Act of Vengeance

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Hi, Chief. Wanted to see how you were doing.’

  Jack looked from her to Burns.

  ‘Well, I’ll be off now, then.’

  Suzie nodded coldly. She would obviously be happier without his presence. It made Jack feel a pang of jealousy. Chief Burns had his admirer, and Jack was having to fight just to maintain contact with his wife.

  Out in the corridor he pulled the door quietly behind him and set off for the lifts beyond reception. There were footsteps approaching, but he paid little attention. He was thinking of the smile and how it lightened Suzie’s expression as she saw Chief Burns. It was a curiously depressing sight, he thought, and his head was down as he walked.

  There were two guys leaving the elevator. They walked on past him, and Jack continued to the elevator in a hurry to reach it before it could depart. The doors slid shut as he got there, but opened when he pressed the call button. As he slipped inside he was struck with a conviction that something was wrong. Before the doors closed, he glanced back along the corridor, and he saw the two men outside a room. One stood back, looking towards him, while the second reached for the door handle, and he was sure that both had hands under their coats.

  The lift doors slid shut, and it was as they thumped together that he realised the two were at his own hospital room.

  All his training screamed at him to run. The men at Vauxhall Cross would not want him to stay here. Karen Skoyles would order him to leave immediately. Even Starck, for all his faults, would not want an agent to knowingly put himself in danger. Jack was convinced that the two men were there for him. They might have wished to catch him, but he was certain they were determined to kill him. Why? Because of the journal. It must be that.

  And they may well try to kill Burns. Which would mean they’d kill Suzie too.

  Jack quickly pressed the button for the next floor. As soon as the doors opened, he was out and running along the corridor. There was a fire escape staircase at the far end, he knew, and he ran for it full tilt, slamming into the door and shoving it wide to thunder into the wall behind. Then he was on the stairs, running up two at a time, pulling himself up with the handrail and, when he reached the top, he remembered the Ruger. He stood at the fire door fumbling with the box of cartridges, fumbling bullets from it into the chamber. They were so long and slender that they were hard to slide in, and one refused utterly. He pulled it out and shoved it in his pocket, before selecting another and thumbing it home. Then, pistol in his hand but behind his back, he stepped into the corridor. Suzie was still in the room with the chief, but Jack’s room was a little further beyond, and he walked along quietly and carefully, the tension in his back and scalp sending electrical tingles along his entire spine.

  There were doors on both sides, but Burns’s room was halfway to the lifts, and Jack could see his own doorway three or four beyond that. He sidled along anxiously, the pistol’s rubber grip with the reddish wood inlay feeling slick in his hand.

  A man came out from Jack’s room, quickly, and set off towards the lifts. He was large, bulky, wearing a heavy plaid jacket, his gingerish hair cropped to a stiff-looking bristle over the whole of his skull. The second came out, a shorter, stockier man, with a similar haircut but darker hair. He looked almost Hispanic, with narrow features and dark eyes set close together. And he saw Jack.

  Everything slowed. Jack saw the pistol in his hand, the stubby silencer attached, and heard the shots striking the walls behind him before he was aware of the puffs of smoke from the barrel. Something hit the ceiling, and a cloud of dust erupted from the tiles overhead, and then Jack was throwing himself through the nearest door, landing on his bad shoulder on the floor.

  ‘Shit!’ he shouted.

  A severe nurse with black hair tied back exposing the nape of her neck turned from her patient to glare at him, and he stared back at her, frozen for a moment. Then he bellowed as he clambered to his feet,

  ‘There’s a gunman out there!’ and saw her eyes go to the Ruger in his own hand, but then he saw the connecting door leading from this room to a second, and ran to it, throwing that door open and passing through as the nurse and her patient stared after him.

  He was in a dispensary, and the door to the passage was half-glazed. Hurrying to it, he peered out, ready to snatch his head away at the first sign of a shot. There was no one visible. He opened the door and cautiously looked out. No one. He stood still, his mouth open as he moved into the corridor, breathing with exquisite care, listening for any strange noises: a footstep, perhaps the noise of a man racking a pistol, reloading it, but there was nothing. Quickly now, he went to Burns’s room and glanced in. Suzie and Burns had not heard the silenced gun, and were talking, Suzie sitting on a chair, her back to the door. There was a wide space between them, Jack thought. They were friends, not lovers. Burns looked up, but before he could say a word, Jack was gone.

  The reception area was clear. He went to the lifts, and there was still no sign of the two men. Walking round the elevators, Jack carried on through to the next section of corridor, and section by section made his way to the end of the building, taking the staircase to the ground floor, where he stood staring out, looking for those two men. They weren’t there either.

  He thrust the Ruger into the waistband of his trousers, in the small of his back where it was hidden and safe, opened the door, and stepped out, moving quickly.

  *

  16.46 Whittier; 01.46 London

  Jack was worried. The gunmen had not tried to kill Burns, and that meant they were probably after him. Glancing up at the sky, he hastened his steps. Soon he was in the car and driving towards the tunnel, the Ruger on the chair beside him, the full box of ammo beside it. He cast a glance down at them, and realised that even in an open society like this, the police could frown on such a scene. He had his jacket on, and pulled over to pull it off and throw it over the gun. Then he sat for a moment, taking deep breaths and slowly letting it out. There was a coldness in his breast, a tightening in his lower throat, the feeling of shakiness in his hands, and he shivered suddenly, resting his brow on the steering wheel.

  He was not exactly scared, It was more an awareness of danger approaching. He had been in real danger before now, in Russia, and even earlier in East Berlin when he was a rookie plodding his way around the old Iron Curtain, but this felt less focussed. He had no idea who the enemy was. All he was convinced of was that it involved Danny Lewin’s journal, and because he had seen it, someone had decided he should be killed. The men leaving his room may not have realised who he was when he walked down the corridor. They must have thought he was still bed-ridden after surviving that explosion. If they had realised he was up, they would have looked more carefully for him, and killed him before he could get to the lift.

  ‘Fuck them!’ he muttered. ‘Why?’

  There must be something about the journal that was to be kept secret. Something Danny Lewin had written in it. He only wished he knew what it could be.

  For now, all he wanted was to get away from this town. He’d be happier, feel safer, in a city. He pulled out into the road again.

  Ahead of him he saw a large truck pull out, and slowed. It was not quite time for the passage to Bear Pass yet, and the line of cars, trucks and a coach, stood waiting with engines idling until the way was opened.

  The lights changed, and the traffic began to move off. Jack put the Ford into gear and trailed off after the truck, following along the road and under the great inverted ‘V’ of the snow that led into the tunnel itself.

  Even with the lights, it was oppressive. It made him think of the darkness in the wrecked police station as he began to come to, and the mere thought was enough to make him shiver suddenly. The strip lights flashed past, one after another, in a mesmerising sequence, and Jack began to feel the effects of his injuries in the last few hours. He puffed out his cheeks, opened the window, and let the cool air wash over his face to keep himself awake, but before he had reached the halfway mark, he felt his eyelids start
ing to close. The car wobbled, and he jerked back to full wakefulness, but with an appreciation that his concentration was blown. After-effects of action, he told himself. Gripping the wheel with both hands, he shifted in the seat, focussing on the truck, and suddenly realised that it had slowed. He had narrowed the gap between it and his car, and he pressed on the brakes, wondering what was happening.

  There was a jarring lurch, and his head snapped back onto the rest.

  ‘What the…?’

  Again, the car jerked, and he looked in the rear view. There, the car behind was so close that he could not see the headlamps. It slammed into the back of his car again, a third time, and now it was shoving him forwards, into the truck. He tried to stand on the brakes, but the car behind him was much heavier, and the engine more powerful. He could do nothing as the Ford started to slide, the tyres screeching on the concrete. He stared in the rear-view, and then he saw Ginger and the Hispanic in the car.

  He took his foot off the brake and swerved, trying to lose the car, but even as he did so, there was a phut-crack, and a hole appeared in the windscreen near his head. A starred hole, with lines radiating. He didn’t need to wonder what that was. His scalp began to creep with the thought of how close the bullet had come to his head. There was another crash behind him, and a whipping sound, and particles of fine glass showered around his head as a second star appeared in the windscreen, then a third, and a loud crash as a bullet slid along the lining of the roof over his head and smashed its way through the top of the windscreen in front of the passenger seat.

  There was no chance of survival. He had to escape the trap.

  With a savage wrench, he pulled the wheel round, to see whether he could get past the truck, but there was not enough space. The truck filled the whole tunnel. But then he saw a wider section. It was one of the safety chambers. A heavy steel door in the wall, behind it a secure chamber for drivers to escape from fires or other dangers. As the car behind jolted into him again, trying to shove him into the truck, and the truck itself slowed, Jack slipped down a gear and raced the engine. Slipping the clutch, he angled his car’s bonnet under the bed of the truck and then off to the right, into the broader space. He saw a door, grabbed the Ruger and box of ammo from the passenger seat, threw open the car door and ran out, the pistol in his right hand, pointing at the car behind.

  Two men in the car saw him, but saw the gun too, and ducked quickly. A shot went off, slapping into the roof of the tunnel, a whining ricochet flying past his head, and then he was diving over the bonnet of his rental and rolling over the far side as a series of shots rattled about him, each almost indistinguishable from the one before. Then there was a hideous ripping sound: a submachine gun. The car’s windows were punctured and then exploded in clouds of glass as he rolled over to cover his head from the shards. There were thuds as the slugs pounded through the metal of the car. Large holes opened and peeled back, and Jack felt one tug at his jacket as he rolled over the floor. The big safety door was in front of him. He couldn’t reach it without being shot to pieces.

  Bellowing defiance, he cocked the hammer on his Ruger, then span and rose, firing straight at the car. As he stood, he saw Ginger standing, in the act of reloading an Uzi, surrounded by a mist of gun smoke. Seeing Jack, he ducked his head, but slammed the magazine home and, as he lifted the gun, Jack began squeezing the trigger.

  There is little any man can do when a pistol is firing at him from close range. He will always hurl himself out of the way if he can. Ginger was no different. As Jack fired all five remaining shots, Ginger leaped away, rolling over the bonnet of his car, and dropping at the far side.

  Jack yanked open the big security door and threw himself inside the chamber beyond, pulling it shut behind him.

  Gasping, he opened the gun’s cylinder and fumbled with the box of ammo. The cardboard flap opened, and a plastic tray fell out, scattering cartridges in every direction. He scooped up a handful, and tried to load them. His fingers were shaking, and the heads of the first two rattled and missed their chambers, but then, suddenly, ice flooded his body. A pure wash of rage calmed his heart and his head, and the last four slid into their positions with ease. He took up another few and dropped them loose into his left pocket, even as a slamming ring struck the door. Then two more. Each hideously loud in the confined space.

  Looking about him, he saw that he was in a long chamber cut out of the rock. It was walled and ceilinged, and there was a pair of bench seats back-to-back in the middle of the floor, but they were bolted to the ground, and he couldn’t use them to bar the door. There was no time to be imaginative.

  He knew how they would come, if they were trained. One either side of the door, and then the door would open, and they’d rush in, one to each side, and cover the room. They’d begin shooting as soon as they could.

  In a hurry, he pelted to the wall, and lay on the floor. The GP100 was in his hands, and he cocked the hammer. It moved smoothly, and he tried to remember what he had learned about pistol shooting: grip tightly in the right hand, cup the right with his left, maintain a clear picture of the target area, and squeeze the trigger, don’t jerk it…

  The door slammed wide, and a shape moved. He fired, twice, as quickly as he could move his trigger, and saw the body of the Hispanic hurled back. The man crashed against the door, then fell outside.

  Jack could hear nothing. The magnum cartridges had thundered in the confined space, and he could hear only a muted echo of sounds as he waited with his finger on the trigger, the hammer cocked. He thought he felt rather than heard an engine revving. He rolled away from the wall, and darted to the other side of the room. There he heard a crunch, a rattle and thump, and when he rose to his feet, the Ruger was still in his hands. Warily he edged towards the door.

  Outside, he saw that the truck was gone. The car that had crashed into him was already moving off, and the rear door was slamming shut as it went. There on the ground he could see blood from the man he’d shot. He only hoped the bastard was badly injured.

  He lifted the gun to fire at the car, but the weight was too much. He leaned against the wall, and sank to the ground as the next cars in the line stopped, and men climbed out, watching him with caution and some trepidation.

  *

  17.59 Whittier; 02.59 London

  The view over the lake was impressive. On another day, Jack might have stared at it with wonder, but not today. He sat at a table by a massive window looking out over the Portage Lake, hugging a mug of coffee and staring down with a frown on his face.

  Around here even the police seemed impossibly polite. There was an aversion to rudeness that was almost pathological.

  ‘Mr Henson?’

  ‘Hansen,’ Jack responded automatically. He could get genuinely cross if he was to remain with this cover for much longer, he thought. ‘It’s an “a” then “e”, not an “e” then “o”.’

  ‘Ah, right.’ The trooper who had brought him here to the Begich, Bloggs Visitor Centre stood back, and Jack found himself looking up at a tall, slim African American. His hair was short, and he had laughing, cheerful eyes that took in Jack’s appearance with a calm, professional interest. His features were regular and attractive, with sharp bone structure leading to a pointed chin. His white shirt and dark blue suit were impeccable, but Jack saw that his black shoes looked out of place. They were scuffed and messed.

  ‘This here,’ the trooper said, ‘is Mister Frank Rand.’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘Please take a seat. You with the police?’

  ‘Not exactly, Mr Hansen,’ Rand replied.

  He smiled and Jack noticed that he rarely blinked, as though Jack was so fascinating he could not tear his eyes from him.

  ‘Another agency, then?’

  ‘I am with the Federal Bureau, sir. When there is a crime that runs across state borders, it’s for the FBI to get involved.’

  ‘Feebies? This was well inside Alaska, surely? Someone tried to shoot me in a tunnel. That’s hardly
across a border.’

  ‘But you’re a Brit. That makes it kind of interesting to us. And the fact that your friend was here and has died, his house has been torched, and you and the local police chief were almost killed in a freak explosion – those all kind of add up to a slightly bigger issue than just a shooting.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Then there’s the other thing: he was from the army, I’ve heard. No secret around town.’

  ‘Chief Burns said the same. He knew that.’

  ‘But he didn’t have a report I have from the National Security Agency that says he was commended for his help in questioning suspects in Iraq, I guess. Did you know Mr Lewin was commended for his help in intelligence gathering?’

  Jack shook his head.

  ‘So, what do you want from me?’

  ‘I want a full explanation as to what has been going on here.’

  Jack shrugged and glanced through the window.

  ‘I’d like that too.’

  Rand followed his look. ‘Your friend, this Mr Lewin. Any idea why he could have killed himself? Why someone would want to burn his cabin after? Could this have been terrorists?’

  ‘He wasn’t a friend, just a client. I came more because I’ve never been to Alaska than because of him. I just thought I could mix business with pleasure.’

  ‘You’re a lawyer, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jack felt Rand’s eyes range over him.

  ‘You’ll excuse me if I say you keep pretty fit for a lawyer.’

  ‘Even lawyers can go running.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Tell me, I hear in Britain pistol shooting’s illegal. That right? No one can protect their house or anything with a gun?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘You handled that pistol of your client’s pretty well, I guess.’

  ‘I used to do some pistol shooting before it was banned,’ Jack said. ‘I don’t like revolvers, though.’

  ‘Yeah. Don’t like wheel guns myself. Much happier with my auto.’ Rand appeared to make a decision. He leaned forward. ‘Right, Mr Hansen. So, here’s my problem: Someone burned the cabin just after you got here. Makes it look like they’re trying to conceal something. Unless it was you set fire to it, of course. But that wouldn’t explain the attack in the tunnel, now, would it? Or the police station. I haven’t seen it yet, but the place is trashed, I’m told. And now I hear that there was some kind of shooting at the Begich in Whittier too. While you were there.’