A second man, younger than the first by a decade, but dressed the same and every bit as fit, emerged behind him and stepped to the rail. This one wore a black wool watch cap snugged down over his ears. Both men carried MP7 submachine guns on slings.
The older man cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. He held the submachine gun barrel up, elbow resting against his hip, as if it might release a string of fire into the air at any moment.
“My name is Rubio.” He addressed the people along the bank in a deep, pharaohlike voice. “I am here representing the government — and I’m looking for a man named Jericho Quinn.”
Chapter 2
Rubio paused, letting his words sink in. Quinn sized the men up in a heartbeat. Rubio had introduced himself not as an agent, but as a representative of the government — a contractor. Quinn had worked with many during his deployments to the Middle East. With the US involvement overseas winding down, many of these companies had come home to roost and landed lucrative private security contracts on American soil. Some were salt of the earth — former special operators who’d moved on to ply their very special skill sets in the private sector for exponentially more money than they were making wearing the uniform. But some were little more than thugs in khaki slacks and black T-shirts. Unable to cut it in their old units, they were still highly trained and capable of dishing out all manner of death and destruction, then ducking behind a convoluted corporate bureaucracy whose ethics stopped where the bottom line began.
Rubio and his men looked straight through the villagers gathered along the bank. Their fingers were far too cozy with the triggers of their weapons for Quinn’s taste. Drifting now, the new boat crossed directly in front of Ukka’s open skiff, less than fifteen feet away. Quinn’s Apache heritage and heavy rain gear would make it difficult for them to differentiate him from the rest of the villagers at first glance.
Along the river’s edge, people froze in place, nets, buckets, and even fish in their hands. All stared at the ground avoiding the question. Quinn had made many friends over the last few months, but he was also certain there were a few who would be glad to see him leave the village. Thankfully, none of those were on the bank at that moment.
“Let me be clear on this,” Rubio barked. The cadence in his voice made Quinn guess he’d spent time in the military. “Hiding this man is not an option. I know he’s here. Your guilty looks are enough to tell me that. Jericho Quinn is dangerous, wanted for murder.”
Skiffs’ bottoms scraped gravel, motors chugged, and the Yukon gurgled along, but no one on the bank said a word.
Rubio screwed up his face like he was going to spit.
Ukka started to move, but Quinn caught his eye, giving a slight shake of his head. The two had ridden motorcycles, boxed, and chased girls through junior high and high school. There was zero doubt the man would die for him.
Quinn had just made up his mind to raise his hands when Rubio spoke again.
“Listen up!” he barked, lips frozen in a dismissive sneer. “I tried to play nice. Now, I’m going to shoot one of you muktuk-eating sons of bitches every thirty seconds until someone digs the—”
“That’s enough of that.” Quinn stepped forward, hands well away from his waist.
“It’s him!” the younger agent yelled — and opened fire.
Quinn dove beneath the gunnels as bullets thwacked into the aluminum steering pedestal, stitching their way up to shatter the glass windscreen. The fickle Yukon current nudged the boat sideways, just enough to keep Quinn from taking any rounds on the first volley.
Trapped between the bank and the shooters, Quinn crawled on his hands and knees toward the steering console. Bullets continued to stitch the side of the boat as he reached up and shoved the throttle all the way forward. The aluminum gunwales provided some concealment but no real cover, and he watched as dots of light appeared with each new bullet hole in thin metal. Mired in the shallows, the prop ground against a slurry of gravel and mud before Ukka gave the boat a mighty shove and pushed it away. With only Quinn and the salmon on board, the little skiff jumped forward, chewing up the distance to Rubio’s boat before he or his partner could adjust their aim.
Rather than try to avoid them, Quinn held his course, bracing his shoulder against the aluminum pedestal as the bow took the other boat in a direct broadside, riding up to put Ukka’s skiff nearly vertical in the water. Metal shrieked and motors roared as both props cleared the surface.
Rubio staggered to the side, arms flailing as he teetered against the forward rail. He was smart enough to let the MP7 fall against his sling, giving him both hands to hold on. Regaining his balance, Rubio launched himself over the bow and onto Ukka’s skiff like a boarding pirate. He brought the machine gun up as his rubber boots hit the slanted deck just forward of the steering post.
Thrown forward by the crash, Quinn met the new arrival a half step in, surprising him with two quick shots to the chest from the .45. Rubio was wearing a vest, but the blunt force of two 230-grain slugs shattered his collarbone. He backpedaled instinctively in an attempt to get away from the pain, toppling over the bow rail into the waiting river.
The rubber boots filled instantly, dragging him along with the current. Rather than relaxing to simply remove the waterlogged boots, the man thought he was strong enough to fight against the unbeatable current of the mighty Yukon. The boots acted as a sea-anchor, towing him sideways in the swift water. A frantic gurgle caught in his throat as the Yukon tugged his head below the surface.
With Rubio no longer a threat, Quinn focused on the others in the skiff. Pistol up and ready, he chided himself for being so focused on the new airplane that he’d missed the threat right in front of him.
Welded together in a sort of twisted tee, the two boats caught the current and began to spin downriver. A great gash had opened up along the front quarter of Ukka’s boat below the waterline. Gallons of brown water gushed through the ripped metal. Dead salmon bobbed in the rising brown water around Quinn’s boots.
Stunned by the sudden death of his partner, the younger man regained his senses and sent a wild volley from the MP7. Quinn dove sideways, splashing to the relative safety behind a thick plastic tub full of drift net to avoid another string of fire. Frigid water rushed beneath his float coat, soaking him to the skin.
Fortunately for Quinn, the younger agent fell victim to dependency on the machine gun and used spray-and-pray tactics. Quinn, with only eight rounds, had to be more judicious and actually aim.
Peeking around the corner of the steering pedestal, he put two rounds in the youngster’s left shoulder, outside the vest. He knew his shots were on target, but as he’d expected, in the heat of the fight, the kid didn’t even know he was hit.
Regaining his composure after the crash, the driver of the other boat threw his motor into reverse in an effort to free it from the rapidly sinking skiff. The yank of the larger vessel sent Quinn sliding backwards in a soup of fish, fuel, and river water. His shoulder slammed hard off the unforgiving aluminum transom, knocking the .45 from his grasp. The younger agent fell directly on top of him.
Quinn was keenly aware of the MP7 wedged between them, digging into his ribs. It was sideways, for now, but the kid still had a good hold and worked feverishly to wrestle it away. The .45 was lost and useless somewhere under a foot of brown water.