Aftershocks

by Mark Parragh

  It took perhaps five seconds.

  Crane looked up to Georges. “Are you hit?” he snapped.

  Georges didn’t answer. Crane scanned him and saw no obvious entry wound. Then he saw the bullet scar in the side of the van, inches from Georges’ face.

  Georges followed his eyes and saw it as well. He was already barely keeping it together, but this seemed to be too much for him. Crane saw him start to hyperventilate.

  He moved in closer, confirmed that Georges was unhurt. “Look at me,” he said. “Look at me. Deep breath. Hold it.”

  After one false start, Georges managed to hold his breath and kept his eyes locked on Crane as Crane counted off with his fingers. He could see Georges struggling to contain his fear. He was a civilian, Crane reminded himself. He should never have plunged into the middle of this, but he’d done it to help him.

  “Let it out. Now just keep breathing and focus on that.”

  Georges’ phone softly beeped. A moment later it beeped again. Georges ignored it.

  “What are we going to do?” he asked after a moment.

  “We’re going to get out of here,” said Crane. “You said you have a boat in town, right? Let’s grab a car and get over there.”

  Chapter 33

  “Where the hell are you?” Einar barked at his phone. “Respond.”

  The phone rendered that into text and Einar sent the message. It had been nearly ten minutes since he’d sent Nils to locate the target, and nothing. Now Rikard wasn’t answering either.

  He circled the roof, searching the airport. He had good visibility from here, but there were plenty of places a man might hide. Then Einar’s phone chirped and displayed Rikard’s number.

  “What’s going on?” Rikard said when Einar answered, “Are you getting my messages?”

  “No. Something’s wrong,” Einar said. “Stand by.”

  An SMS outage right now was no coincidence, he thought. He hung up and dialed Nils’ phone. At least voice still worked. He angrily hung up as the call transferred into voicemail.

  Einar ran across the roof. A white van was pulling out of the temporary lot. He scanned it with his binoculars and could just make out a second figure in the passenger seat. But the driver’s side window was down, and Einar got a good look at him as the van rounded the curve of the exit road. It was him.

  Einar was already running for the stairs as he dialed his pilot.

  “Get back to the airport, now!” he shouted. “Be ready to take off fast!”

  Crane drove back toward town, past houses and an old church. To his right, the water was a dull gray backed by steep hills across the fjord. He glanced at Georges, still processing what he’d seen.

  “Is that man dead?” Georges asked.

  “No,” said Crane. “He’s hurt, but he’ll make it.”

  The van apparently belonged to an electrician. “Is there anything back there you can use?” he asked Georges, to distract him as much as anything else.

  Georges glanced over his shoulder. “No, no,” he said. “I haven’t been clearing their text messages,” he added. “They’ll know I hacked them by now.”

  “That’s okay,” said Crane. “You got the job done. We’re out of here.”

  Einar’s hotwired Volvo fishtailed as he took the corner too fast. He hadn’t had to actually steal a car since he was a teenager. This just got better and better.

  In the passenger seat Rikard grabbed the handle over the door and steadied the machine gun propped in the foot well. “A white van with blue lettering,” Einar told him. “And there are two of them now. No description on the second.”

  The Volvo rocketed past the causeway that carried the Ring Road across the Eyjafjörður and sped back toward Akureyri itself. Why had they left the airport? Perhaps the second man had offered some new plan? It was the only thing Einar could think of. But it was a small town. They’d find them.

  Einar slowed as they came into town. He hung a right onto the Strandgata, drove past the empty cruise ship dock, and then took a left toward the waterfront. He pulled over and let Rikard out. “I’ll call if I need you,” he said. Then Einar drove off slowly, scanning the streets for the white van, or for pedestrians who didn’t belong here. There wasn’t much time left, he thought. One way or another, this would end soon.

  Crane left the van on the other side of Akureyri, and they walked through town toward the waterfront. If the van was reported stolen and spotted, he didn’t want police searching the waterfront. If nothing else, he wanted to approach the boat with caution, to make sure Georges’ escape plan hadn’t become a trap.

  They made their way through the shopping district and into a quiet residential neighborhood. This gave way to light industrial buildings. Crane could see water from here and hear boat engines.

  They passed a marine supply company, and a tour operator, closed today since there were no cruise ships. A row of rakish, black 12-passenger inflatable boats lay moored along the pier.

  Georges studied the map on his phone. “We can cut through here.” He led the way between two corrugated metal warehouses. They found themselves in a maze of storage buildings, chain link fencing, and piles of old crates and empty fuel drums. Crane didn’t like it. It was confusing and the sightlines were short. He let his hand fall to the butt of the silenced pistol he’d picked up at the airport.

  As they crossed an intersection, Crane looked to his right and saw a black-clad figure step into the alley thirty yards down. The man’s reflexes were sharp. He spotted Crane out of the corner of his eye, whirled, and fired. Crane moved around the corner as the suppressed pistol snapped, and he heard the bullet ricochet off metal.

  “Go!” he hissed at Georges. “Left.”

  Georges ran ahead and took the next left, but Crane stopped and drew his pistol. The Datafall man appeared a moment later, and Crane snapped off a shot at him but missed. Then Crane ran right. He heard another shot slam into the wall as he ducked around the corner. Damn, he was fast.

  Crane sprinted down the littered path, leading the enemy away from Georges.

  Georges’ stopped at a corner and gasped, “which way?”

  There was no answer. He turned. Crane wasn’t there.

  Again, the fear, in a jolt like lightning striking. He was alone. He was being hunted. Georges heard footsteps pounding the packed earth, and he ran. He ran with no idea whether he was moving away from danger or closer to it. He just ran, turning at random until he pulled up before a blue metal wall. On his left was another building, this one faded green and marked with incomprehensible graffiti. On his right was a chain link fence topped with razor wire protecting construction machinery and spools of cable. He was trapped.

  He backtracked to the last intersection, but the chain link fence beside him suddenly bowed and sang as if struck by something heavy. Georges dove behind a group of old oil drums stacked against the building. He fell back against the cold metal wall and sank to the ground, making himself as small as he could. Somewhere he heard the soft snaps of the pistols, and bullets striking metal.

  Knife. He had a knife. Georges frantically dug through his bag until he found it. He unsnapped the hard leather sheath and tossed it away. He clutched the black metal hilt in both hands, holding the knife in front of him with the blade pointed at whatever came around the oil drums.

  Georges heard his heartbeat and felt himself trembling. A boat horn sounded somewhere in the distance. Then, closer, two more suppressed gunshots. He held his breath and clutched the knife. There was a sharp clang that trailed off into a shrill, metallic screech, a grunt, the sound of something striking flesh.

  Then two bodies flew into view and landed in the dirt a few feet away. Crane fell on his back with his arms over his head, and the other man landed on top of him. The man in the black uniform pressed down hard on Crane’s arms and throat with a length of metal rebar. His expression was savage.

  Crane had his pistol, but his wrist was pinned by the rebar. His other arm had some moveme
nt, but not enough. He scrabbled at the man’s black uniform, fighting to pull him off. But he couldn’t. Crane was helpless, struggling to breathe.

  All the man had to do, Georges knew, was turn slightly and he’d see him. Crane was going to die, right here in front of him, and then he would die, too.

  Georges realized he was standing, though he didn’t remember getting up. Then he was running forward, the knife held underhand at his side.

  The man saw Georges coming in the last instant. Then the blade took him below the armpit, and Georges felt the tip puncture flesh, felt the scrape of bone against the blade, heard the man’s gasp. He yanked the blade free.

  They locked eyes for a moment and a strangely intimate look passed between them. Then Crane pulled his hand free of the rebar, raised the pistol to the man’s temple, and fired.

  Crane concealed the body, wiped blood from his skin, and cleared the scene as best he could. If anyone had heard the suppressed gunshots, the police would probably have arrived by now. But he didn’t want to be here any longer than necessary.

  The last thing he did was take the knife from Georges’ hand, hanging limp at his side. He wiped the blade clean, found the sheath on the ground, and stuck it in his boot.

  Through it all, Georges stood motionless and silent.

  “We killed that man,” he finally said.

  “I killed him,” Crane answered.

  “No,” said Georges. “No. I did what I did.”

  “You saved my life,” said Crane. “And yours. Come on, we have to go.”

  “Something in me was strong after all,” he said. “And cruel.” He fell silent for a moment and seemed to be someplace else entirely. Then it was as if a curtain fell over whatever he was thinking. Georges checked his phone.

  “This way,” he said.

  Chapter 34

  When Einar tried to check in with Rikard, he got no answer. He swore and slammed his fist down on the Volvo’s center console. The thought that he might actually fail crossed his mind. It was an unpleasant thought. It had been a long time since he’d failed at something.

  Einar turned around and headed back down toward the waterfront. It was quiet this time of day, with few people around. The tour boats weren’t running, and the fishing boats had long since come back in.

  Except that one.

  Einar braked to a halt in the middle of the road and scrabbled in the passenger seat for his binoculars. One boat was heading out from the docks, a white fishing boat with orange trim. Einar swept the deck with the binoculars, and there he was. Standing on the deck was the man he’d chased halfway across the country. The boat churned up a wake as it powered out into the channel and turned north to head up the fjord.

  Einar swore and dropped the binoculars in his lap. He grabbed his phone and dialed his pilot. Where could they pick him up here?

  The cruise ship dock, he decided. A wide expanse of open concrete with nothing around it but water. He hit the gas.

  “Go!” Einar shouted as soon as the call connected. “Get airborne, now! Pick me up at the cruise ship dock!”

  “Um, that’s going to be a problem,” said the pilot.

  The fishing boat plowed north through a cold, gray sea beneath a cold, gray sky. Crane stood in the bow, forward of the boat’s small radar and instrument mast. He still had the pistol he’d taken from the man at the airport. The one he’d killed a man with. He tossed it over the side.

  Georges came forward from the wheelhouse. “Captain says another hour and a half,” he shouted.

  Crane nodded and shifted his pack on his shoulder. They’d cleared the fjord and were in open ocean now. Another ninety minutes to Grimsey Island. Then a few hours in the air to Norway, and finally back across the Atlantic aboard Josh’s Gulfstream. Crane was tired. He was ready for this to be over.

  The wheelhouse door opened, and the Captain stuck his head out, shouting something in Icelandic. Then he shook his head in exasperation. “Behind us!” he shouted and gestured over his shoulder with one thumb.

  Crane and Georges went to the stern and looked back. In the distance, Crane made out a short black line, like a hyphen on the surface of the sea. It was one of the tourist Zodiacs, he realized, the ones he’d seen lined up at the pier in Akureyri. It would have seating for a dozen in front, a control station for the pilot in the rear, and a pair of powerful outboard motors. The fishing boat could never outrun it.

  So apparently it wasn’t over yet.

  Einar edged the throttles forward, and the boat surged into the next wave. It went airborne for a moment, then slammed hard against the sea. Einar had never been much for boats and sailing, but he found the pounding and the snarl of the engines strangely comforting. They went well with his rage.

  Einar’s world had been reduced to this. He was alone in the middle of the ocean, in a stolen rubber boat, with a light machine gun lying beside the control pedestal.

  Einar saw the fishing boat ahead. Aboard that boat were the stolen data and the man who’d done this to him. As he approached, he made out two figures on the deck, though there had to be at least one more in the wheelhouse. The two on the deck watched him come.

  It was only when he pulled along the starboard side, throttled back the engines, and picked up the machine gun that they scattered. Einar sprayed the boat with fire. He couldn’t aim effectively in the pitching Zodiac, but that didn’t matter. The two men dove for the deck as he stitched a line of bullets across the wheelhouse.

  The boat cut its engines, and a moment later the Captain emerged from the wheelhouse, his hands raised. The two passengers on the deck stood as well.

  Einar edged the Zodiac closer with angry growls from the outboards. “Throw me a line!” he ordered.

  The Captain obeyed, and Einar gestured with the gun. “Everyone into the bow. Where I can see you.”

  All three went forward and Einar kept an eye on them as he secured the Zodiac to the rail and climbed aboard. First, he checked the wheelhouse. It was empty. There were hatches leading below decks, but they were dogged shut.

  Then he went forward and got his first good look at the man he’d chased across half of Iceland. He didn’t look like so much.

  “Back this way,” he said, waving with the gun. He moved them amidships where there was room to move. The device was probably in the dark-haired man’s pack, Einar thought, but it might be hidden anywhere on the boat. He would have to kill these people and scuttle the boat regardless. If he found the device, he could return the data to the board in triumph. But all he really needed was to ensure the data never made it out of Iceland. Sending it to the bottom of the sea would be enough.

  He separated the dark-haired man from the others. The man had said nothing yet. He simply stood there. Einar could sense him calculating, looking for his opening. Einar stared back at him for a moment, let him see the determination in his eyes, let him remember what this gun had done to a twelve-ton truck.

  Einar gestured with the gun. “Off your shoulder,” he said. “Slow. Throw it to me.”

  The man hesitated for a moment, then he carefully slid the strap down his arm until the pack hung from one hand. He swung his arm back and stooped as if to slide the pack across the deck.

  But at the last second, as the boat pitched forward in a wave, he hooked it upward.

  The pack tumbled up and the strap fell over the machine gun’s muzzle. It dragged the barrel down, and then the man was a dark shape flying at him.

  They collided and Einar hit the deck on his back. The gun was ripped free and clattered onto the deck beside him. Einar grabbed for it, but the stranger knocked it away. He punched Einar in the kidneys, then scrambled across the deck for the gun. He would reach it first, Einar realized. Then he noticed the pack had landed on his legs, the strap draped over one ankle.

  Einar rolled onto his side and kicked with all his strength. The pack arced high into the air, soaring toward the gunwale, and Einar willed it upward, forward.

  Too late, the dark-hair
ed man realized what had happened. He scrambled after it. Too late. The pack cleared the side of the boat and fell gracefully into the sea.

  The dark-haired man never broke stride, he bent forward, and Einar realized he actually meant to dive after it.

  “No!” the Captain shouted and leaped for him. They collided and fell against the rail.

  Einar fell back onto the deck, laughing in triumph. It was a victory barely snatched from defeat at the last possible instant. But it was a victory. He looked up at the young black man who had snatched up the machine gun. He held it leveled at Einar, trembling in fear. Perhaps they would kill him now. Einar realized he no longer cared. He’d won.

  Crane lay on the deck and watched his pack vanish beneath the water. It was a dark shape, sinking, and then it was gone.

  “Too cold,” the Captain was saying. “Gasp reflex. You breathe in water, sink like a rock, you die.” The Captain picked at the fabric of Crane’s shirt. “Go in the water like this, you don’t come up. Let it go.”

  Crane took a deep breath, then nodded.

  “All right. I’m all right,” he said.

  They got up. The Captain looked at Einar lying on the deck, then at Georges covering him with the machine gun. His scowl made it clear he wanted no part of this.

  “What do we do with him?” asked Georges.

  “Nobody dies today,” said the Captain. “It’s over.”

  Crane clapped the Captain on the shoulder. “I’ll disable his boat, and then we’ll leave him in it. You call it in to the Coast Guard. Let them find him out here in a stolen boat.”

  “I am Einar Persson,” the Datafall man said amiably. “What is your name?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Crane.