“I’ll fly you where you need to go,” Corey said, blinking back his dizziness. “I won’t even charge you, but she needs to see a doctor.”
“Forget about a doctor,” Lovita said. “I grew up in the village. My head’s harder to crack than that. You’re hurt worse than me.” She looked at Quinn. “Anyways, I’m not gonna get left out on your manhunt.”
“Maybe Corey’s right,” Quinn said, gingerly touching his rib to check for more damage. A punctured lung was not out of the question. “I know from experience how hard that guy can hit.”
“And see,” Lovita said. “You’re not givin’ up. Come on, Quinn, you can’t shut me out ’cause some Russian son of a bitch punched me in the nose. It ain’t my fault.” For the first time since he’d met her, the tough little Eskimo looked like she might cry. “We been through too much together for you to scrape me off like mud on your boots. Haven’t we?”
“I’m not scraping you off, Lovita.” It was impossible for Quinn not to remember how he felt when Palmer had threatened to bench him. Still, Quinn knew himself — and the risks that went along with charging in half broken.
Lovita put a hand on his arm, squeezing. Her eyes gleamed with welling tears — tears of tension, not pain. “Seriously, Jericho,” she whispered. “I’m okay.”
He sighed, throwing a glance at Beaudine, who just shrugged.
Quinn turned away, ignoring Lovita’s plea while he made up his mind. Corey could hardly stand up, so he wasn’t flying them anywhere, but it remained to be seen if Lovita was in good-enough shape to get behind a yoke. He decided to search the dead Russians while he mulled it over. They were following Volodin, maybe they had some information about where he was going.
“Tell me exactly what happened, Lovita,” he said as he worked.
The Native girl sighed, eyes on her boots in embarrassment. “I got lazy, that’s all, and let that stupid gussaq sneak up and punch me in the face.”
Quinn stooped over the first man he shot to begin going through his pockets. “Did he knock you out?”
Lovita paused, touching the bandana to her split lip.
“Were you unconscious?” Quinn asked. Contrary to the movies, getting knocked out was a big deal. It left you wobbly and disoriented for some time and could very well mean a concussion.
“He hit me, and I fell on my ass, okay?” She threw her hands in the air. “I saw stars, but that’s it. I’m sure he intended to kill me, but the next thing I knew, you guys started shootin’. I guess he came back here to check it out.”
Quinn stood, stretching his sore back. He wondered if he really had an alternative. They had to follow Volodin. He climbed the stairs to search the second dead man, mulling over the decision as long as possible.
Each of the three Russians carried forged identification as oil workers from the North Slope. They had American names like Tony and Gary. According to his Louisiana driver’s license, the guy slumped by the fireplace was A.J. The IDs looked convincing but were most certainly forged. Each man had been armed with a pistol as well as a blade similar to A.J.’s hooked karambit.
“That one brought in a rifle,” Adam Henderson pointed at a padded canvas case leaning against the far side of the fireplace hearth. Slightly tapered and the length of a rifle, the case was olive drab and equipped with carrying handles as well as backpack straps. Quinn recognized it immediately as a drag bag. He unzipped it far enough to see it contained a Remington bolt-action rifle and a Nightforce scope with extreme long-range turrets. The Nightforce alone cost over two thousand dollars. This setup was a serious sniper weapon.
Tapping the case in thought, Quinn turned to Beaudine.
“If they’re sending a sniper after this guy, they think he’s a valuable target — and if he’s valuable to them—”
“He’s valuable to us,” Beaudine said, finishing his sentence.
The Russian leaning against the fireplace began to laugh, staring at Quinn. His eyes were wild and slightly askew from the beating with the fire poker.
“Fool,” he chuckled, slowly shaking his head as he lapsed into Russian.
“He’s still talking about a hunter,” Beaudine whispered. “And wolves.”
“Hey, girly,” the Russian called out toward Lovita. “You had better run if you know what is good for you.” He followed with something that sounded neither Russian nor English. Whatever he said sent a terrified Lovita fleeing back behind Quinn’s back.
Quinn turned and put a hand on the terrified girl’s shoulder. “What’s the matter?”
“He spoke in Chukchi,” Lovita said, “It’s close enough to Alaskan Yup’ik that I understood. He says there is a bad man coming for us.”
“A bad man?”
Lovita nodded. Her wide eyes gleamed like a frightened child’s. “The elders tell stories of a hunter who comes across the water from Siberia,” she said. “They say this man hunts our hunters when they are out on the ice. They say he is a giant with eyes as white as a winter blizzard. The old women call him Worst of the Moon. I always thought the scary stories were to make little kids stay close to camp when we’re out picking berries.” Lovita peered at the Russian over her wadded bandana. “I never heard no gussaq talk about it before, though.”
“Worst of the Moon?” Beaudine mused.
“Listen,” Lovita said, shooting a worried glance over her shoulder as if she expected some monster to burst through the door. “I know this sounds crazy to you guys, but weird shit happens out here in the bush. The tundra, these forests…” She looked at Quinn for support. “Tell her. You’ve been out here long enough to see it with your own eyes.”
“I have seen some odd things,” he said, “all over the world.”
Lovita gave a fast nod, thinking she’d found an ally. “I think I even seen an enukin just before this guy attacked me.”
“Wait a minute.” Beaudine put up her hand. “What’s an enukin?”
“Like a Native leprechaun,” Adam Henderson said. “Usually harbingers of bad as far as I can tell, but they’ve been known to help folks in trouble.”
Quinn rubbed his eyes. “Let’s focus on this Worst of the Moon character.”
Lovita shivered. “It’s what my people call February, the cruelest time of winter. He ain’t been around since ancient times like the enukin or the hairy man. My granny started puttin’ Worst of the Moon in her stories about eight or nine years ago.”
The Russian threw his head back as if to howl at the ceiling. Instead, he grimaced against what had to be an agonizing headache. The worst of the pain apparently ebbing enough for him to talk, he began to babble in Russian. Quinn recognized one word he used over and over—okhotnik. Beaudine told him it meant hunter. The Russian’s eyes flicked open. One of them stared directly at Lovita. “The stories are real, girly. Okhotnik is real.”
Quinn took a moment to load a full magazine into his Kimber. He stuffed the partially used one in the pocket of his jacket, resolving to top it off as soon as he got back to the plane and his backpack. This was no time to be walking around with a half-empty gun. Everything this guy said made sense. Most of Russian operatives Quinn knew were meticulous in their thuggery. If they wanted one of their own scientists dead bad enough to send a sniper team to America, they were certain to have a backup plan. Quinn couldn’t help but glance out the window to make sure Spetsnaz paratroopers weren’t at that very moment dropping into the skies of Alaska Red-Dawn style.
Beaudine folded the satellite phone and returned it to her jacket pocket, apparently satisfied that it wasn’t going to work. “Okay, Quinn,” she said. “You’re the Alaska expert. What are you thinking?”