Mountain Ghost: A Polar Task Force Thriller, Book #2 (PolarPol)

by Christoffer Petersen

  “We’ll be fine,” she said. “I’ll look after him.”

  “Okay.” Etienne dipped his head, and then ducked out of the cabin.

  The wind curled clouds of snow off the spur and into Etienne’s face, forcing him to keep his head down as he charged up the chute and onto the top of the spur. Spindrift teased its way into the cracks and creases of his parka, filling the cuffs of his gauntlets until he cinched them tight, caking the zip and rendering the hook and weave cuffs and baffles useless. He followed the tracks they made on the way up, grateful that it wasn’t actually snowing and that the moon had finally broken through the cloud. He reached the lip of the spur, just before the steep slope leading down into the gully.

  “Okay,” he said, brushing snow from his eyes. “Improvise.”

  Etienne slipped the backpack off his shoulder, curious that Mats should choose such an old and heavy type of pack. Then, as the surface snow splintered down the slope, Etienne grinned. He opened the pack, turned it upside down and pressed the arches of his boots against the straps at the base of the pack. Etienne sat on the lid of the backpack, gripped the shoulder straps in his hands, and pushed off the lip of the spur.

  Momentum, gravity, his own weight, perhaps even the urgency of the situation, combined to send Etienne Gagnon, RCMP Inspector, acting commander of Polarpol, hurtling down the slope with the most inappropriate of smiles stitched onto his face. Of course, if anyone had asked, he would have said it was the cold, that his cheeks were frozen, that facial expressions were limited to grimaces at best.

  But he would have been lying. And for all the stereotypical comparisons he had suffered over the years, and even during the short time he had spent in Sweden, Etienne decided, as he plummeted down the mountainside, that Mounties don’t lie.

  He stopped short of yelling and whooping, and even the grin and the grimace dissolved as the crack of gunfire reached him from the valley below.

  Etienne remembered something about the slope being steepest at the bottom but struggled to see through the snow kicked up from his heels. When the slope did fall away, and Etienne burst into the air, there was little else to do but fall. Etienne landed, twisting his feet in the straps of the backpack, and slamming his shoulder into a rock, sliding another ten metres before he managed to slow his descent, spreading his arms like an angel.

  More gunfire, and the brrrp of automatic weapons.

  Etienne pulled the backpack off his feet, stood up, and ran.

  He slowed as he reached the trail, crouching as he gathered his wits, shaking the snow from his head, wiping it from his face, and searching for Gina. He found her, leading one of the dog teams, her left hand around the lead dog’s collar, and her right curled around the grip of her pistol. The terrain was in Gina’s favour, and the single shots did enough to keep her assailants’ heads down as she worked her way towards a rough slope leading down to the lake.

  “Gina,” Etienne shouted.

  She ducked and turned, stopping to crouch as she searched for Etienne.

  “Up here,” he said, risking a wave.

  “There’s too many,” Gina said. “No service on the mobiles. I thought I would go for help.”

  “You won’t make it,” Etienne said. “Not without a diversion.”

  He ducked down as a burst of three bullets slapped into the snow to his left. Etienne cursed, pressing himself into the snow, then crept forwards until he could see the second dog team fidgeting in the snow.

  “Gina,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “When you get a chance, you go for it.”

  “What are you going to do?” Gina shook her head as Etienne pointed. “I can’t see what you’re pointing at.”

  “You won’t have to,” he said. “Remember, I’m a Mountie.”

  Etienne cringed as soon as he said it, cursing himself that this wasn’t the time, that it truly was a setup, and lives were at stake. And yet… A little humour could go a long way.

  “Trust the dogs,” Gina said, before ducking and firing, drawing fire away from Etienne as he broke cover and raced the last twenty metres to the dogs.

  “Never been on a horse, and never, ever, have I run with dogs.” Etienne grabbed the ice anchor, tugging it out of the snow as he wrapped one hand around the bowed handlebar of the sled. “What the hell was the command to start?”

  It wasn’t necessary.

  The dogs shifted as soon as they felt the tension go out of the anchor. The lead dog leaned into her harness, tugging the sled forward a few centimetres, until the rest of the team followed, pulling the sled out of the shadow of the snow, and onto the trail, heading north and west, deeper into the mountains.

  Etienne scrabbled to get his knees onto the runners, hooking his arm around the handlebar, trusting the dogs to stick to the trail, while he hung on. The ice anchor slipped out of his grasp, bouncing on the trail behind him, prongs facing upwards. Etienne thought about reeling it in, then gave up, choosing to cling on as the dogs increased speed and a snowmobile burst onto the trail behind him.

  “Two snowmobiles,” Etienne said, cursing as he realised the first time he drove a dog team might be his last.

  The trail narrowed as it crested a rise, steeper on the downward side. Etienne looked around the sled, then kicked his way onto the runners. The front of the sled slid forward, closer and closer to the wheel dogs, threatening to overrun them. Etienne swore, then tried to remember how Evelyn slowed the sled. He looked down at this feet, saw the short section of snowmobile tread chained between the runners, and stomped on it, slowing the sled just enough to increase the gap between the front of the sled and the rumps of the wheel dogs.

  “So this is stop,” Etienne said, forcing himself to ignore the roar of the snowmobiles following him over the crest. “And go is…” Etienne gripped the handlebars, holding his breath until the trail bottomed out, and then stepped off the brake and onto the runners. “Hike! Hike!”

  The team lurched forwards, tearing down the trail, curving into a long bend. Etienne allowed himself a grin, figuring it was deserved, until the bend grew sharper, twisting around a clump of stunted trees and bushes, thick enough to grip the ice anchor trailing behind the sled, and slamming Etienne onto the trail as the team came to an abrupt stop.

  Etienne fought the cold air into his lungs, as he rolled onto his side, reaching for the sled, only to see it pull away from him as the dogs worked the anchor free of the bushes and took off. He rolled onto his back, lifting his chin to look behind him as the first snowmobile slowed to a stop. The driver switched from his MP5 to the pistol holstered at his side, as he let the engine idle out of gear. He climbed off the saddle as the second snowmobile slowed to a stop beside him. Etienne frowned, still trying to catch his breath, but curious if the second man was as tall as he appeared.

  It was the beard that did it.

  Etienne finally caught his breath, wheezing the air into his lungs as Hákon got off the snowmobile, grabbed his walking stick, and swung the end of thick knotted wood into the back of the other man’s head. Hákon swung the stick three more times, eliciting a softer squelch of bone and soft matter with each successive strike.

  “Constable,” Etienne said, as he picked himself up and staggered towards the Icelander. “I think you got him.”

  “His name is Dave,” Hákon said. “The fat bastard.”

  “Fat?”

  “That’s what they call him.” Hákon unclipped Dave’s MP5 from his chest harness and pressed it into Etienne’s hands. “It’s good to see you, Etienne,” he said.

  “And you have no idea, just how good it is to see you, Constable.”

  Hákon nodded, then picked up the pistol. He checked Dave’s body for magazines, giving Etienne two more for the submachine gun, and pocketing a spare for the pistol. He tucked the pistol into his pocket, and then picked up his stick.

  “Evelyn?”

  “At the cabin,” Etienne said.

  “And the woman on the trail?”

&n
bsp; “Gina Lång. Swedish cop.”

  “She’s good,” Hákon said.

  “Yes.”

  “And you?” Hákon looked around Etienne as the dogs twisted the sled into another clump of Arctic bushes. They lay down, panting in the snow, their wild flight arrested. “You’re a dog musher now?”

  Etienne grinned. “I’m a Mountie, Hákon. What can I say?”

  “It’s in your blood?” Hákon laughed, rattling the ice in his beard, and then pointed at Etienne’s gun. “We need to get going.”

  “Right.” Etienne tucked the spare magazines into his pockets, stepped over Dave’s body, and climbed onto the snowmobile. “I’ll lead, but I warn you, when we leave the snowmobiles, the path gets steep.” Etienne glanced at Hákon’s leg.

  “Don’t wait for me,” Hákon said. “You go help Evelyn. I’ll cover the rear and follow your tracks.”

  Etienne clicked the snowmobile into gear, backed up, and then turned, accelerating back up the slope, over the crest, and down towards the path leading to the cabin. He parked beside a row of snowmobiles, cursing at the tracks leading towards the path. He didn’t need Evelyn to tell him that trouble was headed her way.

  “There’s another one,” Hákon said, as he parked next to Etienne. “Roberts. He has a long rifle.”

  “Noted,” Etienne said. He looked at Hákon, nodded once, and then took off along the path, stumbling in the deep snow, then sprinting over the packed stretches. Etienne unzipped his parka and tucked the MP5 inside when he started to climb.

  Gunshots in the distance, single shots and the brrrp of the submachine guns, forced him onwards, upwards, spitting the snow from his mouth as the wind blew it into his face. He drew some solace from the fact that the team was back together, although if he could spirit Vitaly Kuznetsov out of Russia and onto the mountainside – preferably with his Dragunov sniper rifle, then he would have done so. But even with Hákon’s busted foot, and Evelyn’s limited supply of bullets, he had hope.

  But as he reached the lip of the spur, and the sound of gunfire increased, Etienne realised that hope probably wasn’t going to cut it, and they would need something more if they were going to turn the odds in their favour, or even get off the mountain alive.

  A distant whoosh and the muffled explosion of a rocket in the distance turned his head. Etienne frowned as pockets of fireworks blistered and crackled, showering sparks of colour across the black winter sky.

  “New Year’s Eve,” he whispered, and then, as the gunfire at the cabin increased, “A hell of a way to start the year.”

  Etienne forced himself over the lip, tugged the MP5 from his jacket, and charged along the spur, slipping, sliding, all the way to the chute, and the crackle of bullets and the flash of muzzles blistering in front of the cabin.

  Chapter 26

  KEBNEKAISE, SWEDEN

  “Stay away from the window.” Evelyn turned Mats’ pistol in her hand, wishing, not for the first time, that she had her father’s old hunting rifle, the stock bound together with bailing twine and good intentions, and not a tiny Austrian pistol. Of course, she could also wish for Vitaly Kuznetsov. But if only wishing made it so. Evelyn leaned against the door frame, tuning out Mats’ tinkering with the stove, and listening instead for the distant sound of gunfire. She wanted to hear a regular rhythm, suppressing fire, not a sudden burst followed by silence. No, she needed the shots to go both ways, to believe that Gina was still alive, and that Etienne wasn’t just charging to his death. Mountie or not, there was nothing honourable about a suicide charge.

  “Got it,” Mats said, distracting Evelyn from her vigil.

  “Got what?”

  “The USB. Actually, it’s the USB, with the information your Inspector asked me about. It was the first one I hid, in a gap beneath the stove foot.”

  Evelyn took another look outside, and then risked a step back into the cabin. “You’ve seen what’s on it?”

  “Yes.”

  “About Iceland?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Mats said, with a wave of his hand, taking in the cabin.

  “And what did you find?”

  “That more than one government was concerned about Adrian Seabrooke’s revelations.” Mats frowned. “Is that the right word?”

  “It’ll do.” Evelyn moved back to the door, beckoning for Mats to move closer. “Explain what you mean and tell me what you found.”

  “Well…” Mats picked up the chair and dragged it to the door. He sat down, turning the USB between his fingers in a ray of moonlight. “Any country with a serious car industry, would have been concerned about defective software in their cars. But, the government of that country would have been even more concerned about these so-called defects being exposed as back doors for the security services and intelligence branch to snoop on the people inside the cars. It’s like the smart speakers in your home. Imagine if governments, or even the companies who make them, tapped into them. What do you talk about at home?”

  “Everything,” Evelyn said, with another look outside.

  “And in your car?” Mats tucked the USB into the front pocket of his jacket. “It’s just like at home, right? There’s nothing you wouldn’t say in the house…”

  “That you wouldn’t say in the car.” Evelyn nodded. “I get it. But what did you find?”

  “Concerned mails between high-ranking civil servants and politicians. Then, most worryingly, loosely guard messages suggesting that Seabrooke should be stopped. The British tried, telling him they would remove his security if he left the country.”

  “I remember,” Evelyn said.

  “Then, when he went ahead anyway, the other concerned governments suggested that the British had to deal with it, as Seabrooke was British. But…”

  Evelyn held up her hand for Mats to wait. She tilted her head, turning her ear into the wind, listening. Then, with a nod, she encouraged Mats to continue.

  “But they wouldn’t act alone. They forced the other governments to agree, and when enough of them did…”

  “They sanctioned the hit.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you can prove it?”

  “Yes.”

  Evelyn took a breath, nodding as she realised it all made sense, and that by tasking Polarpol – however contrived – to find Mats, they were putting all the tainted eggs in one basket, one place. The only question was who they were, and then how the hell we’re going to get out of this mess.

  “How many copies did you make?”

  “Just the one,” Mats said. “I would have made more, but then we were burgled. Nothing was taken, and I just guessed that whoever it was must have put something on my computer – software to log whatever I did.”

  “So you bought a new computer.”

  “You know about that?”

  “I found it, Mats. You’ve been using it to check in on your family.”

  Mats let his head droop to his chest. “Yes. I thought…”

  “Hey,” Evelyn said, waiting for Mats to look up. “Whatever happens, you’re going to have the rest of your life to fix this. But I need you sharp now. You need to want to get through this.”

  “I do.”

  “Good, then I need you to turn that table over, and hunker down behind it. You keep that USB in your pocket, and you keep it safe.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to be right here,” Evelyn said. “Between you and them.”

  “You’re a good shot?”

  “I’ll make every bullet count.”

  “Okay,” Mats said, fidgeting as if he was about to say more.

  Evelyn shooed him over to the table with a wave of her hand. She listened again for whatever it was that had bothered her the first time she heard it, and then as Mats turned the table over and crouched behind it, Evelyn saw them, three figures running along the spur.

  “Okay, Mats,” she said, taking a breath, and then exhaling, slowly. “This is it.”

  The first shots slapped in
to the side of the cabin, forcing Evelyn inside. She left the door open, then slid along the cabin floor, keeping low, heading for the window, until two more bullets splintered the glass onto the floor.

  “Shit.”

  Evelyn moved back to the door, risking a quick look around the frame, then a second, as she tracked the closest of the three men.

  “Two men, and one woman,” she whispered, correcting herself.

  Evelyn leaned around the door, holding the pistol in her left hand, leading the tiny iron sight at the end of the barrel in front of the man closest to the cabin. She fired twice, then ducked back inside the cabin, allowing a thin smile of satisfaction to spread across her lips.

  It was short-lived.

  Three submachine guns crackled, peppering the side of the cabin, forcing Evelyn further inside, and wiping the smile off her face as she realised her target was not dead, not even incapacitated.

  “Just pissed,” she said, chiding herself for not aiming a little higher, or squeezing off a third round.

  The wood splintered, outside and inside the cabin, as more and more bullets passed through the window to thwack into the far wall, showering Mats in woodchips and shavings.

  “Just stay down,” Evelyn said. “I mean it.”

  “What are you going to do?” Mats yelled back at her. “What can you possibly do?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  What was it she had said about honourable charges against the enemy? Suicide, she mused, nodding as she recalled how stupid she thought it would be. But short of anything else, Evelyn found it difficult to imagine how she could take the fight to them. Nor did she relish the idea of waiting for them to bring the fight to her.

  They’re doing that already, she thought. And they’re doing it well.

  The crack of something louder – a rifle, perhaps – caught Evelyn’s attention, and the attention of the group outside as the suppressing fire withered to a stop, replaced with shouts, calling out possible locations of the new arrival on the scene.

  “Roberts?”