Cold Winter Sun

by Forder, Tony J.

  Another wooden building stood opposite, and seeing it from the rear it was hard to tell what it might have been. To me it looked like maybe a mess hall of some kind; a resting and dining area for the workers, sheltered from the elements. Beyond that was the mill itself, a vast, multi-layered construction that spread out in all directions in an architecturally haphazard sprawl. A long horizontal elevated runway was now broken off into three separate sections somehow still supported on rickety towers, but I could see that at one time the lumber had passed through the saw and been shifted along the runway to its destination point.

  A vast storage area built in red brick squatted to one side of the mill, its windows and doors missing, much of its tiled roof also, leaving behind gaping wounds in the otherwise sound structure.

  Towards the far end of the complex – our right – there were three smaller buildings cast from poured concrete. Though cracked and worn by time and varying extremes of weather, these appeared to be as solid as the day they were constructed. Strewn around the entire site were bundles of jagged timber, mounds of crushed ore, crumbling bricks, broken slates, and smashed, powdery stone.

  I puffed out my cheeks when I spotted what I had been searching for.

  Sitting behind the centre concrete building was a grey SUV. It was the one Bruce Kelper had rented.

  I tapped Terry on the shoulder, pointed towards the vehicle and said, ‘They’re here. Or at least, they were. If that was you down there running the show, would you have parked that vehicle right next to where you were holding someone, or some distance away?’

  ‘A good question. On the one hand I wouldn’t want to draw attention to it, on the other I would want it close in case I needed a quick getaway.’

  ‘A tough call, then. There’s something missing, though.’

  He nodded. ‘The other vehicle. The one Drew tracked to this place.’

  That left us with more questions to answer: like, was it coming back? If not, had they left Vern and Bruce alive? If it was returning, when? And how many men had they left behind? If any. We certainly hadn’t spotted anyone so far.

  I ran through the permutations with Terry. He gave it all a stir, eyes focussed on the entire area taken up by the sawmill site. As he did, I saw the first flakes appear around us. Few at first, and more floating than falling from the pale grey sky. They quickly increased in both volume and density, which meant they started hammering down upon us.

  ‘Snow,’ I said. ‘How helpful.’

  ‘We have to get this done quickly,’ Terry said, ignoring my weather commentary. ‘Assuming they left our targets alive, it’s better all round if this is all over before they return.’

  ‘Agreed. And you know, now that I think about it, if they’ve been here overnight at the very least, then where would they shelter at night? Somewhere warm. Somewhere sealed from the elements.’

  ‘Unless they left their victims dumped in one of those derelict buildings and never came back for them.’

  The possibility filled me with dread. But if they were still alive, Vern and Bruce were probably being guarded and maybe questioned during the day, perhaps left tied up somewhere within the mill by themselves overnight. I laid that out for Terry, and he nodded.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I think they have to be in one of those three concrete buildings. I think we have to assume they are currently being questioned. I think someone will eventually be coming to collect two, maybe three or even four men for the night. Given it just started snowing, it’s possible they will come earlier than intended and that we have no more than thirty minutes.’

  I rested my hand on his shoulder. It was time to move.

  We scuttled around the hillside until we were on the far side of the basin, now directly overlooking the three formidable-looking concrete structures. The slopes had been tricky, and we caused one or two rock slides, but they were on our side of the ridge and created little noise. Every so often we stopped, edged our way up, and took a peek over the crest. Now that we were in position, we felt a lot better about our chances. If these men were of the quality we thought they were, then they would be focussing on either their captives or the dirt track leading in from the road. Perhaps even both. We were betting they would not be expecting any ingress from behind them.

  As we started making our way down on a slippery surface of compressed loose rock and dirt that felt like a tide of shale underfoot, my eye was caught by an approaching vehicle. At the same moment, Terry, who had been taking point ahead of me, stopped and raised a hand with a clenched fist, telling me stop also.

  ‘It’s Roadrunner and Coyote,’ I whispered, recognising the old Chevy with the sagging shocks.

  We crouched in place. Terry said, ‘There’s no way they followed us as well. If they’re here for the same reason we are, they’re making a real mess of it.’

  The green saloon bounced off the track and slid in behind a small ridge and a collection of rocks and boulders, where it came to a halt and the two thugs got out. From the rear seats of the Chevy they each claimed a rifle. As they moved away from their car and out into the open, both of them carried their weapon loosely in one hand.

  Rank amateurs.

  So bad I felt embarrassed for them.

  They approached the sawmill with some caution, but seemed to be studying the ruins as if admiring the landmark rather than concentrating on the purpose for their presence there. In disbelief, I shook my head. These two deserved everything they got.

  Snakeskin jerked around for a moment, looking back towards the road. A second later the sound of another vehicle approaching up on the asphalt reached my ears. Barclay and Garcia scampered across the debris-strewn dusty soil and took shelter inside the building I had thought might be a shelter and dining area but could now see had once been a store of some kind. Looking beyond them, I watched with grim fascination as a black SUV slowly wound its way towards us, eventually pulling up well short of the mill. It sat there with its engine running, its occupants no doubt sizing up what they were seeing.

  ‘You think this is the bad guys returning, and maybe got spooked by something?’ I asked Terry.

  Before he could respond, a shot rang out. The report was loud and bounced back off the surrounding hills and rocks. It had originated from neither the trashed wooden building nor the newly-arrived SUV. Instead it had come from one of the single-storey concrete structures right in front of us. I guess that answered my question. I tapped Terry on his right shoulder, signalling that I was ready to carry on down the hill. It seemed to me the opportune moment to make our own strike, whilst whoever was inside the building was concentrating on Barclay, Garcia and whoever else was out there.

  Terry moved without a word. The snow was still falling, only much harder now. The flakes were more like clumps, and rather than dissipate as they kissed the desert floor they adhered, coating the reddy-brown, tawny and khaki surfaces with a layer of pure white. This unexpected snowfall was not going to help with camouflage, but that would be the same for all parties. We clambered down the last few yards where the slope became more shallow, before finally finding flat soil a mere ten paces from the buildings.

  By then, several more shots had reverberated around the mill, pinging off concrete or taking out a few chunks of wood. No one enjoyed being shot at, and they had predictably reacted in kind. From the top of the rise we had been able to survey the entire site, now we could see little but the three most modern buildings rising up before us. We moved forward as one this time, and crouched down again behind Bruce Kelper’s rental.

  ‘I think the first shots came from the building to our right,’ Terry said, his mouth close to my ear. ‘You distract everybody by spraying a few grenades left, right and centre. Drop them about halfway between us and the two tossers holed up in that wooden ruin. When you’ve done that, follow me into building one.’ He indicted right again for confirmation.

  Maintaining a low crouching jog, Terry moved across to the rear of the first building and crept alongs
ide it, making sure he kept below the windows whose frames and glass were all removed. There was a rear door whose handle he tugged at. He turned his head to me and shook it.

  Locked.

  I wondered if he would try to pick it, or head around the side of the building instead. He did neither. I watched as he pulled out the same kind of strip shape charge that we had used back in Roswell. This time he pressed it into place around the lock and stepped back. His focus on me once again, Terry raised a hand and counted off with his fingers.

  One-two-three.

  While he had been doing his thing I was doing mine, preparing for my delegated task. On three I fired a rapid double volley of grenades over the top of the building and out towards the left-hand side of the sawmill’s central yard. Before they had even detonated I sent two more into the centre. By the time I pumped the final two across to the right, the first volley had exploded, two crashing waves of sound followed by a shower of desert soil spattering back to earth.

  At the very moment the second two went off, Terry blew the rear door of building number one. He entered through the resulting gap quickly filled by smoke and flame. With my friend swallowed up by the ugly concrete, I set off to join him.

  30

  Kane was fascinated by the two Englishmen. Throughout his life he had encountered many warriors, each of whom was different in the way they carried themselves, in the way they prepared for and fought their battles. He could only admire the way these two had gone about their business so far.

  He had followed them from the Weather Balloon, observed from a distance the way they went about their business at the bungalow. Their single-minded determination was something to savour, and when they fled the area he bolted with them. His focus was on the Jeep, the two men and the young woman travelling inside it, and their ultimate destination. Because he felt certain that wherever it was, Vern Jackson was going be found at the end of that journey.

  At some point as they nudged their way through the steady flow of traffic, Kane got the impression that something had occurred during the drive. They had initially seemed to be making their way to the south of the city, but then suddenly the Jeep diverted towards the north. Kane’s resolve was tested when he realised that they were going back into the desert. Through the streets of Roswell it was relatively easy to follow another vehicle at a safe distance while keeping two or three vehicles in between. But out on the desert roads, the traffic was minimal. He doubted he would be able to keep even a single car between him and the Jeep, and if the two men inside it were as good as he believed them to be, they would eventually realise he was tucked away behind them.

  If they were not already aware of his presence.

  After tossing it around for a few seconds, Kane decided to continue. These men had already shown their expertise and determination. They clearly had a goal in mind, which he was not a part of. If he let them be and allowed them to go about their business, they would do the same in regard to him. Their task in hand would be all that mattered to them, his presence behind them merely an irritant they would deal with only if it became necessary.

  Kane followed them into the desert on a road familiar to him, yet one he had not driven in several years. Initially he wondered if they were going to cut off onto one of the many rough and pitted B-roads that spider-webbed the area, perhaps taking a less travelled route towards Corona that would keep them away from obvious traffic. Comfortable with the desert and the terrain he was approaching, Kane felt himself relax into the long drive. But several miles further on when they indicated left and pulled across the road into the lot of a derelict gas station and pulled around the back of the building with faded paint and boarded-up windows, it had forced him to swiftly re-evaluate.

  He’d had no alternative but to drive on by – confronting them at this stage was not an option. The question he had to ask himself was, continue on to where? He tried to work out exactly where he was on the long stretch of road that would eventually wind around the foothills of the mountains, which were still vague, greyish-purplish peaks in the distance. Kane was barely beyond the next rise when he saw a sign at the beginning of a dirt track that wound off into the hillsides, and his mind started wrapping around the many possibilities.

  The faded, sun-bleached and flaked wooden sign that traversed the entrance read SMITH & SON LUMBER AND MILL. Kane had heard all kinds of stories about the place. Some kids came all the way to the mill on a dare, intending to spend a night. Legend had it that none ever stayed right through to daybreak.

  As he pushed on by, he knew he had to make a decision and not simply continue on towards Capitan.

  The road curved left and took him beyond the view of anyone who might be trailing behind him. He thought again of the sawmill. And then back to the Jeep and its occupants. At first when they pulled off the road he thought they had grown weary of being followed and had decided to pause their journey to allow him to pass by. Yet if he was correct, it did not make sense for them to also duck behind the abandoned gas station. There was a clear purpose to that particular manoeuvre. Alternatively, if they intended on leaving the vehicle there and moving elsewhere on foot, there was only one logical destination.

  His mind made up, Kane had thrown his truck to the left, driven onto the verge and continued up onto a small plateau some twenty feet above the road level. Shutting off the engine, he snatched up a pair of binoculars, jumped out of the cab and ran hard up the hillside, scrambling on shifting soil, loose and dry beneath his feet. Towards the peak he moved on all fours, his powerful arms assisting with the arduous climb. At the top he first crouched and then threw himself to the dirt. From there he could see the sawmill away to his left, the road curving to his right. More specifically, from this vantage point he would see the Jeep approaching his position from far enough away that he could either choose to remain where he was and allow it to continue along the road, or dash back down and jump into his truck and get ahead of it.

  The mill and the curving hillsides sweeping around it appeared deserted. Beyond them, Kane could see the dried-up stream which snaked around the landscape, fed from the snow, ice-thaw and rain run-off flowing down from the Capitans throughout the spring. The man-made spur which had allowed the mountain loggers to send the fruits of their labour down the foothills to the mill had long been dammed, narrow tunnels dug through the hillsides filled back up and plugged with rocks and boulders. It left the mill looking out of place, as if a folly had been constructed on the whim of a man with more money than sense. Kane felt the history of it, though. It spoke to him in a thousand different voices.

  As he’d studied the large site, he came to understand why those who spoke of it did so in hushed tones. It was like a ghost town, its ramshackle wooden structures leaning awkwardly, but remaining standing like wizened old men guarding the entrance to the past.

  The sawmill comprised a dozen disparate buildings built at various stages over a hundred-year period, each in various stages of disrepair and decline having been abandoned at the turn of the millennium. Any metal, cable or mechanical item had long since been stripped out for scrap, leaving behind a ruin that somehow still seemed to reverberate to the sights and sounds of working lives. Kane could easily picture the men who had once laboured here, as vividly as if they were doing so right in front of his eyes. Gaunt, exhausted men, hard-muscled and mentally strong, burnished by the desert sun and wind. Now they were shivering from the cold and hurrying to shelter from the snow.

  Kane felt at one with the visions of men he thought of as fellow travellers in time, each of them granted a certain number of breaths. The last of their allotted number had been drawn long ago, but as Kane had settled down to focus on the road once more, he questioned whether his own count had an expiry date far beyond any future he could see, or closer than he cared to imagine.

  A dark spot shimmering on the road alerted him to an approaching vehicle. In the haze it was too indistinct for Kane to identify, but as it grew closer he recognised the shape and c
olour of the Jeep he had been following. The warriors had undoubtedly taken time out to plan and refuel their bodies, but had otherwise not lingered. Kane decided to wait and see what they did.

  To Kane’s surprise, instead of either coming further along the road and making the turn towards the mill, or driving on by, the Jeep slipped off the road ahead of the sweeping desert mounds shielding it from being observed from the abandoned buildings within the mill grounds.

  Kane took a breath and nodded to himself. Of course. Great warriors would not confront their foe head-on while alternative methods existed. The sawmill was now confirmed as their destination after all, but their path towards it would be concealed. These two men were preparing for an assault.

  He had not seen Chastain emerge from the first encounter, and had reasoned that what he believed to be a rescue attempt had failed back in Roswell. This was perhaps another, the hostage this time being Vern Jackson. Kane bowed his head in deference to the two Englishmen. While he feared no man, he would avoid contact with this duo if at all possible. Both were capable of wreaking havoc and causing great damage, and he had no desire to be in their way when that happened.

  For quite some while, Kane barely lowered the binoculars as he scanned both the mill itself as well as its surrounding terrain. He projected his snake spirit and looked into the hearts and minds of the warriors. In checking out the old neglected buildings through the binoculars, Kane saw no vehicles, no movement, no people. For a moment he wondered if maybe the pair were the first to arrive and would initiate an ambush, although their cautious approach suggested otherwise. Kane considered his own next move, and opted to continue assessing the situation. He would wait to see how it might all unfold. Which was precisely what he was doing when the snow began to fall and, shortly afterwards, the green Chevy drove into the sawmill.