanked her back into the chair. He looked up at Adam and bellowed: “Stay back!”

  “You son of a bitch.” Adam’s voice boiled over in a mixture of rage and unsteady terror. “Take your hands off my wife or I’ll—”

  “Oh, Mr. Henderson,” the man said, his voice thickly Russian. “My friends and I have little problem.” His eyes narrowed, his voice grew more intense. “And now our problem has become your problem.”

  “Now y’all just hang on a second!” Beaudine said, lifting her hands. “My mama always told me that you don’t so much solve a problem as work it through—”

  “You are not in charge here,” the man behind Esther Henderson said, letting his gun swing out ever so slightly from behind the chair to drive home his point. “Little lady,” the Russian said, imitating Beaudine’s Texas accent. The man on the balcony joined him in a derisive chuckle. “Some problems, they are more difficult to solve than—”

  Action was always faster than reaction so Quinn knew he had to make the first move. He’d left his jacket unzipped, his shirttail pulled up over his pistol. All he had to do was sweep and draw. His hand moved toward the Kimber while the two Russians were still making fun of Beaudine’s drawl.

  Quinn’s first round caught the man behind the chair directly in the forehead. He rushed his second, catching the man on the balcony in the knee. He followed up with a third that took him center mass. Both men crumpled to the floor.

  “Problem solved,” Quinn said.

  “What the hell?” Beaudine stared at him in horror.

  Quinn ignored her, moving to grab Esther Henderson and pull her back toward her husband. His eyes followed the muzzle of his Kimber as he swept the interior of the lodge for other threats. There was still one Russian unaccounted for. He motioned the young pilot toward him with a flick of his hand. “Where’s the third one?”

  The kid shook his head, looking like he was about to cry. He looked at both the men Quinn ha
d shot. “Do you think they’re dead?”

  “Pretty sure,” Quinn said. “But it wouldn’t hurt my feelings if you went upstairs and kicked the gun away from that guy.” Quinn nodded toward the kid’s wound. “Are you able to do that?”

  “I was feeling woozy.” The young man nodded. “But I think I’m okay now.”

  Beaudine moved to check the dead man behind the chair.

  “Any idea where the third Russian went,” Quinn said to no one in particular. He kept his Kimber up, moving it back and forth from the balcony above to the hallways below.

  “He ran out the kitchen door right after we heard your plane touch down,” Esther said.

  “Lovita!” Quinn said under his breath.

  “Hang on,” Corey said, starting after him, but swaying in place and cradling his wounded arm. “You mean Lovita flew you in?”

  “She did,” Quinn said, already moving toward the door.

  Corey gave a pitiful groan. “Then that other guy’s out there with her.”

  The front door flew open an instant before Quinn reached it. The third Russian was darker and even more menacing than his friends. Clean-shaven and broadly muscled, he looked like some sort of super soldier. He strode into the room giving orders and spewing angry demands. It apparently hadn’t occurred to him that anyone besides his two comrades might be the ones shooting inside the lodge. He had a pistol in his hand, but it dangled down by his side like an afterthought.

  The bellowing Russian charged when he realized his friends had been shot, bending low for a double-leg takedown. He was much too close for Quinn to bring his weapon to bear. The point of his shoulder hit Quinn in the belly, driving him backward and slamming the Kimber out of his hand. Quinn reacted without thought, letting his body bend forward naturally from the impact. Face down against the Russian’s broad back, he wrapped his arms around the man’s chest and let his legs collapse, allowing the Russian’s forward momentum to roll him backward onto the floor. He landed between the two overstuffed chairs in a jujitsu throw called tawara gaeshi. Ignoring the searing impact of the unforgiving hardwood against his bruised ribs, Quinn grabbed one fist with the other as he rolled, pulling the monstrous Russian against his belly and bucking his hips to roll him feet first and on his back. The Russian crashed against a wooden coffee table beside a startled Esther Henderson, reducing it to kindling.