Fire and Ice: A Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 3)

by Dustin Stevens

  That meant I needed to make things as difficult for them to piece together as I could before leaving.

  Lashed to the trailer behind the van was a second Arctic Cat. Easing it down the ramp, I moved it past the door, well away from the building.

  In the back of the snow coach I found more handguns and automatic rifles like the men inside had been using, and, more important, a handful of grenades matching the one that could have killed the sheriff.

  Leaving two in the back of the van, I placed one on the front console, another in the backseat. The remaining two I carried with me toward the door, leaving them on the floor beside it.

  Once everything was in position, I went back for Yvonne, nudging her slightly, again getting nothing more than a muted response. Bypassing any attempt at revival, I lifted her from the floor, her body already feeling warmer as I carried her to the snowmobile and placed her on the front of the seat.

  My last trip back inside was to collect my coat and Mike’s guns, leaving nothing behind that could be traced to us. The Walthers I stowed into the front pockets of the jacket, the M-16 I looped over Yvonne’s shoulders, cinching the nylon strap tight, pinning her arms by her side to ensure if she did wake up she didn’t become disoriented, repeating what she had done on her previous snowmobile ride.

  It took me just over 20 minutes to get everything in order, the last of the fires still burning, smoke hanging in a thick cloud in the room. My eyes burned and my throat ached, no part of me wanting to go back into the storm, but it was the last task I had to perform to get Yvonne to safety.

  Lifting the pair of grenades from the floor, I balanced them in my left palm and pressed the single button on the wall, stepping just outside the garage door.

  There I stood, buried to mid-calf in the snow, waiting for the metal door to lower, the macabre scene inside one I would never see again.

  When the door passed my head, I jerked the pins on the grenades, flipping them both inside, aiming for the floor under the van.

  From there it was just a matter of letting the chain reaction I had put in place do its job.

  The last I heard as the door closed was the percussive sound of the explosives finding their target, igniting its gas tank and the extra cans stowed in the back, eventually setting off the other grenades one by one, finishing the job I started.

  I did not envy the next person to step inside that place, but I couldn’t honestly say I much cared as I positioned myself behind Yvonne and leaned on the throttle, hurtling us away into the night.

  Part V

  Chapter Sixty

  Despite more than a dozen men crammed into the room, the space was completely silent as Wood Arrasco entered. His mouth was drawn into a tight line, his expression sullen as he walked to his desk, ignoring the chair behind it to lean against the front edge.

  He folded his arms across his chest, his natural stance when addressing the club, before dropping them to his side, letting everyone see the black stripe that slashed through the middle of The Dogs emblem on his vest.

  To anybody who had ever ridden with The Dogs, nothing was more sacred than the emblem they wore, announcing their allegiance to the club.

  Only something as momentous as a fallen brother would allow one to alter it any way, a fact that every person in the room picked up on immediately.

  Ranging from just shy of 30 to just north of 50, the men represented a cross-section of the members, from the older crowd about to hang it up for good, to the hungry newcomers, still trying to make a name for themselves.

  Each one wore signs of the lives they led, they’re skin aged beyond their years, the occasional scar carried with pride. Dressed in various denims and flannels, all sported leather vests matching Wood’s.

  There were some differences in the emblems, depending on years of service and their position in the club, but without question the biggest was the diagonal stripe on Wood’s.

  “It’s been three days now since Trick, Mac, and Barnham were sent out to check on one of our suppliers,” Wood said, his eyes burning, having not slept in that time.

  “Since I sent them.”

  He paused, feeling the words cut into him, hearing them aloud for the first time.

  As the President, it was true that all decisions ultimately came down to him, but this was different. This was not a leader taking blame for something the club had agreed to do, not a leader taking the fall for something that was only nominally his fault.

  This one was on him. He and Trick had sat up late at night and discussed the notion, but his mind was already made up before his lieutenant even arrived.

  He had allowed his greed, his determination to maintain the empire he had built, to cloud his judgment.

  And as a result, three good men, including his best friend, were gone.

  “This morning I got a call from Harris and Wheat,” he said, his voice even. “From jail.”

  An audible murmur swept through the room at the last two words as the men exchanged glances.

  “When Trick and his crew failed to check in for the second straight day, we sent them over to see what was going on. We had suspicions of the worst, but we needed confirmation.”

  Every part of him wanted to look away from the men he had failed, but Wood forced himself to stare directly at them, meeting the faces of those brave enough to look his way.

  “They arrived at Cuddyer’s backup lab this morning to find the place swarming with law enforcement personnel. The local authorities had called in the DEA from Billings, who had come in on a chopper once the storm passed.”

  Once more Wood paused, trying to determine how to best relay the news he had received earlier.

  It had been clear from Harris’s tone that the scene they found was disturbing, the details something he could not share over an unsecured line.

  The mere thought of whatever that could mean for his friends, for his brothers, caused Wood’s stomach to twist itself into a knot that threatened to never release.

  “There were no survivors,” Wood said quietly, leaving the details at that.

  As much as he hated not having more to give them, as much as he knew the men who had perished deserved better, he simply didn’t have the information.

  Several heads dipped toward the floor at the news, others going in the opposite direction and clenching their fists. Regardless of their reaction, Wood knew exactly how they felt, having been through the spectrum of emotions himself in the preceding hours.

  Still, right now they could not afford to be emotional.

  That time would come, but it wasn’t there yet.

  “I know this comes as a blow,” he said, “and believe me, nobody is hurting more than I am right now. Trick Reynolds and I...”

  Pressing his lips together tight, not trusting the next words that might come out of his mouth, or the tone with which they would be delivered, Wood stopped there. He made no attempt to hide the reaction, letting each of the men see it, wanting, needing, them to understand how deeply personal he took his role as President, and how much the men in the organization meant to him.

  “They will be properly mourned,” Wood whispered, “and I promise – promise you – they will be avenged.”

  Just like many of the men around him, he felt his hands ball into fists, his fingernails digging into his palms, every muscle in his upper body clenched tight.

  “But right now, we need to go underground. Harris and Wheat weren’t wearing the colors and they both know to keep their mouths shut.”

  Even the phone he had taken their call on, a disposable bought for cash at a Wal-Mart in South Dakota, was gone, destroyed the minute they were done speaking.

  “But this could be a big score for some agency, and there’s no way they’re going to let it rest. Grabbing Harris and Wheat was just the start of things.”

  Along the back of the room a single hand rose, most of the arm exposed, revealing tattoos that had long since faded and blurred, resembling nothing more than ink blotches on his
skin.

  “When you say underground...?” he asked, his voice graveled from decades of smoking.

  “I mean for the time being, all business activities have been suspended,” Wood said. Just days before he had been willing to send three of his best men out into a blizzard to protect their interests, but now he knew there was no choice but to let the business go.

  The demand for product would still exist, their competitors all too eager to fill the void.

  When law enforcement eventually made their way to the oil fields – and there was no way they wouldn’t – they would find somebody else providing the meth.

  Wood knew this was not how The Dogs operated. They were not a club that tucked tail. It wouldn’t be the first time the law had been sniffing around them, wouldn’t be the last.

  But this time was different.

  “Rest assured,” Wood said, “we’re not going anywhere, and that has nothing to do with the snow piled up outside. The Dogs have survived before, we’ll survive this.”

  Several of the faces that had turned down at the news of Trick and the others rose back up to look at him, the same expression of determination on their features as his own.

  “And whoever is responsible for this?” Wood said. “They won’t be so lucky.”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  For the third time in as many days, I walked through the front door of Mike Ferris’s house without knocking. I paused just briefly on the front mat to stomp away the snow clinging to the sides of my boots before heading on in, the rubber soles squeaking beneath me.

  Unlike on my last visit, the crowd awaiting me in the living room had tripled in size, all three individuals sitting and staring back at me.

  In the chair directly in front of me was Mike Ferris, still dressed in the same velour robe with a pair of flannel pants and a thermal under it.

  Despite his weakened condition and his self-imposed mandate to appear curmudgeonly, I could see just a hint of pleasure underscoring his features.

  The first stop I made after leaving the barn three nights before was to Valley Memorial Hospital, performing an exact opposite of what had taken place just 24 hours earlier. Starting on the south end of the parking lot, I used the combined trenches cut by Sam Cuddyer and myself earlier in the day, whipping up to within feet of the front door.

  As I had no way of alerting anybody that I was on my way or that Yvonne was with me, nobody was awaiting our arrival as I pulled up, forcing me to pry my frozen fingers from the handlebars and lift Yvonne from the seat. In my arms she felt rigid, any previous warmth from the fire in the barn long since sapped away despite my best efforts to protect her from the cold.

  The hospital was just as deserted as it had been on my previous visits as I entered, my voice echoing through the cavernous space.

  The first person to appear was Myles Breckman, this time very much awake, an extendable nightstick in his hand. Where he had gotten it or what he thought he was about to do with it I had no idea, a look of genuine relief flooding his features as he saw us standing there.

  If that was from seeing Yvonne was alive, or just absolving him of any associated guilt, there was no way to know.

  Probably a hefty dollop of both, if I were to speculate.

  The next two people to arrive from the back were women, one wearing blue scrubs and the other a white doctor’s coat. At the sight of us they both fell to tears, clutching each other, completely forgetting that there was a woman in dire need of care nearby.

  Not until Meredith Shek appeared, seeming to have endured the very same day-long stretch that I had, did anybody make a move to help, the nurse nabbing a wheelchair and rushing forward. Seeing her movement seemed to snap the others from their trance, using their sleeves to wipe away tears, sniffling slightly as they took Yvonne straight back.

  Left alone in the front lobby, I located a night receptionist and asked her to direct me to Ferris’s room, finding him very awake and staring at the wall, his nerves wired.

  Not a single word was said as he took me in, seeing the soot and smudges covering my clothes, the blood still crusted to my face. His mouth parted just slightly, his back leaning forward off the angled bed, a look somewhere between hopeful and terrified on his features.

  “She’s here,” I said, leaning against the door frame. “Banged up, but alive.”

  His shoulders dropped at the news, his face crinkling slightly, as his body released the tension that had flooded it.

  “Nobody else is,” I said, leaving my explanation at that.

  In the days ahead I would explain everything to him in painstaking detail three different times, doing so at his office, where he could make phone calls to Billings, to direct needed resources into the area, to turn the case over from a kidnapping to an investigation into a drug ring.

  This was not the moment though. I could tell by the look on his face what was coming next, knowing the guilt he felt, imagining what a sweet relief a happy ending must be.

  Pulling the door shut behind me, I left the man to cry in peace, saving him the indignity of me standing there watching.

  Two hours later Shek found me pacing an empty waiting room, the last of the adrenaline coupled with my concern for Yvonne keeping me too wired to even consider dozing. Back and forth across the tiles, I felt like I was wearing a trench in the floor, Breckman twice popping his head out of his office to watch before disappearing back inside, never once summoning the courage to come over and say anything.

  Where Azbell and Baker had gotten off to since I left, I hadn’t a clue, feeling no responsibility to track them down or fill them in.

  I had been at the far end of the room when Shek entered, her reflection in the outside window flashing in my periphery. She had taken no more than three steps before breaking into a sprint, practically leaping at me, and throwing her arms around my neck.

  Unsure how to respond, I remained rooted in place, my hands by my side, listening as she pressed her face into my chest and cried, gentle sobs shaking her body.

  “Are those happy tears or sad tears?” I whispered.

  “Happy,” she responded, never once pulling her face away from me. “She’s sleeping, going to be just fine.”

  Hearing the news said aloud, feeling the tension I had been carrying ease, I raised my hands to Shek’s back, one across her shoulder blades, the other behind her head.

  The faint smell of apples, far and away the most pleasant fragrance I’d encountered in days, hit my nostrils as we stood that way for a long time.

  Ten minutes later I left, back on the snowmobile, en route to the very house I now stood in.

  Mike’s response had been much the same as his brother’s, the man fighting his weakened condition as he struggled to his feet to shake my hand. Twice I offered to return the weapons to the basement, clean them and stow them away, reasoning with him that it would give me something to do, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

  Even tried to go to the basement to fetch my coat and the Kimber for me.

  A half hour after arriving, I backed the stolen Arctic Cat into place in his garage, hoping it would be a suitable replacement for his Switchback once it was repainted to hide its original owner. I departed well after midnight, taking Ferris’s truck back to my motel and falling into bed, praying that nobody would come knocking again.

  Given that I dropped straight down into bed and slept for 12 hours immediately thereafter, I’m not sure I would have known even if they did.

  In the time since I had rotated among the three, checking on the health of Yvonne, aiding Rake with his budding investigation, and acting as conduit to both for Mike.

  Somehow, I had even attained the status of family friend as the days passed.

  “I know that look,” Mike said, rocking his head back slightly to peer at me. “That’s a man about to take off.”

  Walking forward, I paused just inside the open doorway that connected the hall to the living room. Lying flat on the sofa to my right was Rake, his heavily b
andaged legs propped up. Opposite him was Yvonne in an armchair, her legs curled up beneath her, a woven blanket wrapped around her body, cocooning her tight.

  “Yeah,” I said, leaning a shoulder against the wall, my hands in the front pockets of my jeans. “Need to get back down to West Yellowstone. They’ve got most of the roads cleared by now, have to start getting ready for the new season.”

  Pushing his hands down into the soft sofa cushion, Rake attempted to wrestle himself around to face forward, his heavily bandaged legs making the movement difficult.

  “You don’t have to leave already,” he managed. “Here, have a seat.”

  “No, no, no,” I said, raising a hand to him. “Thank you for the offer, but I’m good. Like to get back before dark, with the roads being what they are and all.”

  “We be seeing you this way again anytime soon?” Mike asked, his eyebrows rising just a bit.

  I glanced down to my shoes, lifting my right foot and using the toe to poke at the edge of the rug covering the floor.

  “Oh yeah,” I said, “eventually. During the summer I stay down there pretty much all the time, but once the season ends, I’m sure I’ll be back up.

  “This is where my home is, after all.”

  “You damn right it is,” Mike said, Ferris and Yvonne both nodding in agreement.

  Feeling a flush of blood come to my cheeks, I tapped at the rug twice more before lowering my foot, shifting my gaze over to Ferris.

  “You need anything else, you be sure to let me know, alright?”

  I didn’t bother to elaborate further, knowing full well that he had already shared with his brother what had happened at the barn and the investigation that was underway.

  More than once we had discussed the possibility of somebody turning this back on the town, on the need to get Yvonne and whoever else out if it came to that, but for the time being he seemed content to let the DEA do their job and see where things went.