Field of Fire

by Marc Cameron

  “Understood,” Quinn said. “Since she can’t get out of state, Merculief will want to do the most damage she can with the gas she has. That means she’ll look for population density. What day is it?”

  “I gotta tell you, Quinn,” Pond said. “That doesn’t exactly engender confidence.”

  “Ma’am,” Beaudine said, nearly coming out of her seat. “With all due respect, it’s easy to lose track of time when you’ve been through what we’ve been through.”

  “You’re right,” Pond said, showing an incredible amount of humility for someone with the terrible cosmic power of a Special Agent in Charge. “It’s Friday.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Quinn said. “What do we have going on as far as events?”

  There was a shuffle of paper on the line as Pond referred to a list.

  “We’ve narrowed it down to four likely targets. There’s a production of The Little Mermaid at the Performing Arts Center, something called The American Forum for Citizenship at the Dena’ina, a punk rock concert at the Alaska Airlines Center, and an Aces hockey game at the Sullivan Arena.”

  Quinn glanced up and saw Volodin was listening intently.

  “Doctor,” Quinn said. “Did your daughter mention any of those places?”

  A tear ran down the old man’s cheek. “I am sorry,” he said. “She did not.”

  “Okay,” Quinn said, speaking back into the phone. “The last two attacks were televised. The hockey game will have news cameras.”

  “It will,” Pond said. “My media liaison tells me local affiliates have news crews at both the Dena’ina event as well as the rock concert. That leaves The Little Mermaid as the only thing we can mark off in that regard.”

  “A lot of kids there,” Quinn said. “Makes for an awfully appealing target even without the cameras.” He resolved to call Kim as soon as he hung up and make sure she stayed home with Mattie for the night.

  “Each of the other attacks used only one canister,” Pond said. “We have to consider the possibility that Merculief got help. They could split up and hit multiple targets—or hit no targets at all and just wait and smuggle the gas out of state.”

  “True,” Quinn said, knowing they weren’t going to get that lucky. Volodin had been clear that his daughter hated America and capitalism in general. She would want to use the gas at her earliest opportunity, one way or another.

  Volodin cleared his throat. “If I may,” he said. “If my daughter does this horrible thing, it will be spontaneous, not well planned. My Kaija did not know we were leaving Russia until I destroyed some of the Novo Archangelsk.” He rubbed his face, his hands still cuffed, looking like he might break into tears. “She is so full of hate . . .”

  “We really have no choice,” Quinn said, looking back at the phone. “We have to put people at all four events.” He looked at his watch. It was five minutes to seven. “What’s APD think about evacuation?”

  “It’s a topic of discussion,” Pond said. “The fear is that once we play our hand, Merculief will deploy the gas before we can locate her. So far APD has blocked off access to each venue so no new people are getting in. Those already there are none the wiser . . . unless they snap to the fact that all the cops and federal agents at these venues have gas masks strapped to their legs.”

  A sudden thought crossed Quinn’s mind, and he looked up at Volodin, snapping his fingers to get the dazed man’s attention. “What did Kaija and Polina talk about?”

  “Polina . . .” Volodin smiled. “She is a nice young woman. Very close to having her baby, I think.” He gave Quinn a sly wink. “But I am not that kind of doctor.”

  “What did she and Kaija talk about?” Quinn asked again.

  “Oh . . .” Volodin shrugged. “This and that. She did not look very happy to see us.” He looked around the airplane then down at the handcuffs in his lap. “Have I done something wrong? Where is my daughter?”

  Quinn turned back to Beaudine and the phone. “I’m not sure if Polina is involved in the gas attacks or if she’s just helping a friend.”

  “I know Polina,” Trooper Evans said.

  “Yeah, we’ve met her too,” Beaudine said, “and she’s a liar.”

  Chapter 61

  New York

  August Bowen had carried a fight strategy of one form or another in his head from the time he started Golden Gloves in junior high school. Fighting was about working the angles, especially against a stronger opponent, but it was mostly about heart—and Bowen knew he had plenty of that. Unfortunately, brute strength and meanness sometimes trumped even the strongest heart.

  It had been difficult enough to find the location for the fight, an eight hundred square-foot storage area off a maze a level below the famed Doyers Street tunnel. A rusted sewer line over a foot in diameter ran along the outer cinderblock wall. One of Bowen’s high school coaches had warned him that he had a tendency to focus on the negative before a fight but the low ceilings and the lingering odor of rotten eggs made it impossible not to imagine a burst pipe. There was no way the two hundred plus fight fans who’d answered Maxim Ortega’s invitation would be able to scramble out of the tunnels before the underground cavern filled with sewage and they all drowned. He kept the little nightmare to himself and tried to focus on the match.

  Volodin had arrived first and had stowed his yellow duffle before anyone had a chance to lay eyes on him. Agents from several alphabet soup agencies were already filtering in through the tunnels, placing bets to blend in, and looking for the duffle. No one knew exactly how much of this New Archangel gas Petyr had, but the powers that be weren’t taking any chances. As far as Bowen knew, half the people in the crowd were agents of the federal government—and that suited him right down to the bone. There was a chance that Volodin or his associates would deploy the gas at the fight but the general consensus was that the two hundred ne’er-do-wells clamoring for violence three stories under the belly of Chinatown didn’t make for a very appealing target. Still, terrorists who didn’t put much value on their own lives could easily deploy the gas out of desperation.

  Surprisingly, the Ortegas had invested in an actual chain-link octagon and mat for their illicit operation. Twenty-five feet across, the padding on the support posts was more duct tape than foam, and the black vinyl chain-link was worn down to the steel in several places. The mat itself was far from level, with hills and valleys at each seam. Rust-colored bloodstains, from what looked like the remnants of a massacre, covered a five-foot section of the mat near the blue corner. It was a stark reminder of what was about to happen in the ring. Three portable halogen work lights illuminated the area, making it possible for the hungry crowd to see every drop of blood.

  Flanked by Thibodaux and Garcia, Bowen bounced and shuffled on his feet to stay loose as Maxim Ortega introduced the fighters using a portable megaphone. Thibodaux had been right about the circus atmosphere of a mismatch. The faces in the crowd ran the gamut from Wall Street executives, Chinese business owners, and a sizable number of wise guys from Knickerbocker Village. Most of them had surely bet on Volodin, the odds on the Russian were so low that most in the crowd were just hungry for blood—and they didn’t particularly care whose it was.

  Maxim Ortega stood in the center of the mat as he introduced the fighters in an over-enunciated voice like he was trying to imitate Howard Cosell.

  “In the blue corner, wearing black trunks, weighing in at one hundred eight-two pounds, standing five feet ten inches tall, the challenger, August, Baby Bear, Bowwweeeennn.” Bowen had unwisely left his fight name up to Ortega.

  Bowen’s prematurely silver hair made many in the crowd call him an old man. But it was obvious from his physique that if he was old, he was in incredible shape. Well muscled, though not overly so, he was built more like a decathalete than a cage fighter. A prominent pink scar, the visible portion roughly the size of a football, covered the lower ribs on his right side—a badge of war earned from an explosion near Mazar-i-Sharif. The unseen portion of
the wound covered his right thigh—and a good portion of his psyche.

  Crowds don’t root for relative unknowns, so even those who’d ventured a bet on Bowen, answered his introduction with a chorus of hardy boos. Thibodaux told him to forget about the rabble, and dabbed a tiny bit of Vaseline on his eyebrows while Ortega continued his blaring theatrical intro.

  “. . . In the red corner, wearing blue trunks, weighing in at two hundred and forty-one pounds and standing six feet three inches tall, a hometown boy from Brooklyn, Petyr, The Wolf, Voloooooodin!”

  The crowd erupted, cheering for their hero as he danced around the inside of the octagon, waving massive arms over his head to egg them on. He flexed his chest, making the eight pointed star tattoos bounce on his pectoral muscles as he growled and leered, pounding his gloved hands together. Bowen was not easily intimidated, but this guy looked twice as big as when he’d come into Cheekie’s.

  “Whatever you do,” Thibodaux said, “do not meet this clown head on.”

  Garcia squirted a jet of water in Bowen’s mouth and stuck the guard in his mouth like she knew how to work a corner.

  The brunette ring girl practically bubbling out of a red bikini held up the Round 1 card and began her circuit around the inside of the octagon. Volodin reached out with his glove to touch her but she swatted him away.

  “Good luck, mango,” Garcia said as Bowen spit into a bucket. “You got this.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Thibodaux said, just before the air horn sounded. “Remember what I said. No head-on fightin’. That guy’s gonna eat your children.”

  * * *

  Bowen knew he was in trouble fifteen seconds into the five-minute round. Volodin shot in around both legs and took him straight to the mat, driving the wind from his lungs and nearly putting him in an arm bar. Bowen was able to roll out and scramble to his feet, dazed, and a hair wiser. The takedown did little but embolden the Russian, and he tried to rush in again after a couple of feinting jabs. Bowen understood feinting jabs more than double-leg tackles, and he tagged The Wolf on his blocky chin with a wicked jab hook combination. It would have dropped a lesser man, but Volodin shook it off. It was clear he didn’t want to get hit again though and kept his distance, circling and looking for an opening. The two men traded jabs for a time, with Volodin executing several devastating kicks to Bowen’s left knee, effectively chopping him down like a tree, one whack at a time. Each kick made the deputy feel as though he was trying to walk out a Charlie horse, all while someone was trying to take his head off.

  Eventually, Volodin kicked and jabbed enough to work Bowen back against the cage. Thibodaux yelled at him to “circle out!” and stay away from the other fighter, but Bowen could hear little beyond the whoosh of blood in his ears.

  Volodin used the backstop of the cage to his advantage, crashing in suddenly to smear the deputy into the chain link. With much of The Wolf’s two hundred and forty pounds centered against his chest Bowen found it impossible to draw a breath. Fleeting images of sparky stars began to swirl in his head, and for a moment, he thought his entire body might be strained through the chain link like a sieve. He got his legs wrapped around the Russian’s midsection and somehow had enough presence of mind to keep his hands up to defend himself, but he knew it was going to be over soon.

  Bowen felt the referee’s body wedging in between him and Volodin, and for a moment, thought the fight had been called. The sound of the air horn signaling the end of round one worked its way into Bowen’s brain as he took a lungful of air. Volodin stalked off to his corner while Bowen clamored to his feet, certain that the reprieve was only temporary.

  “What are you doin’ out there, Gus Gus?” Thibodaux asked, dropping a stool in the blue corner so Bowen could sit. “I told you to roll out. No head-on shit. Got me?”

  Bowen nodded, saving his breath.

  Garcia gave him a squirt of water. “No word yet from any of our guys on the duffle,” she said. “You still good?”

  Bowen nodded, working to calm himself and take advantage of the full sixty seconds of rest. He was in better-than-average shape, but going all out for five minutes took its toll, and he could feel his legs turning rubbery. He had to do something to finish this quickly.

  “Stop treatin’ this like a contest,” Thibodaux said. “You’re job is to stay alive until we get what we need.”

  The warning buzzer sounded and the ring girl came through holding up the Round 2 card. In a repeat of the first round, Volodin reached out to grope her. She tried to bat his glove away, but he managed to get his meat hooks on her hips and yanked her backward onto his lap. Laughing derisively, he grabbed her breasts from behind before she was able to wriggle free and run from the ring with her card. Had it been a sanctioned event, he would have been disqualified, but in an underground fight, the behavior went largely unnoticed by everyone—except August Bowen.

  * * *

  Thibodaux and Garcia exited the ring and watched Bowen go straight at Volodin.

  Garcia’s hand shot to her mouth. “What’s he doing?”

  “Exactly what I told him not to.” Thibodaux grinned. “My bad. Gus Gus don’t know how to fight any other way but head-on. I’m guessin’ the righteous wrath of Bowen is about to rain down on Petyr the Wolf for his bad behavior.”

  And indeed it did. The Russian danced sideways at the deputy’s rapid attack, still cocky, circling around to throw another low kick. Rather than trying to outbox him, Bowen bent his knee and let the kick slide up his leg, catching it with his left hand while he drove forward with his right, tagging Volodin in the chin. He could have executed a single leg takedown—and ended up on the ground, which was the Russian’s domain. Instead, Bowen let the leg fall as he pressed in, raining jabs and hooks from a half-dozen different angles at the Wolf’s head and face. Some landed, some didn’t, but Bowen kept the punches coming, causing the Russian to duck and raise his guard enough to expose his ribs.

  A hook shot to the liver is one of the most devastating blows in boxing. Bowen had eaten more than his share—and come away from every one thinking he’d rather take a ballpeen hammer on the chin. Digging in, he drove a powerful left into Petyr’s unprotected side, digging in to the man’s ribs and causing his eyes to roll back in his head. His hands dropped and Bowen hit him two more times in the face before the Russian collapsed to the mat. Bowen moved in for more but the ref waved him off.

  It was over.

  Thibodaux ran into the ring followed by Garcia who had a cell phone to her ear.

  “They have the duffle,” she said. “The Bureau and NYPD Emergency Services just sealed the exits. A couple of likely Islamic State dudes are in custody—evidently here to grab the nerve gas.”

  Thibodaux took a pair of cuffs out of his back pocket and pulled Petyr Volodin’s hands behind his back.

  “Any . . . Russians . . . in custody?” Bowen said, leaning against the ring to catch his breath while he peeled off the gloves. Ortega tried to raise his hand as the winner but the deputy swatted the man away and told him to get lost.

  “Maybe Black Hundreds,” Garcia said. “I’m sure our guys are rounding up more as we speak.”

  “Russians?” Petyr groaned, his battered face pressed to the mat. “It’s Anakin’s men, here to stab me in the liver.”

  “Well, don’t it suck to be you,” Thibodaux said, dragging The Wolf to his feet.

  Chapter 62

  “That wasn’t my fault,” Captain Amy Munjares said when she bounced the C-21 onto the runway at Joint Base Elmendorf Richardson. “That was the asphalt. . .”

  Special Agent Khaki Beaudine looked out the window at the lights of Anchorage. The fluids and sugars from the IV had worked better than a jolt of caffeine—and the jolt of caffeine from the onboard coffee hadn’t hurt either. She very nearly forgot her rule about no public tears when she realized they had made it back to civilization—even if she did smell like an outhouse that had been doused with blood and oil then set on fire. Quinn sat across from her, ta
lking to their welcoming party on his cell while Trooper Evans removed the IV catheter from the back of his hand and covered the spot with a cotton and a piece of clear tape.

  “I’m assigned to the two of you,” the trooper said as they taxied toward an open hangar off the flight line. “There’s supposed to be a patrol SUV here waiting on us.”

  Both Quinn and the Trooper waited for Beaudine to exit the airplane first.

  Beaudine put a hand over her brow and squinted at the incredibly bright lighting inside the hangar. The waxed concrete floor was white and immaculate, adding to the glare. She’d known Quinn’s daughter and ex-wife would be there to greet him, but the way he’d talked about her, Beaudine thought the daughter would be older. To her surprise, a little girl with long dark hair waited at the bottom of the boarding ladder. A small blond woman, pretty, but with a fierce face, stood beside her. She wore long pants but the ankle of a metal prosthetic was clearly visible above her hiking shoes.

  Aunt Abbey’s rifle in one hand, Beaudine hitched her pack up on her shoulder and gave the women a tentative wave. She could smell the wonderful odor of shampoo and body lotion before she even reached the ground.

  “We brought you some clothes,” Mattie said, grinning. It was remarkable that this beautiful little girl didn’t scream when she saw the horrific wound on Beaudine’s face. Instead, she held out a pair of folded blue jeans and a black T-shirt. “Mom had some unopened packs at home. Daddy said you’re about her size.”

  Kim handed Quinn a black leather jacket before pulling him in for an enveloping hug as if they were still married.

  “Sorry about the stench,” he said.

  “You’ve smelled worse,” Kim said, backing away, her eyes welling.

  Trooper Evan’s phone chirped. He picked up and then handed it off to Beaudine. “Your boss,” he said.

  It was Special Agent in Charge Pond. Beaudine’s phone had fully charged on the airplane, but the SAIC only had the Trooper’s number.