Gallen laughed. Once cotton was wet, it made life uncomfortable, so North Americans went naked under their thermals. This shooter’s white cotton underwear was sticking out above the thermal leggings.
Winter kneeled, put his smoke between his teeth and pushed the thermals down. ‘The dude’s not used to snow, is my guess.’ Pulling out the back of the underwear, he tore the elastic band off and gave it to Gallen.
Reading the label of the underwear, Gallen laughed. It said, Delta Galil Industries. Made in Israel.
CHAPTER 52
Gallen woke to a beeping sound as the cellular network kicked in again. As he opened his eyes the Challenger’s engines depowered slightly and he felt the aircraft tipping for an approach into Calgary.
‘Coffee, boss?’ came Winter’s voice from behind.
Turning, Gallen croaked a ‘yes’ at the Canadian, who was poised at the kitchenette. Above his head, on the bulkhead, the middle nautical clock labelled Calgary said it was 2.19.
Shaking out the fatigue, Gallen accepted the mug of coffee as Winter took the facing leather-bound seat and offered him a smoke.
Lighting up, they looked out the window where the darkness was touched only by the intermittent red flash of the Challenger’s lights.
‘What if they’re Israeli, but working private?’ said Gallen, picking up the conversation they’d been having before he’d fallen asleep. ‘I mean, have we really picked a fight with the Mossad?’
‘I’ve been thinking about the private angle,’ said Winter. ‘But even the ex-IDF, ex-Mossad dudes, they only work private ‘cos Tel Aviv is getting something out of it.’
Gallen sipped coffee. ‘In that case, we’re back to what I was saying before.’
‘What’s a bunch of Israelites doing in the snow, taking shots at us?’
‘Yep,’ said Gallen. ‘That.’
‘You gonna take that?’ Winter nodded at Gallen’s cell on the wide armrest. ‘Got a message, didn’t you?’
Picking it up, Gallen cleared the text message and dialled into voicemaiclass="underline" Rob Stansfield, calling from his law offices in Wyoming, five hours earlier.
Grabbing at the pen and pad on the armrest, Gallen scribbled on it as Rob’s voice gave him the details.
‘The owner of the dark Escalade at the Capitol Motel is Royal Enterprises,’ said Gallen, reading from his note.
‘Same as the Simon Smith Visa card.’
‘Correct,’ said Gallen, waking up with the coffee and cigarette. ‘Royal Enterprises has lawyers and accountants acting as its directors and its bank is in Los Angeles. But Stansfield recognised the company secretary’s name. He’s based in Denver.’
‘Colorado plates.’ Winter stared out the window.
‘You okay, Kenny?’ said Gallen.
Winter nodded, still looking out the window. ‘Yup.’
‘I mean it, man,’ said Gallen. He’d seen this sudden change in his men when he was in the field and it usually suggested unspoken fears about a gig, or it came after a soldier had received bad spouse-mail. Either way, Gallen’s job had been to pounce on that introversion before it acted out in ways that got people killed.
Winter sucked on his smoke and massaged the bridge of his nose as he winced.
‘Better out than in, Marine,’ said Gallen, bringing the volume down to a whisper, increasing its impact.
Deciding to give Winter some time free of eye contact, Gallen stood and walked to the head. Washing his face and drying off, he ran a comb through his thin dark hair and stepped back into the cabin where Winter was looking at the ceiling.
‘So?’ Gallen sat down and grabbed his coffee.
‘So,’ said Winter, the prairie drawl so slow that a casual observer would think this man simple. ‘That Escalade at Del Rey, with Colorado plates?’
‘Yep?’
‘I thought it might be a coincidence,’ said Winter, tapping ash, his face having set solid. ‘But it ain’t no coincidence, not after that shit in the Britannia yards.’
‘What coincidence?’
Winter sighed. ‘They ain’t chasing you, boss. They’re after me.’
‘They?’
‘Old shit, from the Ghan,’ said Winter.
‘Who?’
‘Don’t have a name.’
‘What do you have?’ said Gallen, annoyed at the evasion.
‘Unfinished business,’ said Winter.
‘They don’t want to kill you,’ said Gallen. ‘So what? Snatch you? Interrogate you?’
‘Both,’ said Winter. ‘You don’t need to be involved.’
‘I’m already involved, Kenny—’
‘I’m sorting it out, soon as we land.’ Winter nodded slowly in the same way Mike Tyson used to before a fight.
They held stares for twenty seconds, before Winter turned away. ‘Sorry, boss. That’s the best I can do.’
‘Roy,’ said Gallen. ‘He really safe?’
‘Safer than me or you,’ said Winter. ‘Please trust me to sort this out.’
‘Can I trust you, Kenny?’
‘With your life,’ said Winter. ‘I’m good for it.’
Zipping his Carhartt jacket against the cold, Gallen hurried across the car park blacktop, tiny ice crystals crushing under his boots as they approached the white van in the yellow glow of the floodlights.
Waiting at the passenger door while Winter put a mini Maglite between his teeth and did a quick IED check under the vehicle, Gallen reached into his pocket and came out with a depleted pack of Marlboros. Pushing his fingers into the soft foil, he found the last smoke as the steel pressed firmly into the indentation behind his left ear.
Gallen dropped the Marlboros and spread his fingers as he lifted his hands. A man’s hand gripped his right elbow and pushed upwards.
‘Hands on your head,’ the man whispered.
As Gallen put his hands on his head, the man’s hand dropped to the SIG in his waistband and whipped it out in a fast, smooth action. The opportunity to attack was gone and as the barrel pushed harder into his head, Gallen watched another man, dressed in black, shuffle to the side of the van with a handgun held cup-and-saucer.
As Winter emerged, Maglite between his teeth, Gallen was about to warn him but something heavy descended behind his right ear and the last thing he saw was the tarmac racing towards his face.
Gallen, his hands flexi-cuffed behind his back, opened his mouth and allowed the man who called himself Simon Smith to put two Tylenol 3s onto his tongue. Gulping at the offered bottle of water, Gallen got the painkillers down as the volcano in his skull started to erupt.
‘Didn’t need to hit me,’ he said, shifting his butt backwards along the lino flooring to get better support against the wall. The room was large and looked like it was part of an abandoned showroom.
‘No I didn’t,’ said Simon, who looked to be in his early thirties, sandy hair, pale eyes. He was dressed in a pair of chinos and a plum-coloured polo shirt. ‘But it’s not every day I render a couple hard-ons like you and Winter.’
Gallen detected an East Coast born-to-rule accent beneath the tough-guy act. ‘Could have asked me what you wanted,’ he said, the throbbing lump behind his ear making him nauseous.
Simon laughed. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’ Gallen shut his eyes against the stars dancing in his vision. ‘At the very least, you want a man to get hit? Hit him yourself.’
Simon’s face hardened very quickly. ‘Who said I didn’t hit you?’
‘Hah,’ said Gallen, smiling. ‘No soldier’s gonna boast that he hit a man from behind.’
Simon stood up, a sneer on his face. ‘You’re cocky for someone in such a lot of shit.’
‘Cocky is relative,’ said Gallen.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ said Gallen, conversational. ‘Like, the guy who’s gonna kick your ass, break your jaw? He’s relatively more cocky than the dude who slaps other dudes from behind.’