Cold Snow: A Legal Thriller

by John Nicholas

  The Moose Killer was ready, much readier that Hart, and they both knew it.

  His shadow flashed between the trees as Hart aimed his rifle once more.

  Hart fired wildly, at everything on the opposite bank, and heard a scream. The Moose Killer had collapsed, crumpled, and fallen to the river, staining the blue water red.

  Hart closed his eyes, breathed, and hurried up the hill to rejoin the fray.

  Anthony charged his enemy's shelter before the gunman had time to react. He leapt over the pile of fallen branches and kicked the Moose Killer to the ground. Anthony cursed—it wasn't painful enough, the ground in this small wood being cushioned all over with twigs and needles.

  The assassin's gun was in his hand as he fell back, making it impossible to steal. Anthony threw his pistol to the ground. It was empty, useless.

  He put up his fists, ready for a fight. The Moose Killer forced himself to his feet, but before he could raise his gun, Anthony struck a blow to his right hand. It was forceful enough to send the gun into a tangle of bushes, irretrievable.

  The Moose Killer turned and adopted a battle stance. He was very fast, dodging to the left and right, leaping away from Anthony's fists. He struck the first blow, a jab to Anthony's face. Anthony keeled over backwards and struck the pile of branches.

  As the Moose Killer raced at him, preparing to strike again, Anthony threw himself upward and forward, barreling his full weight into the hitman. Anthony grabbed the assassin's face, the assassin seized Anthony's throat, and they fell to the ground, kicking, punching and clawing.

  Just when Alex was considering moving, he heard the shot ring out from the trees not far from where he was crouching. Ignoring Sarah, racing down the slope; and Hart, standing with the rifle in the river; he hurried toward the spot where he'd heard the sound. He forced through a pair of trees, a distance from the riverbank, and saw a man pointing a gun at his face.

  Sarah and Hart moved at once when they heard the same gunshot, the one that had been meant to land in Alex's heart. Following the same route to the same trees, they found their leader standing at the base of a tree, and found themselves at the end of the same gun.

  The first thing the assassin did was hold Anthony down by his throat, and then attempt to choke the life out of him. Anthony, flailing wildly, kicked the man in his knee. The man cried out and relinquished his hold. Anthony scrambled backwards and hit the man in his face. He fell backward.

  The assassin leapt to his feet as quickly as he had fallen, and punched Anthony again, a left hook that sent him crashing into the tree and subsequently to the ground. Unable to rise as fast as he needed to, Anthony resorted to groping wildly on the ground for something he could use.

  His hand closed around something solid.

  "I'm glad you're all here," the killer said, in a very light French accent. "Now, all that remains is who to kill first. Let's start with…hmm…ah, yes! The girl!"

  He clicked off the safety and pointed at Sarah.

  Alex's mind lashed out. "No!" he shouted. "Sarah—she knows something you need to know!"

  The Moose Killer instantly changed his expression from a hardened poker face to a barely masked surprise. "What does she know? Tell me!"

  Sarah had latched onto the plan the moment Alex had shouted. "It seems to me that if I tell you, you'll kill me."

  The Moose Killer's face contorted with rage. "Fine!" he said at last. "I'll kill the boys and take you with me to see the boss. Would you like that!?"

  Then Alex saw it again—a dark shadow between the trees.

  Drawing up again, Anthony found that he had clutched a branch from the pine tree. The assassin's eyes widened in shock and anger, and he struck Anthony again. Anthony's face was now bleeding, but he gritted his teeth and swung the club.

  It hit the Moose Killer in the side of his head. He fell to the ground, motionless and bleeding from his head. The battle was won. Anthony hurried from the wood.

  "You've forgotten something else."

  The killer sighed in exasperation. "You are simply stalling your inevitable death!"

  "You've been eating fish, haven't you?"

  Everybody—Hart, Sarah and the killer—was confused at this. "What?"

  "I said, you've been eating fish," Alex repeated. "There's a lot of fish in this part of Canada. It's on every menu. And when you tracked me through the wilderness, you probably lived on fish as well. Am I right?"

  The killer's gaze faltered. "What do you mean by this?"

  "I mean," Alex said, "that you've been eating so much fish that the smell is on your skin, and in your bloodstream."

  "What are you talking about!?" The killer was enraged.

  "Out here," Alex said, "that comes with certain risks."

  Then the shadow pounced.

  The killer screamed, but it was already too late. The animal reared up long enough for Alex to examine it: a stately black bear, as tall as two of him. He slashed at the Moose Killer, tearing his face, his chest, his stomach, his limbs.

  While the bear was occupied with the assassin, the three ran, needing no instruction.

  They met up with Anthony at the riverbank, each of them describing how they'd won their battle.

  "Are they all dead?" Hart asked.

  "They're dead," Alex said, smiling broadly, "and Ordonez is going to answer for this."

  CHAPTER 21

  The Moose Killers

  In the heart of Ottawa, there was a building which was not tall enough to be called a skyscraper, but tall enough that it blended in with the landscape of downtown. None of the Ottawans that passed it every day paid it any heed—not those that walked hurriedly and purposefully, nor those that strolled, nor those that didn't seem to do anything in particular. All anybody knew about it was that it housed a corporation called The McTavish Group, and few Ottawans could say for sure what services they provided.

  If you walked inside it, you'd see a lobby, containing a small, unpretentious fountain, black tiled walls, and usually a few men in expensive suits standing in the corners, talking on cell phones. A reception desk, sometimes with a receptionist that changed every few days between different men and women, stood in one corner, but rarely did anybody with The McTavish Group need reception services.

  Then you'd go into an elevator, up to the ninth floor, and down a lavishly carpeted hallway with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side and oak paneling on the other. Down right to the end where a pair of double doors made of translucent glass stood, marked with the words:

  Boardroom

  Do not disturb during meeting

  If you opened those doors you'd see a table full of men, dressed (depending on their distance from the head of the table) in everything from cheap polo shirts to tailored pinstripe suits. These were tough men, the kind you wouldn't cross if you didn't want to wake up in the hospital.

  But at this moment, all of their attentions were focused on the end of the table, and a man with slick dark hair and medium build, bent over a chessboard as though it were the only thing in the universe. He tentatively put his hand out and touched a piece.

  "Rook to e5 would force check…no! Stalemate."

  He withdrew his hand. The men around the table exchanged glances but knew better than to interrupt him.

  "Knight to c3…then the king must go…"

  He examined the board for a second, checking all possible options before moving the king diagonally to the right.

  "And then…"

  He pushed the white bishop two squares.

  "Checkmate!"

  He replaced all the pieces in a compartment under the board, put the board under the table, and looked around at the board members of the McTavish Group.

  "Well, gentlemen, I think it's time we called this meeting to order."

  A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair sitting to the left of the chairman spoke with a British accent. "Monsieur Potard, I think an update on our objective is needed."

  The chairman waved his hand. "Go on, Mr.
McTavish."

  "Well, unfortunately," McTavish shifted nervously in his seat, "we appear to still not possess what we need. But I assure you, we're working as hard as we can."

  Potard continued to sit calmly through the news, and then slowly rose from his chair, turning to face McTavish. "My dear Edmund," he said, slowly, "I don't think I have to remind you that we are on a very, very tight schedule here."

  McTavish did not speak. Potard's simple statement was intimidating beyond words.

  "There is no room for any kind of mistake in this operation, Edmund," Potard went on, "surely I have made that message clear to you. Without the piece de resistance which you—" he spoke to the table at large, "—seem incapable of acquiring, what are we?"

  Nobody spoke.

  "I'll answer the question myself, then," Potard said. "We are just another incompetent radical group!"

  His words echoed around the room, shaking the table, and causing the formidable, armed men to shrink back in their chairs.

  "We are simply another case of organized crime gone soft!"

  "Monsieur Potard," McTavish said, quietly, "the man at fault for this is not in this room!"

  "Ahh, yes…" said Potard, a look on his face akin to that of a man who has remembered the name of a song that's been going through his head all day.

  There was a period of relative dullness that followed, and anybody who walked in during that time would have thought they had found a meeting of bureaucrats. Each man at the table gave an update on his individual progress and his work in the grander plan. An operative at the end was speaking, in a deep, uninteresting voice, when Jean le Potard raised a hand to silence him.

  "That would be Alberto," he said, chuckling.

  Heavy footsteps were suddenly audible, racing down the hall, pounding even in the carpeted, paneled hallway. The translucent doors opened with a resounding crash, and the assassin stood in the doorway, illuminated by the sun setting behind him in the hallway's glass wall. It was evident to everybody that he had run, probably all the way from the street, likely much longer. "Monsieur Potard," he gasped, clutching his chest. "I—"

  "—have failed," Potard finished.

  "Sir…" Ordoñez gasped. "Just allow me to tell you."

  "Then tell me." Potard looked exasperated.

  "Five dead," Ordoñez wheezed. "The rats killed five men."

  The table erupted. Men shouted and cursed, at Ordoñez, at McTavish, at each other. Potard banged his fist on the table. "Silence! Silence! Who has died?"

  Ordoñez took a deep breath, and spoke a list of names. Potard held his head in his hands, listening numbly to each victim. "Pierre DuBois…Emile Argent…Cecile Meland…Henri Dorvan…and…"

  "Francois Levache," Potard said. "You have let the child kill Francois Levache."

  "You worthless simpleton, Ordoñez!" Edmund McTavish shouted. "Levache was ten times the gunman you could even hope to be! Each of the others had twice your skill!"

  "That will do, Edmund," said Potard calmly. "Alberto, you have made a grave mistake."

  "Sir, I know…give me another chance! One more week and I will have the boy dead!"

  Potard rose and wearily walked around the long table, facing Ordoñez directly. "Alberto, Alberto…you showed such promise. But…I have tolerated too many of your mistakes."

  Ordoñez sank to his knees. "Monsieur…"

  Potard kicked him viciously. "Moose Killers do not beg! Now relieve me of the burden of your presence!"

  Ordoñez rose; his face contorted violently through several expressions, and he looked on the verge of a thousand words. In the end, all he could do was turn to leave the boardroom. As he reached the glass doors, his impulses overcame him. He drew his gun, and, screaming in rage, fired twice through the glass doors.

  He wouldn't be able to remember what happened after that. Of that day, Alberto Ordoñez would just hold fragments in his subconscious: walking down the hall, not looking where he was going; wandering the streets of Ottawa with no destination at all; winding up sitting on a bench on an Ottawa street, pondering what lay ahead for him. He would hunt the boy, that was certain. There was nothing in it for him but vengeance now. The child had become everything that was wrong, and he, Alberto Ordoñez, would put a bullet into him before he thought of anything else.

  Alex, he decided, lived only because Ordoñez had allowed him to, passing up many chances to kill him out of—out of what? Arrogance? Conscience? Whatever it was, it was now gone. There was only him, his gun, and the boy in the world now.

  His eyes, usually so watchful and vigilant, were no longer active. He was not scanning the crowd, mentally examining each Ottawan who passed him. He did not notice the men, moving quickly, dressed inappropriately for a cold-bitten Canadian evening. They approached his position, shielded by the crowd.

  Ordoñez sensed something and stiffened. He flitted his gaze to the left and saw the two figures silhouetted against a streetlight.

  His spirit leapt again. I'm still a killer.

  His gun was empty, completely useless. He threw it aside and rose in a swift motion, turning to the left.

  The men quickened in unison. Ordoñez began to count. One…two…three…four…five!

  He struck the first man in the gut, knocking the wind from him, then kicked him twice in the shin. Instantly the hitman righted himself, and aimed a blow at Ordoñez, who ducked it and struck the other man across the face. Some of the bystanders had gotten wind of the fight by now, and were backing away in shock and confusion—were they just drunk? Was this a gang fight?

  The first killer didn't stay down for long. He leapt at Ordoñez and grabbed him around the throat. Ordoñez, wheezing and hacking, looked desperately for a weak spot. As he was thus occupied, more air receding from his lungs, the second killer charged into his back. The three of them fell to the edge of the sidewalk in a kicking, whirling mess.

  The crowd had by now formed a solid ring about fifteen meters in every direction. Ordoñez grabbed the strangler's torso and thrust him toward the road, narrowly missing the wheels of a thundering car. The impact with the asphalt loosened the strangler's hold enough for Ordoñez to wrench himself free, draw a huge gasp of air, and duck the second killer's blow. He threw a jab at the second man's face and knocked him to the sidewalk.

  The first man reappeared at his back, and Ordoñez kicked him in the gut, sending him flying back into the street. As he struggled to right himself, his eyes widened in shock, and he was struck by an automobile, which had slammed on its brakes just before the impact. The first man was knocked onto the hood and into the windshield. The driver looked stunned, immobile.

  Ordoñez was about to turn his attention back to the other killer when something caught his eye. A reflection of light was noticeable in the corner of his vision. Ducking another punch, he dove for it.

  The first killer's gun had landed under the car's front passenger tire. Ordoñez, judging it safe, reached under and came up with the gun. Wheeling around, he fired it at the diving second assailant. The man crumpled instantly. The crowd broke up, screaming, running in disorder.

  The first killer had risen and was coming for him again. Ordoñez squeezed the trigger again, and was met with the soft click. In various situations, the worst sound I've ever heard.

  One bullet. Just one bullet. He cursed himself for forgetting the old Moose Killer trick.

  He saw, as if in slow motion, the first killer running towards him, and some new players: a pair of cops had arrived, and one was entering the circle, holding a stun gun.

  Ordoñez's mind did the work for him. The moment the first killer was within range, he seized him, and pulled him between the policeman and himself. He thrust the man forward; the stun gun cleanly impacted his body, and he fell beside his partner.

  The cop made to start for him, but Ordoñez held up his hands. "Wait!" he said. "Wait, wait!"

  The cop halted. "Are you gonna give yourself up?"

  "Better," Ordoñez said. "I have some vital
information that you might like to know."

  "Come to the station," the cop said, "and tell us there."

  "No."

  The cop grinned. "And why not?"

  "Because I hold the bargaining chip." It was Ordoñez's turn to grin. "And I say you will learn it here."

  The cop swore. "Shoot," he said.

  "Now, if your police force has any skill or value of any kind, I assume you're looking for the Moose Killers?"