Man on Edge

by Humphrey Hawksley

  Nilla delivered him a dismissive glare. ‘I stay with my vehicle.’ The second guard standing just behind let off a burst of machine-gun fire at the front of the vehicle, spraying up ice. Rake stepped out of his cover, hands high above his head, and walked briskly toward him. ‘I’m Ozenna, the American soldier,’ he shouted. ‘I am unarmed.’

  The guard spun around, machine gun raised. Mikki was behind him and plunged his knife through the back of his neck and up into the brain stem, head twisted round to snap the vertebrae and cut the spinal cord. He dropped the body.

  Before the second guard could react, Rake hurled the knife he was concealing in his raised hand. It flew blade first, no turns in the air, with a slight upward trajectory anticipating the target rising on the balls of his feet as he prepared to fire. The knife caught him on the side of the neck, not enough to kill, but enough to cause him to slip, falling hard on his back. Rake smashed his snowshoe onto the skull and kicked away the weapon. He tore off the man’s radio, turned to check on Nilla and Mikki when he realized his target had a second weapon from an ankle holster now raised at Rake, who drew a second knife and stepped to his left just as the wounded guard fired and missed. Before he could pull the trigger again, Rake sliced the knife across his throat. Blood poured onto the ice. Rake moved away, took a moment, then spoke into the radio, the wind covering his voice, laidback, like a police officer handling a Saturday night drunk. ‘Bringing in the American and Norwegian.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ came the reply in a similar casual tone, meaning they had not seen the deaths.

  Rake was at Nilla’s window. She looked alert like a fox. There was no fear or surprise. Her gaze was fast and everywhere, checking everything.

  ‘Are they dead?’ she asked.

  ‘They are,’ said Rake. ‘Mikki and I will take their vehicle. Are you still coming in?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then, you follow.’

  ‘No. I go ahead. I’m your body armor. They will not open fire on me. But if they know about this, they will fire on you.’

  From their hostile tone against Nilla a few minutes back, Rake wasn’t convinced. But Nilla had a will and there wasn’t time for argument. ‘OK. You go ahead.’ Rake walked to the Cruiser. Mikki got into the passenger seat. The cruiser was new and stank of cigarettes and male sweat. Rake took the wheel. Mikki arranged weapons. He wiped his knife. Harry Lucas’ drone fed through more information; four men at the front door, two in the grounds, and a significant level of heat coming from the corner room at the front of the house, to the right of the front door. There was sharper moonlight. Rake could see the house, dark and imposing like a church. There was an old gypsy caravan at the end of the driveway, a single wagon wheel sticking out of the snow, and a tractor outside a barn at the back.

  The weather was forecast to close in again in just over five minutes. If they retained surprise, they could go in with lethal entry, killing anyone who got in the way, and bring Carrie out within a couple of minutes. A gust knocked ice off a telegraph pole. It smashed down onto the bloodied ground between the two corpses. A wall of sleet slewed across the windscreen. ‘Go,’ said Rake.

  Nilla entered the driveway, same slow pace, tires crunching snow. They passed two tall gateposts, a sign on the right side showing the name of the property. The road surface improved. Nilla speeded up slightly, steered to her left, away from the middle of the road. As Rake followed her, he spotted a flicker of light from underneath the balcony, a muzzle flash of gunfire. He veered hard left. The front windshield exploded, showering them with tiny chunks of glass. Mikki opened his door and jumped out. Dozens of high-velocity rounds tore through the hood and into where Mikki had been. Rake spun the wheel, skidded the Cruiser round, hurled himself out. The vehicle smashed into a bank of snow. Bloodstains smeared Mikki’s seat.

  Rake lay flat. He couldn’t see Mikki. Nilla stayed in her seat, protected within the armored vehicle. She had both hands on the wheel. Rake picked out two men by the front door. Two more on the empty ground between the house and the trees.

  Harry Lucas’ voice in his earpiece. ‘Sword Edge?’

  ‘Taking fire.’

  ‘Casualties?’

  ‘We’re good. We’re going in.’

  Through the howl of wind, he heard the higher-pitch sound of a helicopter. Not possible, he thought, not in this weather. ‘Aircraft approaching,’ he told Lucas.

  ‘Hold.’

  The curtain in the corner room of the house pulled back. Light spilled onto the snow outside. Rake saw Carrie, shouting, hand raised, trailing a bandage stained with blood.

  Lucas came back. ‘The aircraft is hostile.’

  FORTY-THREE

  Carrie covered Rufus with her body as the gunfire continued. The helicopter shook the timbers of the house. Yumatov spoke angrily using two phones. He pulled back the curtain an inch. The spotlight from the helicopter snapped on and shone through. ‘Get up!’ He leveled his pistol at Carrie. She scrambled to her feet, brought Rufus with her, stood in front of him, protectively. ‘Move away from him,’ commanded Yumatov.

  ‘Fuck you, no!’ yelled Carrie. With a barely detectable turn, Yumatov fired two rounds into Lydia, who was crouching on the floor. She toppled, blood pouring from her head. Rufus’ whimpering stopped. Yumatov hooked his free hand under Carrie’s shoulder. She lashed out, then saw his eyeline shift to Rufus, pistol hand raising for the shot.

  ‘Stop!’ she screamed. ‘Just stop.’

  Yumatov hurled her to the floor. Carrie went down, breaking her fall with her right hand, hitting her left shoulder hard.

  One of his men burst into the room. ‘Now, sir?’

  The guard lifted Carrie with her left arm. Her shoulder screamed with pain. The outside door opened. A column of Arctic air streamed through. The wind was down. Moonlight on snow cast clear light. A Norwegian police Land Cruiser, engine running, stood at the end of the circular driveway. A woman sat at the wheel as if she were waiting for traffic lights to change. A black Cruiser was rammed into a snowdrift, windshield smashed, doors open. Floodlights from an approaching helicopter glared on the empty whiteness, its noise immense, its downdraft scattering loose snow.

  Yumatov led. The guard kept hold of Carrie. She glanced back, saw Rufus at the window. Good. In the helicopter, Yumatov would kill him; throw him out. If Rake were in the grounds, Rufus would be safer staying in the house. Her feet sank into fresh snow. To keep going, she lifted her legs high like on a treadmill.

  The guard stumbled, pulling down on her arm. His grip weakened. He had been shot. He jerked backwards, letting go of her, his balance gone, falling, and releasing Carrie. She stopped and turned back to the house, air biting into her lungs, helicopter noise clattering through her head, vision skewed by crisscrossing beams of light. She picked out her old steps to run faster. Yumatov chased her. She sensed him behind her, expecting him to shoot. There was no shot. He was faster than her, better in snow. She felt him reach out, snatch the edge of her coat, like getting snarled by a fish hook. She tripped and fell backward.

  Rake followed Carrie through the sights of his rifle, Carrie skidding, snow spraying around her like dust. He tracked Yumatov’s pursuit, waiting for a clear shot. He clocked five men in his field of fire, two by the skids of the helicopter, there to get Carrie in; one behind the tail with the flashlight; and two in cover under the balcony of the house. There would be more. The rule of thumb was kill what you can.

  Yumatov was too close to Carrie for a safe shot. He reached forward like a sprinter and grasped her loose clothing, skewing Carrie’s balance, which is when he made a mistake. For a fraction of a second he made himself a visible, stationary target. At exactly that moment, a blanket of automatic-weapon fire from the house opened up against Rake. Earth, ice, and snow spewed up around him. He pulled the trigger against Yumatov, who went down. Muzzle flashes came from behind him, and the hostile gunfire went quiet. Mikki’s work. Carrie edged away from Yumatov, keeping herself flat, snaking along, no
attempt to get to her feet. Yumatov crawled after her. Rake fired again, but the wrong trajectory, and he missed. The men at the helicopter let off covering fire against Rake and ran toward Yumatov, who struggled to his feet. His men each took an arm, dragging him to the helicopter. A shot from Mikki hit one, but he was not down. He staggered and kept going. Yumatov found his legs and lurched forward. Carrie was away and safe for the moment. Rake needed Yumatov, the head of the snake; kill while he could.

  Three Russians were at the aircraft door. A hand reached down to pull Yumatov in. Rake fired, missed. He fired again and hit one target, who fell under the skid. Yumatov was inside the aircraft. The second man, already wounded, climbed halfway into the aircraft when Mikki killed him, a clean shot to the head. The pilot began the takeoff. Downdraft scattered snow across the grounds. Rake switched to the anti-tank weapon. He stayed prone, the worst position from which to fire. He would have preferred to be standing, kneeling at least, but they would hit him before he got his finger onto the trigger. The helicopter was a Kazan Ansat, new, small, agile, used by oligarchs, gangsters, and generals. Rake would only get one shot. He rested his elbows in the ice, steadied the weapon, targeted the helicopter’s fuselage. It was six feet off the ground. He fired. There was no recoil, only a small cloud from the back and a deadly lethal streak as the small rocket opened its stabilizing fins and sped toward its target. The helicopter twisted, either Rake’s bad luck or a skilled pilot spotting danger. The rocket struck the point where the fuselage met the tail, glanced off, and exploded in the air. The helicopter yawed but kept climbing. Rake couldn’t judge the damage. It turned north. A jet of flame leapt from the tail. The pilot took it up, reached the trees, and more flame streaked out. The aircraft kept going, increased speed, no lights, fading into the dark blue sky and out of sight.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Rake listened for the crash of the aircraft. He heard quietening engine noise and the growing sound of the wind. Two bodies lay in the snow near the imprints left by the skids. Two lay by the house.

  ‘Carrie, stay down!’ Rake shouted, switching back to the rifle. He kept his cover and scanned the grounds in Mikki’s direction. He couldn’t see him. If Rake were Yumatov he would have posted a marksman on the top floor of the house with a three-sixty panorama. Yet, when the stakes had been highest and Carrie needed to get to the helicopter, no covering fire had come from that area. Where were they and how many?

  ‘Mikki. Check,’ Rake said.

  No answer.

  ‘Nilla, check.’

  ‘Check.’ The emergency lamp of Nilla’s police vehicle came on. Beams of blue streaked the landscape. Nilla’s voice bounced out from the public-address speaker. ‘I am Chief Inspector Nilla Carsten from the Norwegian Police Service. I am getting out of this vehicle to help the wounded. Do not open fire. I repeat. Do not open fire.’

  ‘Nilla, stay,’ urged Rake. ‘They’re—’

  ‘I’m secure. We need to find Mikki.’ Nilla opened the door and stepped out. She held her pistol casually. She snapped a powerful flashlight onto the house. The front door hung open. Plastic chairs outside were knocked over. She shone onto the faces of two bodies, one with blood pooled around the head, the other dead but with no sign of injury. She played the beam higher along the walls. There was nothing on the upper balcony floor, nothing around the window at the top. As she brought the beam down, she saw something and shifted the light to the front door. Through night vision, Rake had a clearer view. He checked the immediate area for threat, saw first a pair of eyes, tensed his trigger finger, then relaxed when he saw a boy, face etched with terror. Nilla’s light hit him full face. The boy put up his hands to shield his eyes. She moved the beam away. Behind the boy was a tall figure, face obscured by a black balaclava helmet. He held a pistol to the boy’s back and with his right hand, an automatic weapon leveled toward Nilla. He stayed in the doorway behind the boy.

  ‘I will take your vehicle,’ he said. ‘I will leave the boy at the road. There need be no more killing.’ His voice was loud, in control, authoritative. His friends’ bodies lay around him.

  ‘Are you the only one?’ Nilla put the flashlight beam straight into his face. It was thin. He was around thirty. His eyes were confident, not cocky.

  ‘I am. I need to leave.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Call me Lev.’

  ‘OK, Lev.’ Nilla leant against the hood. She kept her pistol down. ‘Why not just walk? Keep your weapons. Get to the road, take the first vehicle you see.’ She brought the flashlight away from his face, an act of conciliation. ‘I need my vehicle to get home. If you think you have to kill the boy, go ahead. I don’t give a shit.’

  ‘How many of you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m alone.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ His face tightened.

  ‘Not bullshit.’ Nilla didn’t move. ‘There’s an American doctor out there. She may be dead. American soldiers came to rescue her. They may be listening. They may be dead. I have no idea. But I am from the Norwegian Police Service. Norwegians and Russians do not fight. You want to walk away and take the boy, that’s fine, too. He’s Russian. Russia looks after him. But the longer you keep us here doing nothing, if any of your people are alive, they’ll be bleeding out or dying of hypothermia.’

  ‘Guarantee my safety.’

  Nilla reached inside the vehicle for the public-address microphone. ‘Anyone out there, do not kill this man. He is leaving.’ Her tone dripped with nonchalance, no sense of urgency, like a station master announcing a later train. If Rake were Lev, he would have laid down his weapons, walked out, and put himself under Nilla’s protection. Lev was trained but not smart. If Nilla let him walk, why would he not be back to avenge the death of his friends? Nilla would be thinking these things. She played the bored cop wanting to get home. Rake sensed Lev knew the corner he had gotten himself into. Nilla could not guarantee his safety and she didn’t care about his hostage. All Rake needed was the clear shot. He did not like the prospect of a cold-blood kill, but sometimes that was the way gun battles worked.

  Rake least expected what happened next. From the trees came automatic fire, smashing into the hood of Nilla’s armored police vehicle. She dropped to the ground and snapped off her flashlight. The boy tore himself away and ran toward Nilla. Lev stepped out of the doorway, weapon raised, changed his mind, and began to backpedal inside when Rake pulled the trigger in a shot that tore the back of his head away. The boy was halfway across to Nilla, running into the field of fire laid down from the woods. ‘Rufus, stop,’ yelled Carrie from her cover. ‘Lie down. Now. Rufus.’ Rufus did for a second, then quickly scrambled up again and sprinted off with his arms out like the wings of an airplane. He circled away from Nilla toward Carrie, running from the firm ice of the driveway onto mushy fresh snow of the grounds. He stumbled. Gunfire from the trees threw up snow in a line toward him. Rake saw Mikki on his knees, grenade launcher in hand. Rake sighted the flashes, emptied his magazine to give cover. Mikki fired. The explosion erupted in a blinding glare. Fire came back toward Mikki. Rake put a fresh rocket into his anti-tank weapon. A single flash from the left. Rake pressed his trigger. The rocket hit a target with flames licking up the trunk of a snow-covered tree. Armor-piercing shrapnel cut through the air. Rufus ran. Carrie got on her feet to hold him.

  Rake shouted, ‘Carrie, down!’

  She ignored him. She grabbed Rufus and brought them both down into the snow and a sudden quiet. There was no more fire from the trees. Rake checked along the moonlit treeline. The core character of a good combat decision, wait, watch, and decide. Rake examined the crashed Cruiser in the driveway, the shape of Carrie and the boy in the snow, Lev’s body fallen across the doorway, Nilla crouched by the wheel of her vehicle.

  ‘Nilla, check!’ he called over their comms.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Carrie?’ he shouted.

  ‘We’re OK.’ Carrie’s voice was clear and professional.

  ‘Mikki.’

&
nbsp; ‘I’m hit.’

  Carrie was on her feet, bag slung off her shoulder. She held the boy’s hand, bringing him with her. Nilla shone her flashlight to pick out Mikki. He had stayed well hidden by hewing out a small snowhole. Bloodstains and weapons lay around him. Carrie let go of the boy’s hand. She broke into a run toward him.

  ‘Excalibur?’ Rake asked Lucas.

  Nothing.

  ‘This is Sword Edge to Excalibur.’

  Silence.

  ‘Excalibur, are you reading?’

  White noise.

  Rake’s phone vibrated, a call with the Norway number. He opened the call: ‘Swor—’ The line fell into digital static.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Norwegian frigate Thor Heyerdahl, Kirkenes, Norway

  ‘Sword Edge,’ Harry Lucas tried again. ‘Sword Edge, this is Excalibur. Sword Edge. Are you hearing?’ He watched his voice pattern undulate in green across the screen and go flat in the absence of an answer. Harry had seen with dismay images of the firefight from a NATO Global Hawk flying in Norwegian airspace along the Russian border. Its thermal imaging had pinpointed Rake Ozenna and Carrie Walker. He had seen Yumatov’s helicopter take off under fire. Then the feed went blank. He contacted Rake on the satellite line, which fell silent. He tried on the regular line. That, too, was cut.

  ‘Is the drone down?’ he asked the Norwegian naval technician assigned to him.

  ‘Negative, sir.’

  ‘Then what the hell’s going on?’

  ‘Russian electronic interference.’

  Contrary to all presidential summit agreements, Russia was jamming GPS and communications.

  Harry had been allocated a corner workstation on the bridge of a Norwegian frigate stationed alongside the royal yacht. He could see the Norge’s yellow funnel with two deck levels, colorful ensigns, and the red national flag with its black and white cross off the stern flying strong in a blistering wind. The yacht carried an air of rushed preparedness, technicians fixing light bulbs, cleaners polishing wood, decks being scrubbed. She had been taken out of her winter home with a quickly assembled naval crew, many unfamiliar with its workings. The American Secret Service and Russian Presidential Security Service were combing the decks and cabins, bickering over turf.