Guardians of the Portals

by Nya Rawlyns

  The men lapsed into silence as Jake negotiated the business section of Cambridge, finally swinging to the east and picking up speed as the highway entered a more rural setting with fewer lights and merging traffic. At Salisbury, the scent of salt air and a crab boil would reel the winter weekend caravan due east. Jake hooked a right and sped south on Route 13 across a flat landscape of wide open fields and periodic behemoth pole buildings, the land of Perdue and an empire built on fowl.

  Trey searched the glove box and extracted a Maryland map. He unfolded and refolded the paper, marqueeing their destination. He didn't like what he saw.

  "You're boxing us in. Water on three sides. Hardly any roads."

  "Uh-huh. They still back there?"

  "Yeah. Two of them anyway. Bunched up now."

  "Two lane, nowhere to hide."

  "You got a hidey hole I should know about?"

  "You'll see when we get there."

  Trey let the map drop onto his lap. He finally asked the question Jake had been waiting for.

  "Why me?"

  "Because you're the only one who can help me do it."

  "It. Exactly what do you mean by 'it'?"

  "I want to take them down. Both of them."

  Jake drove on, biding his time, hoping the man would put it together. He wasn't cryptic by nature but too many years with Greyfalcon had taught him to be cagey, to watch his words and not say enough to damn himself or others. Trey had been raised in that same environment. He could almost hear the gears turning in the man's head.

  His cell chimed, startling loud in the charged silence. Jake fumbled at his belt, extracted the phone from the holder and flipped it open. He checked caller ID, swearing when he recognized the number, then said, "Yo."

  Trey listened stony-faced, able to catch snippets of conversation as Gunnarr's voice boomed through the receiver. He would certainly recognize his father's voice, and it didn't take a genius to figure out something was very wrong. There would be questions.

  Jake continued to mutter, "Uh-huh, yeah. I understand. Alright."

  He carefully placed the cell phone back in its case and ignored the man sitting next to him, unsure how to proceed. Braking for the turn onto Route 413, he slowed marginally before gunning it as the road angled south and east. Ahead, the blankness of the horizon and a wavery mist told him the Bay was close. He pulled off onto the feeder road for Jane's State Park and drove past the picnic area to a boat ramp and a set of floating docks.

  "Are they still back there?" Unfortunately, Gunnarr had confirmed who 'they' were. The pieces were falling into place. Not that it would matter. He'd set a course. They had no option but to move forward.

  Trey scanned the road behind them. "Can't see them, but I'd say yeah."

  "This is where we get out." Jake exited the van and walked quickly to the back of the vehicle and popped the doors open. He lifted a milk crate and handed it off to Trey who kept one eye peeled for their tails. "Come on, we don't have much time. We have to load these crates."

  Trey looked around at the empty parking lot. "Load where?"

  "The boat."

  Jake took off at a trot toward the dock on the near side. He set the milk crate down and motioned for Trey to get on board. He handed off the boxes and returned to the van for the last load. Carefully setting the charges, he gave one quick sweep of the area to make sure no campers or day-hikers were in the vicinity. As soon as they left, whoever tailed them would come snooping. He'd rigged it to give them warning and time to back off. It would keep them busy while he ran the saltmarsh maze. With thirty miles of water trail, it wasn't likely they'd be tracked any time soon.

  Trey stood at the stern, watchful. He looked like he had a thousand questions but knew it wasn't the time to ask. Jake moved with quiet efficiency, stowing the small crates and long wooden boxes in the cuddy cabin. He directed, "Get the lines," as he muscled Trey out of the way and started the outboard. He waited while the man moved stiffly but efficiently, freeing the lines, and coiling them neatly. Apparently he was no stranger to boats.

  Jake took the wheel and maneuvered the craft into the narrow channel. Reaching into a small compartment to the port side, he extracted a chart, folded into a small rectangle and encased in a Ziploc bag. He handed the chart to his companion who alternately studied it intently, then looked at the surrounding landscape. A small plane angled up to the east and banked away from their location. He looked inquiringly at Jake.

  "Crisfield Municipal."

  "A problem?"

  "Possible. They might or might not know it's there. It'll take them time to figure it out. And I left them with something to think on first."

  "Nice boat. Yours?"

  "A friend of a friend."

  "What is it?"

  "Chrysler '66. Chesapeake 18 footer. Shallow draft. Seaworthy. We'll haul ass once we make the Bay."

  "You heading to Tangier Island?"

  Jake stared at his passenger with surprise. He hadn't been aware that the man knew anything at all about the Bay, let alone somewhere as remote as Tangier. He shook his head no and concentrated on getting them off the canal and into the saltmarsh warren. It had been a while since he trolled the maze. It would be easy to get turned around and waste precious time.

  "Smith Island. North side. Got a place there. We can sit a spell and regroup. For what I have in mind, we're gonna need a bigger boat."

  Trey smiled at that and settled in for the chilly ride, taking a turn at the helm once they hit open water.

  As they approached Smith Island, Jake said, "I better take it from here."

  Trey slid off the seat and leaned against the cabin roof. He watched with interest as they ghosted past the Crisfield-Ewell ferry dock, exiting Levering Creek for a quick loop into Tangier Sound. The Bay lay plate glass flat, an occasional blue crab floating past the hull, the engine set at idle. Jake let the small craft slip-slide to port, intent on the featureless shore. He consulted the chart, then set it on the deck and turned the wheel hard to port.

  Trey asked, "Is that it?"

  They'd been looking for an indent, a notch bordered by marsh and duck blinds. Jake expertly guided them between two blinds and eased toward a makeshift dock that looked like it wouldn't hold a seagull let alone a man.

  Jake said, "Kill the engine and pull 'er up. It gets shallow here."

  Moving quickly to the stern, Trey flipped the switch and released the locking mechanism, lifting the long shaft out of the water as momentum carried them to the dock. Grabbing the lines and a boat hook, he fended off the nearest piling. Gingerly he jumped onto the dock—it was rickety but it held his weight. Jake set out bumpers while Trey secured the lines. It took only a few minutes to offload the small crates and secure the hatch.

  ****

  Trey was impressed with Jake's efficiency and ability to think on his feet. He wasn't a young man, yet he handled himself well. He would be a formidable opponent, one he would do well not to underestimate.

  They'd talked—mostly with Jake traipsing down memory lane, waxing nostalgic on his career as a Gunnery Sergeant in the Marines. He was less forthcoming about his days as an independent contractor for Greyfalcon, especially his part in scamming his friends, but Gunnarr had filled him in on those particulars. Trey sensed there was more to the story, but he kept his questions to himself. He'd never had much patience with mea culpas.

  One thing Jake said that did concern him—the remark that he wanted to take 'both of them down'. He had a fair idea what Jake meant but until he heard particulars he would reserve judgment.

  Jake picked up the smaller crate, leaving him to lug the two larger boxes. He followed the older man along a narrow path threading through tall reeds and muddy sections that stank with a rank odor of decay. He spent most of the trip moving sideways, avoiding the winter vegetation and keeping an eye on the oyster shell-strewn path to avoid sinking into the muck on either side. He nearly missed the turn to the right that led to a dilapidated shack with grayed-out siding and
a rust-stained tin roof. Two small windows were securely shuttered against the elements but the screen door hung akimbo and the old particle-board door stood ajar.

  As Jake stopped to look over their surroundings, Trey came alongside and said, "Looks like somebody's been using this place. You want me to check it out first?"

  Jake said, "Nah. Kids come out here during the summer. It's mostly used by duck hunters for shelter in the fall when the weather goes south. It's rough but it will suit for now. We ain't likely to be disturbed."

  "I don't suppose you have any camping supplies in that dump?"

  Jake smiled and said, "What do you think you're lugging there?" He pointed to a dry spot to the right of the door. "Put your stuff there. See if you can find the lantern. Getting dark."

  "You got any matches?" Jake moved off without answering. "Where you going?"

  "Take a leak.

  By the time Jake returned, he'd already moved the boxes inside. The shack was roughly ten by fourteen. Someone had laid a piece of linoleum on the floor and covered it with what looked like ancient gunny sacks. Two folding wood chairs sat propped against the right wall alongside a rickety card table. He set the boxes next to the table and pulled out the propane lantern. After checking for the wick, he lit it, enjoying the pop and hiss before it settled into a steady glow. His stomach grumbled as he set up a small, one burner cook stove and a nested set of pots. Lunch had been hours ago.

  "There's bottled water and some cans of soup and beef stew. Hope I remembered spoons." Jake pulled the chairs out and set them near the table. He sat heavily, finally at the end of his endurance. Trey didn't like the labored breathing and pallor on the older man—it was easy to forget he was no longer young.

  He volunteered, "I'll make dinner. Sit there and fill me in. You have a lot of explaining to do. Now might be a good time."

  Jake said, "Yeah, I do. Most of it has nothing to do with right now. Early on I made some bad choices that put good friends in financial trouble." Jake lowered his head and explained in a monotone his role in the scam to trick seniors into handing over their life savings. He rubbed his face hard before continuing, "I had to make it right. I went to the newspapers, hoping public opinion would do what a lone person couldn't. All that did was stir things up so they come after me. They sent Kieran. Caty stopped him, did her thing." He paused, immediately aware of the tension the mere mention of his daughter's name created.

  The last thing he wanted was to hear his mate's name, but he knew in his gut they did her memory no honor by trying to tiptoe around the fact that she was gone. Squaring his shoulders he nodded for Jake to continue.

  The older man took a moment to collect his thoughts. "Then we decided, me and the girl, that maybe the best we could do was get Kieran back. It all went south and you come along." He shrugged his shoulders and stared at the table.

  Trey still felt like he'd been sucker-punched. Catlin's loss was an open wound for both of them. Jake stared at him expectantly. It was his turn and the telling would not come easy.

  Reluctantly he explained, the words squeezed out haltingly, how he wanted to find a way to free Kieran from Greyfalcon's grasp, that it was his 'final act'. He skirted around the issue of what that really meant and what role his father had played, continued to play, in Kieran's race toward implosion. Wherever his loyalties lay, he had to set aside his feelings, otherwise he would be of no use to anyone. In the end it boiled down to doing what was right, no matter the consequences. Knowing that made the choice easier.

  He said, hoping Jake would understand the depth of his commitment, "I'm with you. We'll get Kieran. And we'll make sure he gets clean and stays clean." Relieved to have made a decision, he stirred the beef stew. The aroma filled his nostrils and made his mouth water.

  Jake took up the thread, "It's not going to be enough. He has skills. He can do things with weapons that no other human can. They won't let him go. Keeping him clean won't be easy. Kier was always about the easy way out."

  "Greyfalcon's too big to take down, Jake. My father is only the tip of the iceberg and he's been losing control. He's got human groups ready and willing to move in."

  "Then how am I supposed to protect my boy? I ain't so young anymore."

  "Let me worry about that." He spooned the stew into two smaller pots and handed one to Jake.

  The older man got up to paw through the smallest box, extracting eating utensils and a bottle of water. He grumbled, "Plastic spoons. Hate these things." He sat back down and they both dug in, using the meal as a respite from the uncertainty of what each knew to be a foolhardy, dangerous undertaking. A slight breeze wafted through the open door, bringing a damp chill into the musty quarters. When they finished eating, Trey folded his hands on the table and scowled.

  "Jake, we have another problem. It's the Portals. We have to take control over them. We almost loosed those monsters into this dimension. We've got indigenes aware and wanting to partake of our technology."

  "Weapons."

  "Yeah. Or worse. We can't let that happen."

  "So what do you expect me to do? Just sit back and let your two factions run my world into the ground? Your Eirik gave the order that got my girl killed. Just because he's..." Jake stuttered to a stop and looked at the ground.

  "He's what? What have you been keeping back, Jake?" Trey stood and glared at the older man.

  "The Althing's got a tip and passed it on to Gunnarr. There's a contract out on Eirik and your top people. Word on the street, it's definitely the Russian mob."

  Trey shrugged. His father would deal with that. He needed to focus on one thing only. "There's nothing we can do about that. My job is to find Kieran. I want you to go back to Greyfalcon and keep an eye on developments. If I need backup, I'll let you know." He limped to the door and pushed against the screen. The rough wood resisted before popping open.

  Jake called out, "Whatever you're thinking, son, you can't take the Russian Mafiya alone."

  "Watch me."

  Chapter Nine

  Caitlin neatly folded the quilt and the wool blanket and set them aside while she replaced the cushions on the couch. A part of her mind registered the light layer of dust on the end table. Eirik and the man were neat freaks, each taking turns to tidy up and leave the various surfaces pristine, austere.

  The thought of Eirik brought her up short. The familiar emptiness, the turmoil as her feelings ebbed and flowed, would consume her if she allowed it. Wolf had made it clear, the time for mourning came later. And at a price. For now, they had to see to their own plans. His plan. She had none. She'd been nothing but a pawn from the moment she and Jake entered Greyfalcon Headquarters so many months ago.

  Jake. Where was her father? What was his plan? Surely he would go after Kieran. She knew this thing. It felt 'right'. She needed to find him. For her, that was job one.

  "You don't need to do that."

  Caitlin spun, startled. He'd snuck in, like a ghost, an apparition. How could something that big move so quietly? Someone, she mentally corrected. Her brain refused to allow the connection between them to register fully, keeping him at a distance, forcing her to look at him as an object, still the no-name entity.

  Trey still held the reins, and the key to her heart. Her gut told her to cut him free, to put the pain and whiplash emotions behind her. The tether vibrated with a low frequency hum, drawing her closer to the giant standing in the doorway.

  "Did you find something for me to wear?"

  "It's in the dryer." He held out a steaming cup of tea, plain, the way she liked it.

  "Do you think the plows will come through today?"

  "Probably. With the power restored, that means they're working the back roads, checking the lines. They still need to get the scrapers out to clear the roads before they finish the job."

  Caitlin gratefully took the cup and carried it to the couch, setting it on a coaster on the coffee table. She settled on one end while the man sat at the other. Both of them carefully avoided Eirik's favorite c
hair, a mutual homage to the elder lying dead upstairs. She wondered what they were to do with all the bodies now that heat and electric had been restored. The practicalities of dealing with horrendous events and their aftermath weighed in to dispel a small measure of the grief.

  She cautiously broached the subject of what her mind conveniently labeled 'disposal'. "Um, what do we need to do with, uh, the others? It's cold, but..." She let that statement trail off, unwilling to finish the thought.

  "I'll take care of that. We need to eat first. Then pack a few things to take with. There's not much room so whatever you can fit in a backpack will have to do."

  Caitlin stared at the man, unsure as to what he had in mind. It didn't sound like 'wait for snowplows' was high on his agenda. And it was like pulling teeth getting more than a few terse words out of him at one time. Part of that was her fault, assuredly. She'd been the queen-bitch for weeks, treating him like a galley slave. He hadn't deserved it; he didn't now.

  She decided to press for more information. "We aren't waiting?"

  He shook his head no and settled back against the cushion, closing his eyes against the early morning glare filtering through the sheer curtains. Caitlin tucked her right leg underneath her left, positioning her body so she could gaze at the man who now held her life—and more—in his hands.

  For all the time she'd known him, he'd been meticulous in his grooming, clean-shaven, with an aura of spit-polish. Like a Marine she had to admit, much like Jake in his younger days, when men called him 'Gunny' with respect and a trace of fear. Both of them had a way about them—self-assured, coiled and attentive. Dangerous men.

  The man—she wanted to call him Wolf but feared the familiarity—sported a two-day growth of dark stubble. He'd come in from outside and taken off his favorite watch cap, leaving his short dark brown hair plastered against his head. Clean-shaven, neat, at parade-rest, he'd been a fearsome entity, a don't-fuck-with-me presence that she'd tested and disrespected. Baiting him. Would he throw her to the ground, broken and bent, only to leave her wanting? Would there be the healing touch and the small gift of attention before abandonment and frustration reclaimed her soul?