On his back and nearly submerged, Quinn felt a low growl grow in his belly. Quinn gave the kid a vicious head butt. The blow brought a torrent of blood, but failed to get him to release the grip on the gun. Fear and adrenaline caused the kid to kick into high gear, flinging himself into the fight. The head butt was no more than a stunning injury, but soon he’d feel the effects of blood loss from the bullet wounds in his shoulder. His face just inches above the water, Quinn wondered if it would be soon enough.
Quinn’s legs trapped the young contractor’s body against his, heels hooked behind the small of the young man’s back. Snaking his left arm through the MP7’s sling, he jerked the kid in close. It constricted his movements, but wasn’t quite enough for a proper choke.
Rising water lapped at Quinn’s ears, and he had to crane his neck to stay above the surface. In a matter of seconds, the river would be above his face and do the kid’s work for him.
Quinn held what he had while his right hand searched desperately under the surface, shoving aside dead salmon and coils of gill net. The Severance was on his left side, useless for the moment. Now with just his nose above the water, his fingers wrapped around the wooden shaft of the harpoon just as the silhouette of the boat driver appeared on the bow above the younger shooter. Backlit by the gray clouds, he loomed above for a split second, MP7 in his hands. The man shouted something but water lapped around Quinn’s ears, making it impossible for him to make out the words.
Quinn was vaguely aware of pistol shots, and at first thought the boat driver may have shot directly through his partner. Instead, the man toppled over the side and into the river.
Way to go, Ukka, Quinn thought. Bucking his body upward to create the needed space, he drove the point of the harpoon through the young contractor’s ribs.
The kid’s eyes flew wide as he tried to make sense of what was going on. Blood covered his teeth by the time Quinn had swiped the MP7 out of the way and dragged him sloshing onto the bow of the other boat. His rattling wheeze said the shaft of the spear had gone through the vest and pierced a lung. Quinn used his hand to try to seal the foaming wound as best he could. The bullet wounds on the opposite shoulder were not life threatening in and of themselves, but taken together, shock and additional loss of blood only sped up the inevitable brought on by the harpoon.
“What’s your name?” Quinn asked, cradling the young man in his lap.
“Lane…” The kid said, choking on his own words. He looked up, blinking terrified eyes. “We came to kill you… and you’re trying to save me?”
“You’re too far gone to save.” Quinn gave a slow shake of his head. “But I’ll sit here with you while you die.”
“Thank you…” His face tensed at a sudden shot of pain. Tears welled in his eyes. Quinn had seen many men die and often thought how they looked like little boys the nearer they got to that moment.
Lane’s pulse grew faster as he fell deeper into shock. More blood oozed from the wound around the shaft of the harpoon. Quinn leaned in so the kid could hear and understand him. “How many on the plane?”
Lane swallowed. He didn’t have long. “Five, counting the pilot, I think…” His body began to shake uncontrollably. “They’re… picking us up.” A wave of pain brought on a twisted grimace. His words came in short, panting breaths. “This… is so… wrong…” The boy gave a rattling cough, and then fell slack in Quinn’s arms. Pale blue eyes stared up blankly at the mist.
Ukka had commandeered his cousin’s battered skiff and now motored up alongside the two wrecked boats. He sat on an ice chest at the stern, working the tiller to keep the boat steady in the current. Quinn pulled the earpiece out of the dead kid’s ear and took the radio off his belt. He grabbed the MP7, checked the chamber, and then slung it around his neck.
Ukka held up his hand. “Don’t forget the harpoon. It was my grandfather’s.”
Quinn looked back over his shoulder at the dead contractor. “The barb’s going to make it tough to pull out.”
“He can keep that for his trouble,” Ukka said, frowning. These men had attacked his village and he felt no sorrow for them. “It comes off anyhow. I can make a new one.” Quinn gave the harpoon a quick yank, freeing it from the body, and hopped over the gunwale and onto the deck of Ukka’s new ride.
The big Eskimo threw the boat in reverse, and then turned to take it upstream, free of the drifting wreckage of the other two vessels. “You know the plane that just landed is full of another hit team,” he said, once Quinn was on board.
“No doubt,” Quinn said. “The kid told me five more.”
Ukka’s lower jaw pushed forward and stayed there, the way it did when he was angry. “We need to haul ass up to the village. That first bunch didn’t care much who they shot — and my family is back there.”
“I appreciate your help.” Quinn nodded, shaking his head. “Seriously, James, I am sorry about bringing these guys down on your family.”
Ukka pushed the throttle forward, bringing the boat up on step. He pointed it toward the bank a half a mile downriver, well below the fish processing plant where they would be closer to his house. “I ever tell you about the time I left my good friend out to die on the tundra?” He raised his voice to be heard over the drone of the motor.
“No,” Quinn answered. “I have to admit, you’ve skipped that story.”
“That’s because I don’t do stuff like that.” Ukka twisted the throttle and laid on the gas.
Inside the pocket of Quinn’s float coat, safely wrapped in a plastic Baggie and barely audible above the sounds of wind, water, and the outboard engine, his phone began to chirp.
Far from anything close to a “smart phone,” the little Hershey Bar — size device was a prepaid “burner.” It was difficult, but not entirely impossible, to trace, given the right set of circumstances. In the five months since he’d had the phone, Quinn had received a grand total of three incoming calls. Considering the fact that men were trying to kill him at that very moment, the timing of this fourth call was no coincidence.
Chapter 3
Tang Dalu stood outside the security zone and watched his wife work her way toward security screening with the snaking queue of passengers. The Chinese man was thirty-nine years old and dressed for travel in gray cotton slacks and a short-sleeve white button-up shirt. He was short enough that he had to stand on tiptoe in order to keep an eye on his wife. Her name was Lin. They had been married for eleven years — long enough for him to know, even from nearly a hundred feet away, that she was crying.
Hers was a silent, anguished cry, manifested only by glistening red eyes that seemed ever on the verge of tears — and the periodic shudder of frail shoulders.
Tang had wept too, in the beginning, great choking sobs that wracked his chest and threatened to detach his lungs from his throat.
He could not eat. He could not sleep. He could not bring himself to touch his wife. The sadness was too much to bear. At first, he’d thought he might die. Then he’d watched the light vanish from his wife’s wide brown eyes and he feared he might have to live forever to witness her despair. She’d depended on him, on his position — and he had let her down.
Allah, it turned out, was not nearly as merciful as he had once supposed.
Only the man from Pakistan had saved him. Lin had never been devout, but she had listened to the man’s message and he had saved her as well. In her misery she did not seem to care.
Tang craned his head as he watched her move to the front of the line. He could feel his jaw tighten as a TSA agent ordered her forward with a dismissive flick of his fingers. All around her other agents barked orders at passengers to remove their shoes and empty their pockets. Keep it moving, slow down, stop right there, step forward, quickly, slower, this not that.