Misled

by Anderson Harp

  When he began the descent, the speed increased even more as the aircraft followed gravity’s pull, but the well-made HondaJet proved equal to the strain.

  A short time later, the wheels of the jet screeched as it settled on the runway at Whitehorse. The Air North FBO was a quick taxi; waiting in front of it was an Otter with sleds for landing on snow or ice. A man with red and orange sticks guided his aircraft up to the terminal entrance. Will grabbed a large flight bag; some supplies, and two other weapons bags they had stored in the jet when he left Georgia. He headed inside to suit up with his arctic gear, waved at the two inside, and went into the pilots’ lounge. The television inside was turned to another breaking news story. This time, he knew the story firsthand.

  Ridges had made it safely to the address in midtown Manhattan.

  Will went back into the cold and crossed over to the waiting aircraft.

  The Otter was loaded with his other bags and waiting for its pilot. He stopped by its tail and called the other number on his cell phone.

  “Hello.” The voice sounded excited.

  “This is Parker.”

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  Will knew who the next voice was.

  “Parker. You know what I need.” Alexander Paul spat out the words, the strain and fury like broken glass in his voice.

  “He’s gone.”

  “Where?”

  “The only place he could be safe from someone like you.”

  “I have your friend.” Paul’s mistake was that he used the singular, clearly unaware that Karen Stewart had a protector in Snag. “Where’s he hiding?”

  “You’ve been there before, a long time ago.”

  “Don’t play games.”

  Will smiled. “All the news that’s fit to print.”

  He felt Paul’s reaction through the satellite phone.

  The New York Times had broken Ridges’s story that the CIA and DIA had a bank in the Cayman Islands and that the former director of the DIA had used it as his personal slush fund. Under the assumption that the CIA could use the bank to follow the funds of terrorism, the agencies had been tricked by one of their very own. Paul had been embezzling millions.

  “She’s dead,” Paul growled. The phone went silent.

  The morning sun suddenly became dark as snow started to come in. The clouds masked the sunlight and winds began coming across the airfield. Will started the Otter’s engine and began taxiing out to the main runway.

  Does he really have her? Was Moncrief down? The scenarios ran through his brain like wildfire. The Otter was much slower than Coyote Six, but it lifted off the runway in less than a hundred yards as he turned it into the wind.

  Will knew the Yukon well and headed north to a place he had been before. The windshield was pelted by snow as the aircraft fought the moving air, jumping up and down in the sudden shifts of turbulence. He took a compass bearing that sent him in the right direction and then dropped to an altitude just above the tops of the spruce trees. The engine struggled against the pull of the wind as it headed deeper into the storm.

  The cabin’s temperature dropped. The weather front seemed to be bringing Siberian air in from both the west and north. He felt the Otter struggle in his hands and tried not to fight it. The airplane climbed up the side of a hill and then dropped into the valley beyond. It did it again as he crossed the rise and fall of the terrain. The tops of the trees became more difficult to make out, but the airplane continued to move forward.

  I’m going to have to set down. The sooner he put the aircraft down, though, the farther he would be from Snag. The storm was stealing his sense of distance and direction. And it would be suicide for him to land at Snag. The bullets would rip through the Otter before the engine even stopped.

  Another hill lay directly before him with what seemed to be trees that filled his entire windshield. His airplane and he disappeared into the white.

  Chapter 69

  Snag

  “What happened?” Frank Caldwell ran up to the front of the cabin, finding two of the men on the ground. One was holding his leg and the other his arm. Blood streaked the snow and their white parkas.

  Paul and Angel remained near the helicopter, watching from a safe distance.

  “The damn thing came at us.” The man with the long beard and tattoos was clearly rattled.

  “What?”

  “There.” He pointed to the snow near the cabin’s front door. White fur covered in blood lay at the base of the steps to the cabin. The furry object looked like a tiny rug that had been run through the blades of a lawn mower. Their automatic weapons had shredded the animal.

  Caldwell looked at the head and saw its skull cracked open by the bullets.

  “Oh, shit.” He saw that the fox’s lips and jaws were covered in a white, dripping foam. He knew why the doctor had come to Snag, and then ran to Paul. “We need to get these men out of here.” Caldwell’s sixth code of West Point had kicked in, but it instantly became apparent that he was the only one who cared about the troops.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Paul phrased the words like he was asking Caldwell if he had never seen men wounded in combat before.

  “These men.” Caldwell had seen wounded men before, but not wounded by the most dangerous weapon on the planet. “The foxes are infected with rabies. The doc let one loose in the cabin.” He jabbed a gloved thumb in the direction of the wounded men. “We need to get them out of here. Now.”

  Caldwell turned back to the helicopter to signal the pilot to spin up the turbine. He’d made it two steps when the shot rang out. A .45 slug caught him in the center of his back, picked him up, and threw him into a snowdrift at the base of a pine tree. The smell of cordite lingered in the air.

  * * * *

  Paul put the pistol back in his holster and turned away from Caldwell’s body. The former soldier would only be described as missing on a job in the Yukon. His beloved kid would no doubt learn about Daddy’s disappearance at a soccer game when the mom got the call.

  He never knew the score, from the start.

  Paul turned to Angel, who also carried a .45 sidearm. “Those two.” His nod of the head was directed toward the two wounded soldiers on the ground.

  The man with the beard tried to cover his face. The bullet passed through his forearm and blew out the back of his head. The second man tried to crawl away. He had lost his pistol and rifle during the attack by the rabid animal. Finally, he stopped and tried a desperate lunge at Angel. The bullet caught him in the face. Again, the smell of cordite filled the air.

  Paul crossed over to the helicopter pilot, gun trained on the man’s chest. “Move away from the chopper.”

  The pilot, clearly in shock, complied.

  “Cover him,” Paul told Angel, then reached into his own pocket for the plasticuffs he’d brought on the mission. A minute later, he had the pilot stowed in the back of the chopper, his hands fastened tightly with the zip ties to one of the supports.

  Paul pulled out the satellite phone and called a number.

  “What is the nearest airport that can handle a jet?” he asked the pilot while the call went through.

  “Whitehorse.”

  Paul said “Whitehorse” into the phone. “I need the Gulfstream to pick me up there in an hour.”

  The G-650 had been on hold in Anchorage, waiting for the next assignment. Paul had already planned where to go next, if necessary—the one place that would welcome the former director of the DIA. The Gulfstream could pass over the Bering Sea and land in the Russian town of Anadyr before the dogs were on his trail.

  The United States would express outrage and lodge furious complaints over the “international incident.” Putin would claim that even former government officials have the right to ask for political asylum. Paul would prove a treasure trove of information for his sworn enemy. Putin w
ould have lost one plum in the disappearance of Ridges and gained another with Paul. And it wouldn’t hurt that the Russians wouldn’t be sure how much money Paul had remaining.

  Chapter 70

  Near Snag

  The shots from the execution of Frank Caldwell and Paul’s two men rang out in the valley. The sound echoed through the trees. Kevin Moncrief held his head down for a moment in disbelief. He’d known these dudes were dangerous, but murdering your own men was taboo in every modern military in the world. Karen’s life would also be forfeit if the surviving killers found her. The massacre at Snag would be covered by the snowstorm coming in. The CDC had not spoken with their research scientist for some time now and didn’t expect her any time soon. They would not be alarmed for days to come.

  Will would arrive if he could, but Moncrief feared he’d be too late. Then again, that was better than having his old friend die needlessly if he arrived too soon. Either way, when this was all over, Paul would be long gone. The helicopter pilot would ferry him out to a field on the other side of Whitehorse. Then he too would receive a bullet in the back of his helmet as soon as they touched down.

  Moncrief moved to another tree to get a different view of the layout. He saw Paul and a large man standing over the two who had been shot.

  There was another, he thought as he scanned the area. Another soldier had climbed off the bird when it first landed. The man was nowhere in sight.

  Pow.

  The shot missed Moncrief’s head by inches. He stuck his face down in the snow, still feeling the heat of the round that had just missed. He pulled back from the tree, crawling in the snow, retreating to another tree and just got behind it when another round struck. This one missed, but he felt the burn of his scalp as it cut through his flesh. Warm blood dripped down his forehead and cheek. Again, Moncrief retreated, this time to a large boulder that was covered in a drift of snow. He pulled behind the rock, grabbed some of the snow, made a tight ball, squeezed it with both hands, and then pressed the ice against the wound. In the below-freezing temperature, it would slow the bleeding quickly.

  Moncrief chambered a round, waited at the base of the rock and then, when he saw a shape move a hundred yards away, he fired. The blast of the heavy-caliber rifle missed, but caused the man to duck. As soon as he discharged the weapon, Moncrief ran back to another rock outcropping. Again, he waited for the shape of the man to appear, and again, he fired a round. It served its purpose in that it slowed the man’s movements.

  I hope she made it, he thought as he moved from tree to tree in a zigzag pattern, gradually making his way to their rally point. They were on their own and it was clear that there was no choice but to fight for their survival. There would be no tie in this game.

  Moncrief stopped again at the base of the tree and waited for a shape to appear. Blood dripped into his eye. Damn it. The bleeding had slowed but he could see that he’d left a red trail behind him.

  This time he saw two figures. The second man was larger than the sniper he’d been hunting. Both were coming in his direction. Moncrief only had three rounds left in the rifle. Their quick escape hadn’t enabled him to grab any extra ammo. And the chances of his hitting either target was slim. They were both moving quickly, well aware that he was aiming for them.

  The next time he looked, they’d disappeared from sight. No movement in the forest, only a deadly silence. Heavier snow was limiting visibility. He slowly crawled backward, moving away from the two men and also away from the rally point. At the very least, he could draw the pursuers away from Karen.

  Moncrief had become the hunted. The ground rose from the spot where he last stopped and gave him a better view. He saw a shape closer than he had expected. He held his breath and stayed as still as he could. Now, there were three shapes in the forest. Two men, one the larger one and a smaller one, were moving together. The third one had disappeared. Moncrief was near a clearing and the next move meant that he would have to cross the opening or stay in place.

  As he prepared to squeeze the trigger, aiming at the larger of the two men, blood trickled into his eye, causing him to miss.

  He darted across the opening, only to hear several shots fired from his far right. One caught him in the right calf. It stunned him, but he quickly realized it had missed bone. In the woods to the other side, Moncrief realized that he had unconsciously circled around and was close to the rendezvous point. There was no way to lead them away from her without crossing the opening again. He prayed she understood that she had to flee the area as quickly as she could. The killers were not taking prisoners.

  He made the dash toward the meeting point as well as he could with his lame leg, plunging through snow and underbrush until he saw Karen, rifle next to her.

  “We need to get out of here.”

  She nodded as Moncrief turned back to the opening, waiting for movement. One of the men tried to cross the clearing. He fired quickly in his direction. One of the men fired back and also missed. They exchanged shots again, leaving Moncrief with one round remaining and three killers.

  A movement in the white-green undergrowth. Quickly, Moncrief aimed and squeezed. His bullet caught the third man in the chest and flipped him over as if he had been tackled by a pro linebacker.

  Now the Marlin was empty.

  “Here.” He reached for Karen’s rifle, which also had a limited number of rounds.

  The two shapes had divided. Moncrief saw one on the far right. He fired a shot, but it ricocheted off of a large branch, spraying snow and pine needles but not finding its mark.

  “Watch out!” cried Karen, signaling to the left.

  The big man fired and struck the rifle in Kevin’s hands. The wooden stock exploded into splinters and the rest of the rifle flew out of his hands, leaving them defenseless.

  Chapter 71

  The Wilderness Near Snag

  “Who are you?” Paul asked Moncrief as he leaned against the rock that they’d used for cover.

  The bigger man had his boot on Moncrief’s wounded leg. He pushed his heel down into the wound as Moncrief screamed in pain.

  Karen Stewart was pulled up at the base of a tree with her knees up to her chest. She was too scared to cry. Her eyes looked out into space as if shock had set in.

  “Moncrief.” He spat the words out: “Gunnery sergeant, United States Marine Corps, you worthless piece of shit.”

  Paul shook his head. Checked his watch. “What were you two thinking?” He was verbally torturing them, delaying the inevitable. “Running like that.”

  The prisoners made no reply.

  “You know I didn’t come here to kill both of you.” Paul held a .45 automatic pistol. It was a Remington model RIA 1911 M15 made exclusively and issued only to general officers. He carried it in a shiny black holster with a belt that had a bright gold buckle. The large 11.5 mm slug was designed to destroy human tissue, causing a ragged, deep wound that caused the victim to bleed out quickly.

  “Your friend did this to you.” Paul played with the pistol like a gunslinger from a John Wayne movie. “If he had just left things alone, left Mexico alone, and stayed here in this deep-freeze shithole, flying his little airplanes, we never would have met.”

  Moncrief tried to make a lunge at Paul with a last-gasp effort.

  Angel kicked him down and stomped on the injured leg.

  Moncrief’s scream echoed in the forest.

  “Kill them both,” Paul said like a dispassionate executioner at the gallows.

  Angel took his .45 semiautomatic and aimed it at Karen first. Another perverted form of torture, in which he’d put the 11.5 mm slug through the face of the doctor before killing Moncrief, leaving him to see Karen’s brain scattered against the tree trunk before the barrel turned on him.

  And then…

  Whomp.

  The .338 Lapua Magnum is known in the African country of Namibia as the
“big-five killer.” Its slug can take down a Cape buffalo on a charge.

  The big man would not have felt pain. Instead, it would have been like having his chest struck by a runaway freight train. The force of the bullet lifted him off his feet and threw him back against a rock. He was dead before his body slid to the ground.

  Paul froze, motionless with fear.

  “Put your hands behind your head.” Will Parker stepped out of the woods with the Windrunner in his hands. He and the rifle were covered in white camouflage. But for his movement, he melted invisibly into the snowy air. He approached Paul and nudged the fluted barrel of the rifle into Paul’s neck as he used his other hand to unbuckle Paul’s holster. The pistol fell into the snow. Will backed up and helped Karen to her feet. He turned to Moncrief.

  “Gunnery Sergeant United States Marine Corps?” Will repeated Moncrief’s cry with a smile.

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  He looked over Kevin’s injured leg, then helped the gunny to his feet.

  “You think you can make it back to the helicopter?”

  Moncrief tested putting weight on the injured leg. He winced but felt steady on his feet. “Hell, yes.”

  “Lead the way.” Will gave Paul another nudge of the Windrunner, keeping him ahead of them as they made their way through the brush and snow to the cabin. He kept the long barrel trained on Paul’s head as they neared the helicopter.

  “They won’t do what you’re thinking they’ll do to me.” Paul regained his swagger as they moved past the cabin and to the helicopter. “I know too much.”

  The comment had some risk of truth to it. Paul possessed a decade of the worst of America’s secrets. If Ridges could be spared because of his knowledge, Paul too might avoid the gallows.

  “We’ll take the chance,” said Will.

  “Like hell you will. You think—”

  Pop.

  Paul’s words were lost in the snap of the bullet as it passed through his neck. His voice started to gurgle as blood poured out of his neck. He grabbed the wound in a desperate attempt to stanch the bleeding. He fell to his knees, still holding his neck with both hands. The sound of him drowning in his own blood filled the air as Karen, Moncrief, and Will stood back, searching for the source of the gunfire.