Arctic Floor

by Mark Aitken

  Seeing Rob hesitating, not wanting his date to be hijacked, Gallen pointed to the gents and walked away, heart thumping.

  As he stood at the urinal, he felt a buzzing from the pre-paid cell phone he’d bought in a Clearmont convenience store. Only one person knew his new number.

  ‘Kenny,’ he said, lowering his voice.

  ‘… news . . .’ said the Canadian as the noise of an argument drifted through the slat window over the urinal.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Gallen, zipping and trying to keep the phone to his ear.

  As he tried to pick up Kenny Winter’s words, raised voices came from outside the washroom. He heard Yvonne, and she was shrieking.

  Pushing through the rear door into the car park, Gallen scoped the ground: Rob the lawyer, doubled over against a dark F-250, a man about to kick him in the stomach. Closer to the door, Yvonne struggled with a tall blond man who had her by the wrists.

  ‘Piss off, Brandon,’ said Yvonne, trying to kick her former husband. ‘Piss off!’

  ‘Where’s ya boyfriend now, eh, Evie?’ said Brandon, enjoying himself. ‘What’s he gonna do about it? ‘

  Pushing Yvonne away as Gallen approached, Brandon Robinson faced off. Ignoring the former football star, Gallen walked around him to where Rob groaned on the concrete. His assailant saw Gallen and reached into his windbreaker.

  Pulling up, Gallen saw a dark Beretta 9mm levelled at his forehead as the man smiled. He was taller than Gallen and younger, with a short haircut and a swarthy complexion that made him look part-Mexican or Hawaiian.

  ‘This what you lookin’ for, brother?’ said the man, extending the gun at Gallen’s face. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Looking out for Rob,’ said Gallen, slowly raising his hands as he nodded at the writhing lawyer. ‘Dude’s a lawyer. He’s not in this.’

  ‘Oh, he’s in this,’ said the man. ‘Touchin’ what ain’t his puts him right in this.’

  ‘You mean Yvonne?’

  ‘The fuck you think, Einstein?’

  ‘Well, lookee here,’ came Brandon Robinson’s voice from over Gallen’s right shoulder. ‘It’s our war hero.’

  ‘Gotta stop drinking, Brandon,’ said Gallen, still looking at the gun. ‘Brings out the bitch in you.’

  ‘Stop it, Brandon,’ yelled Yvonne, and Gallen heard the door to the bar swing open.

  ‘Hear that, hero?’ said Brandon, putting his hand on the back of Gallen’s neck. ‘Evie’s gonna save—’

  Gallen swung a reverse punch, opening his hips and straightening his right fist with the forearm as it accelerated into Brandon Robinson’s face. It felt like hitting a watermelon, a few sobs of pain the only indication that he’d just flattened Robinson’s nose.

  Keeping his eyes on the shooter as Robinson fell to the ground, Gallen put his hands up again. ‘Put down the gun, eh, sport? What’s your name?’

  ‘Don’t worry about my name,’ said the thug.

  ‘Not worried. Just asked you what it was.’

  ‘Gerry, don’t,’ came Yvonne’s voice, but Gallen was focused on the tough guy with the gun.

  ‘You want my gun?’ said Gallen as softly as he could and still be heard. Behind him the bubble of voices suggested drinkers spilling into the car park with the promise of a fight.

  His eyes darting to Brandon Robinson and back, the shooter gulped again. ‘Sure. Let’s wrap this up.’

  ‘Let’s,’ said Gallen, pulling his cheap Nokia from his back pocket and throwing it through the night air at the gun man. As the thug’s eyes followed the arc of the phone, Gallen moved forward, sliding his boots across concrete in a boxer’s shuffle. The gunman recovered and brought the Beretta level again as Gallen hit the gun hand sideways with a left block and drove a fast punch into the other man’s mouth. As the shooter lost balance, Gallen grabbed the gun wrist and threw a savage elbow into the thug’s teeth, developing power with a turn of his hips.

  Feeling the gunman trying to regain control of his weapon as he fell into the truck, Gallen increased his grip on the gun wrist, stabbed his fingers into the man’s eyeballs and then got both of his hands onto the gun wrist.

  The thug regained balance against the truck and lashed out with a knee which caught Gallen in the groin. But the hold he had on the man’s wrist was firm and, pushing the gun down against the inside of the man’s forearm, Gallen forced all of his weight behind a downwards jerk of the wrist lock, breaking the gunman’s wrist and forearm in one quick movement.

  Screams echoed as Gallen watched the gun bounce on the concrete.

  ‘Y’all hold it right there,’ came the deep drawl from behind him as Gallen retrieved the Beretta from the ground, steam blowing out of his panting mouth.

  Turning, he came face to face with Will Andrews, the owner of the bar, Winchester .30-30 tucked into his right armpit.

  ‘Actually, you can hold it right here, Willy,’ said Gallen, handing him the gun as Yvonne helped the lawyer to his feet. ‘I got a beer to finish.’

  ‘What about this shit?’ Will’s moustache twitched with annoyance as he looked around the car park.

  ‘Call the sheriff,’ said Gallen, as Yvonne took a free kick at her ex-husband’s face. ‘I’ll be at the front table.’

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER 38

  Barry stood on the brakes and readied to swing his truck into the farm’s driveway.

  ‘I still don’t see how no Army truck driver could do that, Gerry,’ he said, flicking his smoke into the darkness. ‘You telling me everything?’

  ‘I just reacted,’ said Gallen, tired and a bit drunk.

  ‘The dude had a gun, Gerry! Chrissakes.’

  In the distance, Gallen saw something. Putting his left hand out, he grabbed Barry’s forearm. ‘Just a minute.’

  ‘What?’ said Barry, pausing in the road outside Sweet Clover. ‘Deer?’

  Gallen scanned the darkness of the road. ‘Hit the lights, Barry. Dash lights too.’

  Turning off the headlights and reducing the dash lights to zero, Barry eased back in his seat, rubbing his face. ‘What’s going on? ‘

  ‘There,’ said Gallen, as headlights a half-mile down the road flashed on and off several times.

  ‘What is that?’ said Barry, his voice betraying nerves.

  ‘It’s morse.’

  ‘I don’t know about—’

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Gallen, pointing at the flashing headlights.

  ‘Look, this is not really—’

  ‘He’s friendly.’

  Barry’s voice squeaked like an adolescent’s. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘’Cos he just called me.’

  ‘With those flashes?’

  ‘Yeah. They said B.O.S.S.’

  ~ * ~

  Gallen thanked Barry for the ride and climbed into Kenny’s truck.

  ‘What’s up?’ said Gallen, smelling hours of cigarettes as he sat on something in the passenger seat.

  ‘That phone of yours don’t work,’ said Winter, eyes focused on the faint glow of the farmhouse lights. Roy was probably drinking, watching the NHL highlights.

  ‘It smashed,’ said Gallen, lighting a smoke and pulling the envelopes from under his ass. ‘This yours?’

  ‘You had mail.’

  Looking at it, Gallen saw two envelopes: one, a white foolscap with the logo of Marcia’s lawyers in Tucson. Throwing it onto the back seat, Gallen saw the brownish security envelope and registered-mail stickers of the second one. Tearing it open, he pulled out his new passport.

  Shoving it in his inside pocket, he followed Winter’s gaze to the farmhouse. ‘What’ve we got? ‘

  ‘Bell TV van turns up half an hour after you left,’ said Winter. ‘You expecting maintenance?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Dish upgrade?’

  ‘Nope. So Roy let ‘em in?’ said Gallen.

  ‘Yep. I was watching from the tree line. They spent thirty-five minutes in there.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Two technic
ian guys,’ said Winter. ‘Coveralls and clipboards. But there was this other dude in the van.’

  ‘He get out?’

  ‘No. I saw him between the front seats; he was sitting in back.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I was wondering what he was doing in there when I realised the air vent was turning on the top of the van. With no wind.’ ‘Surveillance camera?’

  ‘That was my guess.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Gallen, hissing out the tension between his teeth.

  ‘I tried calling but you answered and then, I dunno. Sounded like a woman screaming.’

  ‘I’ll tell you about it later,’ said Gallen, his senses on alert. ‘So I guess the house is bugged. You speak to Roy about this?’

  Winter shook his head, eyes not leaving the farmhouse. ‘Nope. Grabbed the truck and been sitting out here half the night, trying to make sure you don’t go in.’

  ‘Out-fucking-standing,’ said Gallen. ‘Which way they leave?’

  ‘This way,’ Winter said, jacking his thumb in reverse. ‘I been up and down this line for an hour and they ain’t parked down here.’

  Gallen thought about it. ‘On a neighbouring property?’

  Winter shrugged.

  ‘Got any glasses?’

  Pulling a set of Bushnell night-vision binoculars from the door pocket, Winter handed them over. Getting out, Gallen leaned his elbows on the hood of the truck, slowly scanning the area around the farmhouse and the road with the illuminated black-and-white view. He could see a horse tail flashing in the yards past the house and the binoculars also picked up a large porcupine trying to climb a cedar that grew between the farmhouse and the old orchard. But no human shapes, no men moving around, no plumes of steam erupting from people talking in their hide.

  It wasn’t just the immediate danger of an assassin or a snatch-artist who would be lurking close to the house, waiting for him or Winter to show up, that worried Gallen. There was also the matter of the listening post: where it was, what vehicle it was sitting in and who was inside listening.

  Some transmitters had ranges of up to ten miles but most professionals in the surveillance game preferred the reliability of the short-range bugs. It meant there was likely a van with a bunch of coffee-drinking listeners in a close radius; they weren’t on the road but that didn’t mean they weren’t around.

  Gallen got back in the truck, which had the interior light switched off. ‘Well, I guess we’re blown,’ he said, wishing he hadn’t drunk so much beer. ‘We can’t stay here.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ said Winter.

  ‘Any ideas on who they are?’

  Winter ground his teeth. ‘I saw something when I caught that dude hiding in the van.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He looked familiar. Black guy, about thirty. Only caught a glimpse of his face through the windscreen, but I think I’ve seen him before.’

  ‘Military? Intel?’

  ‘Maybe, Gerry—-but the other one? I was certain about him.’

  ‘The other one?’

  ‘The lead guy, when they were knocking at the door.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘It was the dude who looked like a lawyer in the SUV behind the bar.’

  Gallen shook his head in confusion.

  ‘In Los Angeles,’ said Winter, dragging on his smoke.

  Gallen envisioned the scene behind the Spanish bar at Marina Del Rey. ‘Shit, those guys?’

  ‘It was him,’ said Winter. ‘We’ve been made.’

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER 39

  It was just after ten when Gallen and Winter pulled in to the Higgins family farm. The front door of the ranch house opened, spilling yellow light onto the porch before Gallen’s boots hit the gravel.

  ‘Keep him on the leash, Billy,’ said Gallen. ‘It’s me. Gerry.’

  Behind the screen door, a large German shepherd called Zane barked into the night.

  ‘You comin’ in?’ said Higgins, thick woollen socks on his feet and holding a can of Bud. ‘Major Dundee just started.’

  ‘Nah, Billy,’ said Gallen, walking towards the porch. ‘Emergency. Gotta take a horse to Oklahoma first thing in the morning and the fricking gooseneck is cracked.’

  ‘Take the Dodge,’ said Higgins, belching.

  ‘I’ll leave you the Ford. She’s running, just don’t use the gooseneck.’

  The dog stopped barking. ‘When you back, Ger?’

  ‘A week,’ said Gallen. ‘That a problem?’

  ‘Nah, we’re sweet,’ said Higgins, heading back inside. ‘Key’s under the seat.’

  ~ * ~

  They made good time north and at Billings they stopped at a drive-through ATM where Gallen withdrew six thousand in cash from his corporate MasterCard. He was going to need money but didn’t want to be on the grid, didn’t want to leave any electronic paper trails. Across the road from the ATM was an all-night convenience store where he bought two pre-paid Nokia phones that would fit the car charger in the Dodge. Then he bought ten fifty-dollar Verizon top-up cards, registered the whole lot in the name of Roland Smith from BC.

  They avoided the I-90 and stuck to the big white signs that signalled Montana 3, the state highway that took traffic north into Alberta. The big Dodge Ram purred along, its diesel thirsty but smooth, the phones charging as they drove. Gallen felt relatively safe travelling across Montana in a borrowed truck. In his world, a local sheriff or highway patrolman knew how the rednecks swapped vehicles, but he was hoping that it would take a suit from the government longer to get it.

  Pulling into the Shelby trucker’s roadhouse at 5.41 am, they parked in the rear among the semis and took a seat in the diner back from the window. Sipping coffee and eating eggs with biscuit as the sun touched the mountains, Gallen decided he’d sobered up enough to take a driving stint. The next stretch of road joined with the famous I-15 North, the CANAMEX highway that connected Mexico to Alberta.

  ‘Don’t matter if they’re Agency, Pentagon or NSA,’ said Winter, mulling over the Spanish bar crew who were now at the Gallen farm. ‘They’re from Washington and we still have a border crossing, right?’

  Around them truck drivers watched the morning TV news and slapped down their money for a hot shower.

  ‘There’s not a lot we can do about that,’ said Gallen. ‘If the CIA or the Pentagon really wants to talk, they’ll come and talk.’

  ‘How you want to play it?’

  Gallen had a good idea what Winter was talking about but he didn’t want to do it that way. ‘Kenny, I’d as soon talk our way through this,’ he said, eyeing the sign that offered towels and showers. ‘We haven’t broken the law yet.’

  ‘Just so you know,’ said Winter.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ said Gallen, slapping his pockets for change as he made for the towels. ‘We’ll do it easy, okay? Right now I need a shower.’

  ~ * ~

  The line crawled through the US side of the border crossing while the trucks got the express treatment in the other lanes. Peering through the top of the windscreen, Gallen pulled down the peak of his cap as he saw the arrays of cameras that automatically scanned the passing parade. It wasn’t the licence plate that concerned him—it was his face being captured and run through the intel databases operated by the US Government.

  The Americans waved them through and Gallen let the Dodge idle to the Canadian side where a young woman in a dark CBSA parka gestured them to an inspection lane.

  ‘Shit,’ said Winter under his breath.

  Parking the Dodge in the inspection bay, Gallen switched off. ‘Just relax, Kenny.’

  The woman was tall and athletic, pretty too. They watched her walk to the front of the Dodge and scan the licence plate with a hand-held attached to an iPad device, before arriving at Gallen’s open window.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said with a smile, her lanyard identifying her as Officer Langtry. ‘American?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Gallen, handing over his
passport.

  She scanned that too and Gallen killed the radio as ‘Hot Child in the City’ ramped up.

  ‘So, Mr Gallen,’ she said, looking into his eyes. ‘I see you’ve renewed your passport?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’