Absolute Zero

by James Patterson

  The house looks deserted as he approaches from the lake. Coming up under the extended deck he forces a side window and slips inside. He moves through the house room by room, becoming increasingly confident the place is deserted. It looks as though the tactic he used back in Afghanistan has worked, driving out the enemy from their stronghold. If it wasn’t for running slap into the guard he’d be picking off Miller and the Axe right now. Thurston takes a large knife from the kitchen and puts it in his pocket; it’s not much but it’ll have to do.

  In the basement, Thurston comes across a metal door that looks like somewhere Miller might keep weapons. He slowly turns the lock and pushes the door open.

  It’s not an armoury. It’s a dungeon.

  The walls are painted black with a low red vinyl couch running along one side of the room. Various sadomasochistic items are dotted here and there on the bare concrete floor. A large-screen TV hangs on one wall.

  Huddled on the red couch are three teenage girls dressed in skimpy clothes. They look terrified and Thurston can’t blame them. He is an apparition from hell. Blood from the cut on his head has run down to form a grisly red mask over one side of his face. His blood- and smoke-scarred parka hangs in tattered strips down his back.

  Thurston approaches the girls and bends low. They scrabble back away from him like startled birds as he approaches.

  ‘I’m not here to hurt you,’ he whispers, holding his hands up. ‘But you have to listen to me if you want to get out of here alive, OK?’ There’s no response but Thurston carries on. ‘Are there any more of you in the house?’

  They look at each other and then the youngest of them nods. ‘Mercy’s somewhere upstairs,’ she says.

  ‘Mercy?’

  ‘She’s his favourite,’ says another girl.

  ‘Miller’s?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Yeah. But she done something wrong. Spoke back to him or sump’n, I dunno. Nate don’t like anyone speakin’ back to him. He’s got her up in punishment.’

  Thurston frowns. ‘Punishment?’

  The girl raises her eyes to the ceiling. ‘In the storeroom.’

  Thurston stands. ‘I’m going to get Mercy, OK? You stay here until I come back. I’m going to get you out of here.’

  As he leaves the dungeon Thurston looks back. None of the girls look as if they believe him.

  CHAPTER 70

  THE PSEUDOEPHEDRINE IN the three sheds would be worth something north of two hundred million dollars once it’s channelled into Europe via Reykjavik. With shed 3 gone already, Miller’s looking at being wiped out if the others follow.

  Which they do.

  Miller and Anders are less than fifty yards from shed 2 when it blows. The shock wave knocks them flat on their asses, and before they can get to their feet shed 1 erupts, sending a second monstrous fireball up into the steely sky. The air fills with the stench of burning chemicals as glowing embers are whipped away on the wind, mingling with the snow and ice.

  Miller staggers to his feet and, peering through the storm, contemplates the ruins of his empire. Next to him, Anders, brushing splinters of metal from his sleeve, stays silent.

  Miller’s head sinks to his chest and remains there for a while. When it comes up again his eyes glow with a dull red hate.

  ‘Get everyone together,’ he says, the words rumbling like thunder. ‘I’m going to skin this motherfucker.’

  ‘There ain’t no one, Nate.’ Anders turns his face away from the wind. ‘They’ve gone, man. Every last one of ’em.’

  Miller turns to face the giant. ‘And you? You thinking of lightin’ out too like all the other pussies? Because if you are, then be my guest.’

  Anders’ face clouds. He steps closer to Miller and jabs a finger in his boss’s chest. ‘I’m still here, aren’t I?’ he growls. ‘And don’t forget, Nate, I was in for ten per cent of the product we just watched go up in smoke. You ain’t the only one who’s suffering here.’

  Miller holds up a placatory hand. ‘Yeah, OK, I know.’ He turns away from Anders and stalks back towards the main house. ‘Let’s go kill that fuckin’ Australian.’

  CHAPTER 71

  THURSTON PAUSES ON the first-floor landing. At first, all he can hear is the muffled rattle of ice hitting the walls of the property. The sound rises and falls with the wind.

  But then he picks up another noise he can’t quite identify. He moves towards a door at the end of a corridor and the sound crystallises into something human. The sound of crying.

  Thurston opens the door cautiously.

  The room is some kind of storage space, one wall lined with metal shelving stacked high with cardboard boxes, cleaning products and household items. It’s cold.

  Chained to a radiator against one wall is a young girl wearing nothing but a bra and the padlocked dog collar connecting one end of her chain to the radiator. Bruises stand out angrily on her pale skin and one of her eyes is caked in dried blood. She shivers uncontrollably, both knees drawn high, arms wrapped tightly round her shins.

  At the sight of Thurston she shrinks back against the radiator. Thurston takes off his tattered parka and wraps it round her.

  ‘I’ll try and get you out of here, Mercy,’ he says. He turns his attention to the collar but the thing is solid.

  ‘You know where the key is?’ he asks.

  Mercy shakes her head. She points a trembling finger at the door.

  ‘Miller’s got it?’

  She nods, her eyes widening at the name.

  ‘Does he have weapons in the house?’ says Thurston.

  Before the girl can say anything, from downstairs comes the sound of a door opening and closing. Mercy flashes a look of pure terror in Thurston’s direction.

  Someone’s in the house.

  He signals for the girl to stay quiet and moves towards the door.

  Mercy has a strange look on her face that Thurston can’t figure out. Then, too late, he realises what she’s doing: making a calculation about her survival chances. A calculation coming down heavily on the side of Nate Miller.

  ‘Here!’ she screams. ‘Up here! He’s here!’

  Thurston can’t blame her. She’s a child. Besides, with things as they are, Miller might be the kid’s best option. Unarmed and trapped upstairs, his own chances don’t look too good right now.

  Leaving Mercy screaming, Thurston moves into the hallway and sprints towards the stairs. Looking over the landing rail he sees Miller coming up holding a shotgun.

  Thurston jerks his head back in the nick of time.

  A blast from Miller’s gun punches a hole in the ceiling, the round passing so close to Thurston’s face he can feel the heat. Thurston runs past the storage room to the window and slides the sash up. He’s looking out at a high sloping roof extending out over the deck. Behind him he hears Miller clattering up the stairs.

  Thurston launches himself through the window as another shotgun blast shatters the glass. He hits the roof and rolls out of control towards the guttering. He tries to grip something but the glaze ice makes it an impossibility and he skids out into space.

  For a split second Thurston hangs in the air and then slams, back first, onto the padded cover of the hot tub six yards below.

  It saves his life.

  The cover splits and Thurston feels the air pushed out of his lungs as he drops into the water. He pushes up and scrambles over the side as Miller gets a bead on him from the upper window. A blast splinters the edge of the hot tub and Thurston slithers across the iced-up deck, his breath rasping as he desperately tries to get oxygen back into his lungs.

  ‘He’s on the deck!’ yells Miller and Thurston glimpses the Axe at the fold-back doors.

  The Axe is holding a US Special Ops M4A1 assault rifle. It’s a big gun but looks like a toy in the giant’s hands. Slung under the barrel is an M203 40mm grenade launcher.

  Thurston jumps off the deck as the Axe fires the grenade.

  Behind Thurston the hot tub and deck railing disappear and Thurston feels
a sharp pain in his thigh. As he slides helplessly down towards the lake he sees a shard of fibreglass has embedded itself in his leg.

  After sliding fifty or sixty yards, Thurston hits the lake and skids three yards more before coming to a halt, the blood from his leg wound tracing a smear across the ice.

  He staggers to his feet and begins moving as quickly as he can. The Axe reaches the edge of the deck and starts firing. Thurston zigzags as the bullets tear into the thick ice. Now he hears a second blast and realises that Miller has joined the Axe at the deck edge. At this range Thurston knows he’s a difficult target and he pushes forward, ignoring the pain. Every yard is a yard closer to safety.

  The shooting stops and Thurston glances back to see Miller and the Axe clambering down towards the lake. With eight inches of plastic buried in Thurston’s leg, he knows they’re going to gain on him once they get onto the lake.

  He needs an edge.

  CHAPTER 72

  ‘WE GET HIM alive,’ says Miller. ‘I want this bastard to suffer.’

  He and Anders are tracking Thurston across the lake. It’s not difficult. Thurston’s wound is leaving a trail anyone could follow.

  ‘He’s heading north,’ says Anders. ‘Maybe he’s planning on getting into the woods.’

  ‘He ain’t gonna make it that far,’ says Miller and points. About a hundred yards ahead is Thurston, lying on the ice. ‘Go get him,’ he says. ‘Drag him back to the house. Have us a party.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ says Anders. He shoulders his rifle and unhooks the axe from the pouch on his belt. ‘He might be missing an arm or two.’

  ‘Fine with me, man.’ Miller takes out a cigarette and bends away from the wind. ‘Just bring him back still breathing. We owe this cocksucker.’

  Anders walks towards Thurston, the axe swinging easy at his side.

  He’s going to enjoy this.

  CHAPTER 73

  AS THE GIANT man approaches, Thurston forces himself to remain still. For this to work the guy has to be close.

  Thurston’s using an old Spec Ops ‘fishing’ tactic with himself as bait. He hasn’t picked this part of the lake by chance. Less than fifty yards to Thurston’s right lies the marshy estuary area that forms one of the northern boundaries to the compound.

  The lake ice here is thinner. Much thinner. Thurston has edged as close as he dares to where the thick ice gives way to the thinner skein put in place by the ice storm. Lying on his back, he hears it creaking below him like the deck of an old wooden ship.

  The Axe is about twenty yards from Thurston when the ice cracks and a slice of black water opens up behind him like a devil’s smile.

  He stops and slowly takes his assault rifle off his back and takes aim at Thurston.

  The ice suddenly shifts and the big man almost falls. With his arms windmilling as he tries to regain balance, the M4A1 slips from his fingers and disappears into the water. As the ice disintegrates, the giant sprints hard towards the Australian, his axe raised high.

  Thurston gets ready.

  He’s gambled on the Axe’s greater weight being enough to break the ice and drop him into the lake.

  It isn’t working: the Axe is closing in fast.

  Behind him, black water cracks open at a frightening rate but the giant is still closing in. Thurston gets to his feet and picks up the knife. With the storm whipping across the lake he balances the blade and waits. He doesn’t want this to become a hand-to-hand fight.

  When the Axe is less than three yards away, Thurston takes his shot. Bending on one knee, he throws the knife and it hits its target high in the chest.

  And does precisely nothing.

  The giant brings down the axe in a vicious swing which, if it connected, would have taken Thurston’s arm off. Instead, the blade slices through fabric, grazing Thurston’s flesh on the way through. Thurston steps in close and grabs the handle of the knife sticking out of the Axe’s chest. The man screams but before Thurston can stab him, the ice below their feet shatters into a thousand pieces and both men plunge into the dark water.

  The water is impossibly, ridiculously cold: a cold so profound and bone-numbingly shocking in intensity that, for a few seconds, Thurston finds it difficult to think.

  The Axe, gripping Thurston’s arms tightly, wears an expression of grim satisfaction as the two men sink. There’s nothing Thurston can do – no way of getting out of the giant’s death hold.

  But Thurston has a crucial advantage: not only is he a Special Forces-trained free diver, and the most stubborn individual in the northern hemisphere, under all this padding he’s wearing a nine-millimetre-thick drysuit.

  The bald fact is that he can wait this out longer than the stronger man.

  Almost thirty seconds elapses before it dawns on the Axe that the passive Thurston seems more comfortable than someone should be in his situation. The realisation hits the giant like a punch in the face. His eyes widen and Thurston sees the first stream of panicked air bubbles escape the big man’s nostrils. In an instant, instinct takes over. The Axe releases Thurston and scrambles wildly towards the surface.

  Thurston has other ideas.

  He reaches out and grabs hold of the giant’s ankle.

  Now in full-blown panic, the Axe thrashes wildly, arms flailing, vital oxygen bubbling from his lungs, his brain unable to compute what is happening. Gradually his movements slow and then, as the last scrap of oxygen leaves his body, the giant’s brain shuts down and his body relaxes as he dies.

  Thurston releases him, kicks for the surface and hits the solid ice lying on top of Lake Carlson like a coffin lid.

  Shit.

  They must have drifted further than Thurston thought. He desperately punches the ice but it’s no use. Fighting his own rising panic, he wastes precious seconds trying to find the hole in the ice but comes up short. And then he remembers the knife sticking out of the Axe’s chest.

  He pushes down hard, the cold sucking feeling from his fingers. He doesn’t have much time left. Tick tock.

  With his heart rate slowing to cryogenic levels and his adrenaline screaming off the charts, Thurston finds the dead man and the knife. As the last of his breath dribbles from his lungs, Thurston hauls the blade free and powers up towards the surface, driving the blade as hard as he can into the underside of the ice.

  CHAPTER 74

  IF ANYTHING, THE storm’s getting worse.

  Miller retreats further onto solid ice away from the gaping black mouth that swallowed Anders and the Australian. The open water slices across the lake and curves round Miller, preventing him from going in a direct line back to the house.

  He’s in no real danger – the ice out here is strong enough to take a truck – but it’s going to be a long cold walk back, especially if the threatened white-out materialises.

  Miller keeps the spot where the two men disappeared in view, but so much time has passed he’s sure now both men are dead. Still, he waits longer. There’ve been too many surprises with this Australian fuck.

  Eventually, he shoulders his weapon and, hunching his shoulders into the teeth of the icy wind, begins the walk back to what’s left of his compound through the thickening white spindrift.

  He has taken only two paces when he hears an odd crunching sound coming from behind him.

  He turns to see a knife splinter upwards through the ice.

  ‘What the fuck …?’ mutters Miller. He swings his gun back round and squints through the snow.

  The arm vanishes and then comes back up again, this time followed by another arm and Thurston’s head. Miller starts moving towards him as Thurston hauls himself up and out onto the thicker ice. Shivering violently, he crawls to safety and staggers to his feet just as Miller closes in.

  CHAPTER 75

  ‘YOU’RE ONE HARD son of a bitch to kill, Crocodile Dundee,’ says Miller, pointing the ugly snout of his rifle directly at Thurston’s head. ‘I’ll give you that. Now drop the knife, chief, and kick it this way.’

  Thurst
on looks at Miller.

  ‘Don’t,’ says Miller. ‘I know you’re thinking about throwing the knife but I have to say you got no—’

  Before Miller can react, Thurston throws the knife but it slips from his trembling fingers and skitters harmlessly to Miller’s feet.

  Miller laughs. ‘Fuckin’ awesome! Some primo James fuckin’ Bond shit right there!’ He raises the rifle sight to his eye and takes five or six steps forward. ‘I was planning to get you somewheres quiet and go to work on you for a day or two … y’know, get some “closure” on this giant clusterfuck. But, shit, it’s just getting too goddamn cold so I reckon I’ll just blow your cocksuckin’ Australian brains out right here.’

  ‘Y-you t-t-talk t-too much,’ Thurston manages to say.

  ‘Oh, r-r-really?’ says Miller and pulls the trigger.

  Nothing happens.

  He pulls again … and nothing.

  Both men realise at the same instant what has happened: the plunging temperatures out here on Lake Carlson have frozen the mechanism on Miller’s rifle.

  Thurston starts running at Miller as the American throws his rifle to one side and bends to pick up the knife. Miller comes up with it in his right hand and backs off warily as Thurston approaches, the two men moving in slow circles around one another. The spindrift has now developed into the threatened white-out and Miller and Thurston are the only moving elements in an icy universe. The lake shore vanishes as north, west, south and east become indistinguishable.

  ‘Star T-Trek,’ says Thurston.

  ‘What?’ says Miller.

  ‘Star Trek. There’s alw-ways a-a scene where K-Kirk battles some fuck-ugly a-alien, y’know? I’m Kirk, b-by th-the way.’

  Miller charges, the knife slashing viciously through the air, but this isn’t Miller’s game. Thurston dances out of his way and smashes an elbow hard into the side of Miller’s head as he passes. The American grunts but keeps slashing with the blade. An image of Mercy chained to the radiator flashes into Thurston’s mind and he feels a fresh wave of anger surge through his frozen body. He steps in and breaks Miller’s right arm with a pile-driving heel stamp. Miller screams and drops the knife as Thurston whips round with a second kick that pops the American’s kneecap.