Snow Blind

by Jim Heskett

  “Excuse me,” Rudy said as he stood up. He ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair and dipped his chin at Layne. “You have yourself a good evening…”

  “Leonard,” Layne said.

  “Leonard. I’m Rudy.” Rudy extended a sweaty hand and Layne shook it. A good first contact. Layne had certainly gotten off to rockier starts before. What came next would have much more significance in determining if Rudy could be flipped and forced to expose the trafficking spiderweb.

  When Rudy left, Layne stayed behind in the sauna, not wanting to leave too quickly. He made a mental note regarding his comment about the cold seeping into his bones, thinking about how he could use that as a conversation starter with Rudy tomorrow.

  Within two minutes, the door to the sauna opened, and a white man with deep-set eyes and a shaved head entered. Barrel-chest and a black towel covering his lower half. He entered the room like a moose thundering across a trampoline.

  The guy mumbled a greeting, and Layne mumbled back at him.

  But when the guy sat, he made eye contact with Layne immediately. A stone-cold stare.

  Within five seconds, Layne had the notion he was either about to be punched in the face or propositioned, and was interested in neither. So, he stood up to leave the room before anything could happen that would draw undue attention to him. But, as soon as he made a move to round the center heat source and leave, the seated man shifted and crossed his legs, putting his foot directly in Layne’s path.

  The move took Layne by surprise. He tried to move out of the way so as not to nudge the stray foot, but he bumped into the cauldron of steaming rocks. A few toppled over the lip and sizzled as they skittered across the wooden floor of the sauna.

  The guy barked and pulled back, retracting his feet onto the wooden bench. “What the hell? You almost burned me.”

  “Sorry about that,” Layne said. “I was trying to avoid knocking your foot into the rocks.”

  The man’s expression turned grim. “Damn right you’re sorry.”

  “Okay, I already apologized. There’s no need for attitude.”

  “I’m not giving you attitude, I’m giving you the truth.”

  “Okay, man, sure. It was an accident, and we can leave it at that.”

  The surly man said nothing further, so Layne cinched his towel and left the sauna. Getting into a fist fight with some random retreat center guest was the last thing Layne needed right now.

  Out in the hallway, he turned around and glanced through the little window in the door. Through the steam, he watched the guy, glaring at him.

  INTERLUDE 1

  London | Six years ago

  Layne carries four pints of beer into the back room of Salty Wench, an East End shithole pub. This pub is so grimy and dark, the team could conduct business in here all day and night, and no one would care. Of course, the back room has been swept for bugs, and there are a half dozen operatives inside and outside the building making sure this place stays secure.

  But, they’re always careful. And that’s why they’re the ones entrusted with this operation.

  Layne has to turn and push open the swinging door with his backside and then scoot through quickly before the door swings back and knocks the glasses out of his hand. He’s not the most junior member of the team, but he doesn’t mind grabbing a round of beers for everyone.

  He approaches the long table and sets one beer down in front of Harold Boukadakis, the technical specialist for the op. Harry glowers at the side of the glass, probably noting how dirty it looks. That’s what you get at the Salty Wench.

  The next beer, Layne offers to Daphne Kurek, also known as Control. The op manager. She pitches a lopsided grin at Layne, and he averts his eyes. Any sort of personal interaction is outside the scope of this mission, also because he hasn’t slept with Daphne since he met Inessa, the woman who became his wife. But, that hasn’t stopped Daphne from flirting with him.

  Another beer for Oleg Baranov, the team’s field commander, around the other side of the table. Oleg nods his thanks for the pint, and Layne gives him a miniature salute.

  Layne shrugs at Alicia Ashcroft, the final team member. “Not enough hands,” he says.

  Alicia gives him the finger. “I’ll bet that’s what your new wife thinks, too.”

  “I was going to go back and get you a beer,” Layne says with a smirk, “but now you’re on your own.”

  “Boy Scout,” Daphne says. “Do you mind if I have a word?”

  The team collectively makes sarcastic ooh and ahh sounds like he’s a kid in trouble at school.

  He nods and follows Daphne back out into the main room of the pub, weaving through the dimly lit collection of chairs and tables. Vague music rambles from an actual jukebox, a relic of the previous century. She guides him out into the street where a recent rain has left everything slick. Daphne shudders in the cold. A scooter speeds by, flinging water up onto the sidewalk.

  She opens an umbrella and motions that he can join her underneath it, but he shakes his head. “No thanks.”

  “I feel like you’re punishing me.”

  He sets his jaw and takes a calming breath. “I’m not.”

  “That’s fine, we don’t have to talk about it. How are things with her?”

  “Good, Daphne. Things with my wife are good. Is there something about the operation you’d like to discuss, or are we making everyone wait in there for no reason?”

  “I get why you’re mad at me, still. I want you to know I understand.”

  He turns to go back inside, but she grabs him by the sleeve of his jacket. “Wait. There is something related to the op I need to tell you.”

  “What is it?”

  “After we’re done here, Alicia is going to be cut from the team.”

  His head tilts to the side as he studies Daphne’s face. “Why?”

  “She’s been distracted for a few months now. Not happy with her work. Someone from CIA has been courting her, and I think I'll give her a clean break so she can pursue other options.”

  He chews on the inside of his cheek. “I don’t want to lose her, but I get it.”

  “I just wanted you to know because I’ve already told Oleg and Harry. Alicia doesn’t know yet, so keep it between us.”

  Layne agrees to stay silent and then opens the door for Daphne. When they return to the back room, Oleg and Alicia are throwing darts in the far corner while Harry types away at his laptop.

  Daphne clears her throat. “Sorry for the delay. Everyone, please have a seat.”

  Layne does, and he studies Alicia for a moment. He never figured her for a CIA candidate, but he can picture it now. Also, he agrees that her heart hasn’t been in it, for the last several ops. Wherever she lands, she’ll do fine. She’s got the ruthlessness and attention to detail that any agency would love to have.

  Daphne flicks her head at Harry. He locks the door to the room and then gives her an all-clear signal. She unfolds a large piece of paper and sets it on the table, and then motions everyone to circle around it. It’s a blueprint of a warehouse. Oleg and Alicia scoot their chairs closer, so everyone is hovering near.

  Daphne points at one edge of the design. “This is where you go in. The offices are stacked on this side, and that’s where I think you’ll find resistance. If there is any.”

  “There might not be?” Layne asks.

  Daphne shrugs. “It’s hard to say. We’ve been unable to put any eyes inside to indicate one way or the other. Armed guards do come in and out, but we’ve yet to establish a predictable pattern.”

  “Some unknown material in the walls and ceiling is giving our scanner trouble,” Harry says. “We can get occasional readings, but it’s a lot of noise and static. For days, we've tried for better readings, but it’s not looking like we’ll get a more reliable sample.”

  “We will prepare as if there will be heavy resistance,” Oleg says. His Ukrainian accent has faded over the years. When Layne first met him in Houston, Oleg’s English was ch
oppy and stiff. Now, he could easily be mistaken for any average Midwesterner. When he’s drunk or tired, the old accent does come out, though.

  As the leader in the field, Oleg has to be all things at all times. He’s one of the best shadow soldiers Layne has worked with. They haven’t always been assigned together, but Daphne has done her best to keep the team together and consistent over the years.

  “Sounds good to me,” Alicia says. She winks at Layne as if trying to act tough. Alicia doesn’t need to impress Layne. He’s usually quite impressed with her. They’ve engaged in a longstanding and friendly competition over who is the better shot, better driver, better boxer. Layne always wins that last one, mostly because he has a hundred pounds on her.

  “Are they keeping the… captives there?” Layne says, unconsciously tripping over the last couple words. He almost said slaves, but the word didn’t feel right. It’s an unpleasant topic. Humans bought and sold, mostly from Russia and sometimes Eastern Europe. Human playthings. Sex servants. There isn’t a word in the tradecraft lexicon that effectively describes the people they’re trying to save.

  “Doubtful to find anything on site,” Daphne says. “We’re looking for anything that will lead us to a distributor or a shipping route. Something to give our surveillance team more to go on.”

  “If there’ll be no captives present,” Alicia says, “then we can go in hot?”

  Daphne nods. “Yes. You can go in hot. It’s probably best since we don’t know what we’re facing inside those walls.”

  Layne leans close over the blueprint. It’s a simple thing, four walls, a few small offices inside the warehouse. An easy in and out to spread some suppressing fire, hopefully take a few hostiles into custody and then sweep the room for evidence.

  But it feels wrong. The preparation feels wrong. The team feels wrong.

  This whole operation feels wrong.

  7

  Layne cinched his coat and ducked between two trees near the edge of the campus as his phone buzzed in his pocket. He took a quick peek around to make sure he was alone before removing it. After spending so long in the sauna, he was lightheaded. Not quite as aware as he’d like.

  He tapped on the button to accept and initiate the video chat. It took a couple of extra seconds to connect, which was a result of the video stream bouncing between various proxy servers to ensure airtight encryption.

  His ex-wife’s face filled the screen. Blonde, Russian, high-cheekboned Inessa Parrish. Scowling at him, as per usual.

  “Here is your daughter,” she said, and the screen view shifted to the inside of a hotel suite, bright daylight pouring in through the windows. His daughter Cameron snatched the phone and held it about two inches away from her face.

  “Daddy!” she yelped. “Daddy, it’s you!”

  “Yes, little one. It’s me.”

  “I’m with mommy in France. Are you here too?”

  “No, I’m not there. I’m somewhere far away.”

  “Oh,” she said, pouting. “I thought you were here. Are you going to be here soon?”

  He shook his head as the corners of his eyes stung. “I’m afraid not.”

  “You’re a what?” Cameron said as the screen glitched, and then Layne found himself looking at a static view of the hotel room ceiling.

  “Cam, please pick up the phone.”

  Her face came into view, and she hoisted the phone back up to her face. “Oh, Daddy, there you are. I dropped you.”

  “It’s okay, little one.”

  “Daddy, I ate a cross-want yesterday. Mommy gave me one.”

  “Mommy gave you a croissant? Did you like it?”

  Her little head bobbed up and down, making her hair quiver at the edges of her face. “It was all crumbly and tickled my mouth. Like when we got donuts at the Rainbow Grocery at the cabin.”

  Almost a year had passed since they’d bought donuts from the Rainbow Grocery in South Fork. He chuckled a little, marveling at her memory. “When I see you next week, we can get more donuts from the Rainbow.”

  “I like donuts.”

  “I know, little one. I miss you.”

  She glanced off to the side and nodded. “Mommy says it’s time to eat breakfast.”

  “Okay. I love you much.”

  “I love you much too, Daddy.”

  “Let me talk to mom again, please.”

  When his daughter’s face left the screen, his heart ruptured. A split second later, Inessa’s scowl reappeared. “I see you have found a new job which is wery much like your old job. When you said you were selling off your security business, I should have known it was so you could do this again.”

  “It’s not like that. I’m not back.”

  “So you say. Either way, we will be at Denver International next Monday. I hope you are able to pick up your daughter at the airport. If you are not there, I will look for your name in the obituaries from the newspaper the next morning.”

  He clenched his teeth and breathed through it. She knew how to stoke the fire like no one Layne had ever known before or since. After a pause, he looked at her and smiled, not taking her bait.

  “Goodbye, Layne.”

  The call ended, and he checked the date listed on his phone’s lock screen. Monday was seven days from now. He and Harry still had six more nights booked at the SMRC, but he hoped this op wouldn’t take that long. He made himself a promise that no matter what happened, he would be ready to greet Cameron when she came up the escalator at the Denver airport.

  Layne sighed as he slipped the phone back into his pocket and emerged from the trees. The air shifted. In his post-sauna state, the change barely registered. Something wasn’t right, though.

  Before he knew what was happening, a baseball bat zipped through the air and smacked him on the side of the head, followed by another quick blow to the stomach.

  Layne immediately arched his back to prevent himself from toppling to the ground. He broadened his stance to steady himself and regain his bearings. Nausea bubbled up from his stomach.

  The blow to his head unsteadied him, and his eyes threatened to shut. He had to focus to stay awake.

  The attacker had jumped out from behind a nearby tree, bat first. Slightly to his left. There were trees within six feet in every direction. He let his peripheral vision take stock of the nearby area, checking for other attackers. By the dim light of the gray clouds above and a lamppost a hundred feet away, he couldn’t see much.

  Layne leaned to his right, anticipating another swipe from the same direction. As predicted, the bat whiffed through the air again. Layne threw up his hands as he shifted further to his right. He shoved the bat, making the attacker continue his motion, but slightly missing Layne.

  As the person’s body twisted, Layne got a look. Average height and thick build, probably male. Long pants and hooded jacket, with a dark balaclava on underneath, showing only a strip of Caucasian flesh and pale green eyes. Fire in those eyes. Layne’s vision was still blurry after the hit to the head, but he tried to blink away the confusion.

  Layne struck with a quick jab to the attacker’s left shoulder, further pushing him off balance. The man reeled. Layne readied another punch, but the attacker surprised him. While twisting, he angled the butt of the bat and shoved it into Layne’s chest, knocking him back a step. Layne bumped into a tree, his feet shifting on an icy patch. A dusting of snow trickled down from the bare branches of a tree above him.

  The bat’s sucker-punch to the head had rattled Layne. He couldn’t think straight or defend himself.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Layne spied a man and a woman marching along, back in the bungalow area. They stopped, and their mouths dropped open at the fight happening nearby in the trees. No time to acknowledge them.

  He pushed off against the tree and launched himself at the attacker. He grabbed ahold of the guy’s wrist and pulled him near, then he drove the crown of his head toward the man’s nose. Layne couldn’t see exactly where it was under the balaclava, so he guesse
d.

  He connected straight on, but the man tilted his head at the last second, and Layne’s forehead crashed against his neck. He tried to pull back, but the inertia drove them both in one direction for a couple of steps.

  The man punched Layne in the side, a jarring blow to Layne’s kidney. He involuntarily twisted, exposing his other side.

  The hit to the head had slowed him too much. He needed to end this fight as soon as possible.

  The man popped Layne in the mouth, splitting his lip. Another punch landed on his nose, making his eyes fill up with tears. This attacker was skilled with his fists.

  But where was the bat? Layne could take as many punches as this guy could throw, no problem. But he wouldn’t last long against a solid hunk of wood, especially given how quick his opponent was.

  Layne turned his eyes downward to search for the bat in the snow. He hadn’t heard the guy drop it, but he must have, or he’d have beaten Layne unconscious by now.

  Layne was dizzy, unprepared, and getting his ass kicked.

  And as he scrambled to find it, the masked attacker jumped back a step, putting a couple feet between them. The bat rested in the snow below, half covered. Sitting there like a dormant snake.

  For a moment, the guy paused, as if he might say something. Gray breath plumed out from behind the black balaclava. Shoulders rising and falling, fists clenched at his sides.

  The guy turned and ran, sprinting along the snowy path. In an instant, the scene became quiet again. The gawking couple from the path had disappeared, and Layne was now alone.

  He sunk to his knee, spitting blood. He picked up the bat and debated if he wanted to chase after the guy. If this was someone trying to prevent him from digging into human trafficking, why stop after a few swings of the bat?

  8

  In the morning, Layne stood in front of the mirror, examining the cuts on his nose and lip. He tried to remember if the guy he’d almost burned with the sauna rocks had been green-eyed like the attacker. Perhaps he was an employee of Rudy Costello, and that’s why he’d joined Layne in the sauna in the first place?