by Marc Cameron
Quinn kept moving as he heard the table splinter behind him, scrambling sideways and working to regain his bearings. Stunned but not out, the Russian had lost his pistol as well and now knelt on all fours, blinking as he pushed himself up. Quinn beat the man to his feet and drove a quick knee into his face. The blow should have ended the fight but the big Russian absorbed it like he took knees to the face for breakfast. Instead of reeling back, he exploded upward, roaring at Quinn and coming in for another charge. Quinn was more prepared this time and stepped offline like a matador, slapping the Russian in the ear as he plowed by, stunning him further, but still not putting him down. The Russian was larger, more powerful—and not weighed down with fatigue and injury. Quinn knew the man would eventually kill him if they simply traded blows.
But there was a lot more to a fight than a simple contest of size or strength. In fact it was not a contest at all. A contest would have implied that there were rules.
Crouching next to the fireplace now, Quinn snatched up a wrought-iron poker. When the Russian turned to come back for more, Quinn bent the metal bar around his face. The big man staggered sideways, still not out, so Quinn hit him again, this one sending him careening headlong against the stone hearth. His eyes rolled back in his head and blood covered what was let of his demolished face.
“Holy shit,” Agent Beaudine whispered, her voice a little shaky. “This escalated quickly.” She let her gun hand fall down by her side, blue eyes locked on the Russian’s battered skull as she spoke to Quinn. “I’d like to see how you fight when you’re not on the sick list.”
Chapter 23
Corey Morgan flung open the front door and staggered out to check on Lovita. Quinn wanted to follow but didn’t dare leave until the situation inside the lodge was completely secure. He retrieved his Kimber from where it had come to rest under one of the chairs, returned it to the holster over his kidney, then stooped beside the big Russian. The man stirred when Quinn began to go through his pockets, laughing a slurred laugh as if he held some great secret that Quinn wasn’t privy to.
Stifling a groan from the tremendous pain in his side, Quinn ignored him and did a quick search for more weapons. He found a vicious little hawksbill karambit-style knife that thankfully the Russian had been unable to snatch from his belt during the fight.
“You are dead man,” the Russian slurred, blood and spittle hanging in ropy lines from his tattered lips.
“How’s that?” Quinn said, looking at the depression in the man’s skull. The orbit of his right eye was now more octagon than oval. The fire poker had done a number on him and without medical attention the swelling in his brain was likely to kill him during the night.
“Americans think you are so smart . . . we are not the last.” The Russian began to laugh again. “You will never see him coming . . .” He lapsed back into Russian before falling back against the floor, panting, squinting up at Quinn as if he was having trouble keeping things in focus.
Quinn glanced at Beaudine. He counted his breaths to consciously slow his heart rate. The fight was over, but their mission had just moved up several notches in priority. He stood and moved away from the Russian before he spoke, not wanting to put all their cards on the table.
“You get anything new from what he said?”
“Something about a wolf hunter and the moon,” she said. “He could just be babblin’. You cracked his head a pretty good one.”
“Maybe,” Quinn said, working through the possibilities. In his experience, babblers often gave up actionable intelligence. It was just a matter of sifting through all the garbage. “In any case, I think we know that Volodin’s visit is more than a coincidence. We need to give your people a heads-up. The Russians want him bad enough to send out a plane full of gun thugs.”
Beaudine brightened at the thought. She took the satellite phone out of her jacket pocket and unfolded the antenna, heading toward the door.
“Won’t work,” Adam Henderson said, nodding at the phone. “I suppose you can try, but we’re so far north the satellites are too low to get a signal most of the day. It might work later this evening. The radio’s usually the best option but these bastards smashed ours up right after they shot Corey.”
“We’ll try and call out from the plane,” Quinn said. “I’ll get someone here to take care of these bodies as soon as we’re in the air—”
The clomp of footsteps on the porch turned everyone’s attention to the front door. Lovita came in a moment later, pressing a wadded pink bandana to her bloody nose and clutching Corey’s good arm. He was obviously feeling woozy again and Quinn couldn’t tell who was holding up who.
“I’m fine,” she said, before Quinn could ask. “Not much of an Eskimo to let some gussaq creep up on me like that though . . .” Her eyes played around the room until they fell on the battered Russian who slumped beside the fireplace. Beaudine had cuffed his hands behind his back, but Lovita stayed well away from him.
“That’s the one who hit me,” she muttered, nodding. “Serves him right that you broke his head.”
The Russian glared, spitting disdainfully at her.
“Somebody gonna tell us what this is all about?” Esther Henderson said, collapsing into the recliner farthest away from any dead bodies.
“FBI,” Beaudine said, making the rookie mistake of believing that was an explanation.
Adam’s face screwed into a half frown. “What’s the FBI doing way out here?”
“There’s another Russian man here who came in with a young woman,” Quinn said. “We need to speak with them.”
“Take them with you,” Adam said, hand on his wife’s shoulder. “I got no use for guests who bring this kind of shit rainin’ down on us.”
“They’re gone anyhow,” Corey Morgan said, looking toward the door. “I just watched them leave in your boat, heading downriver toward the Kobuk.”
Adam stepped out to the porch and returned a moment later. “The kid’s right,” he said. “They took my damn boat.”
“It’s very important that we find this man,” Beaudine said, her Texas accent coming on strong as she poured on the charm. “Do you happen to have another boat we could borrow?”
“Not one that works,” Henderson said.
Quinn looked at Lovita’s swollen nose and frowned. It had stopped bleeding, but jutted to one side, clearly broken. Her top lip was swollen and blue, ruptured where it had been caught between her teeth and the big Russian’s fist.
“Are you well enough to fly?”
“She’s not flying anywhere!” Corey said.
Lovita shot the boy a withering look. “You speak for your own self,” she said. “I been hurt worse than this from a mosquito bite.”
“I’ll fly you where you need to go,” Corey said, blinking back his dizziness. “I won’t even charge you, but she needs to see a doctor.”
“Forget about a doctor,” Lovita said. “I grew up in the village. My head’s harder to crack than that. You’re hurt worse than me.” She looked at Quinn. “Anyways, I’m not gonna get left out on your manhunt.”
“Maybe Corey’s right,” Quinn said, gingerly touching his rib to check for more damage. A punctured lung was not out of the question. “I know from experience how hard that guy can hit.”
“And see,” Lovita said. “You’re not givin’ up. Come on, Quinn, you can’t shut me out ’cause some Russian son of a bitch punched me in the nose. It ain’t my fault.” For the first time since he’d met her, the tough little Eskimo looked like she might cry. “We been through too much together for you to scrape me off like mud on your boots. Haven’t we?”
“I’m not scraping you off, Lovita.” It was impossible for Quinn not to remember how he felt when Palmer had threatened to bench him. Still, Quinn knew himself—and the risks that went along with charging in half broken.
Lovita put a hand on his arm, squeezing. Her eyes gleamed with welling tears—tears of tension, not pain. “Seriously, Jericho,” she whispered. “I’m okay.”
He sighed, throwing a glance at Beaudine, who just shrugged.
Quinn turned away, ignoring Lovita’s plea while he made up his mind. Corey could hardly stand up, so he wasn’t flying them anywhere, but it remained to be seen if Lovita was in good-enough shape to get behind a yoke. He decided to search the dead Russians while he mulled it over. They were following Volodin, maybe they had some information about where he was going.
“Tell me exactly what happened, Lovita,” he said as he worked.
The Native girl sighed, eyes on her boots in embarrassment. “I got lazy, that’s all, and let that stupid gussaq sneak up and punch me in the face.”
Quinn stooped over the first man he shot to begin going through his pockets. “Did he knock you out?”
Lovita paused, touching the bandana to her split lip.
“Were you unconscious?” Quinn asked. Contrary to the movies, getting knocked out was a big deal. It left you wobbly and disoriented for some time and could very well mean a concussion.
“He hit me, and I fell on my ass, okay?” She threw her hands in the air. “I saw stars, but that’s it. I’m sure he intended to kill me, but the next thing I knew, you guys started shootin’. I guess he came back here to check it out.”
Quinn stood, stretching his sore back. He wondered if he really had an alternative. They had to follow Volodin. He climbed the stairs to search the second dead man, mulling over the decision as long as possible.
Each of the three Russians carried forged identification as oil workers from the North Slope. They had American names like Tony and Gary. According to his Louisiana driver’s license, the guy slumped by the fireplace was A.J. The IDs looked convincing but were most certainly forged. Each man had been armed with a pistol as well as a blade similar to A.J.’s hooked karambit.
“That one brought in a rifle,” Adam Henderson pointed at a padded canvas case leaning against the far side of the fireplace hearth. Slightly tapered and the length of a rifle, the case was olive drab and equipped with carrying handles as well as backpack straps. Quinn recognized it immediately as a drag bag. He unzipped it far enough to see it contained a Remington bolt-action rifle and a Nightforce scope with extreme long-range turrets. The Nightforce alone cost over two thousand dollars. This setup was a serious sniper weapon.
Tapping the case in thought, Quinn turned to Beaudine.
“If they’re sending a sniper after this guy, they think he’s a valuable target—and if he’s valuable to them—”
“He’s valuable to us,” Beaudine said, finishing his sentence.
The Russian leaning against the fireplace began to laugh, staring at Quinn. His eyes were wild and slightly askew from the beating with the fire poker.
“Fool,” he chuckled, slowly shaking his head as he lapsed into Russian.
“He’s still talking about a hunter,” Beaudine whispered. “And wolves.”
“Hey, girly,” the Russian called out toward Lovita. “You had better run if you know what is good for you.” He followed with something that sounded neither Russian nor English. Whatever he said sent a terrified Lovita fleeing back behind Quinn’s back.
Quinn turned and put a hand on the terrified girl’s shoulder. “What’s the matter?”
“He spoke in Chukchi,” Lovita said, “It’s close enough to Alaskan Yup’ik that I understood. He says there is a bad man coming for us.”
“A bad man?”
Lovita nodded. Her wide eyes gleamed like a frightened child’s. “The elders tell stories of a hunter who comes across the water from Siberia,” she said. “They say this man hunts our hunters when they are out on the ice. They say he is a giant with eyes as white as a winter blizzard. The old women call him Worst of the Moon. I always thought the scary stories were to make little kids stay close to camp when we’re out picking berries.” Lovita peered at the Russian over her wadded bandana. “I never heard no gussaq talk about it before, though.”
“Worst of the Moon?” Beaudine mused.
“Listen,” Lovita said, shooting a worried glance over her shoulder as if she expected some monster to burst through the door. “I know this sounds crazy to you guys, but weird shit happens out here in the bush. The tundra, these forests . . .” She looked at Quinn for support. “Tell her. You’ve been out here long enough to see it with your own eyes.”
“I have seen some odd things,” he said, “all over the world.”
Lovita gave a fast nod, thinking she’d found an ally. “I think I even seen an enukin just before this guy attacked me.”
“Wait a minute.” Beaudine put up her hand. “What’s an enukin?”
“Like a Native leprechaun,” Adam Henderson said. “Usually harbingers of bad as far as I can tell, but they’ve been known to help folks in trouble.”
Quinn rubbed his eyes. “Let’s focus on this Worst of the Moon character.”
Lovita shivered. “It’s what my people call February, the cruelest time of winter. He ain’t been around since ancient times like the enukin or the hairy man. My granny started puttin’ Worst of the Moon in her stories about eight or nine years ago.”
The Russian threw his head back as if to howl at the ceiling. Instead, he grimaced against what had to be an agonizing headache. The worst of the pain apparently ebbing enough for him to talk, he began to babble in Russian. Quinn recognized one word he used over and over—okhotnik. Beaudine told him it meant hunter. The Russian’s eyes flicked open. One of them stared directly at Lovita. “The stories are real, girly. Okhotnik is real.”
Quinn took a moment to load a full magazine into his Kimber. He stuffed the partially used one in the pocket of his jacket, resolving to top it off as soon as he got back to the plane and his backpack. This was no time to be walking around with a half-empty gun. Everything this guy said made sense. Most of Russian operatives Quinn knew were meticulous in their thuggery. If they wanted one of their own scientists dead bad enough to send a sniper team to America, they were certain to have a backup plan. Quinn couldn’t help but glance out the window to make sure Spetsnaz paratroopers weren’t at that very moment dropping into the skies of Alaska Red-Dawn style.
Beaudine folded the satellite phone and returned it to her jacket pocket, apparently satisfied that it wasn’t going to work. “Okay, Quinn,” she said. “You’re the Alaska expert. What are you thinking?”
“Nearest settlement is Needle Village,” Adam said. “Not quite thirty miles up the Kobuk. If they go downriver they’ll be out on their own for a couple of days and neither one of them look like they were dressed for a night in the bush. The weather’s supposed to do nothing but get shittier.”
“They might not even know where they’re going,” Beaudine offered.
“They know,” Corey said. “They told me. And I’ll tell you, but you have to let me fly you. Have you looked at that storm coming in from the north? I don’t want Lovita out in it in her condition. Let me fly you, and I’ll tell you where they went.”
“Oh, hell no.” Beaudine walked up to the boy with a swagger to match her Texas accent. She thumped him in the forehead with her index finger. “We got no time for games, son.” She hooked her thumb toward Quinn. “Do either of us look like we bargain much?”
“Okay.” Corey rubbed his head, shying away as if he were afraid she might thump him again. “The girl said her friend worked here at the lodge. Said they wanted to surprise her.”
Esther Henderson looked at her husband. “She had to be talking about Polina.”
“Polina?” Quinn said.
“A Russian girl,” Esther Henderson said.
“One of those mail-order brides,” Adam Henderson said.
“We don’t know that,” Esther chided her husband. “Married to a school teacher upriver in Ambler. She comes out and does deep cleaning for us a couple of times a month.”
“When was Polina here last?” Beaudine asked.
“Two weeks ago,” Mrs. Henderson said. “She was supposed to be back next week but she’s having
some troubles with her pregnancy.”
“Where does she stay when she’s here?” Quinn asked.
“Usually in one of the cabins,” Henderson said. “But she’s six months along. Esther insisted she stay here in the main lodge the last couple of times—so she could be closer to the radio.” He walked to a knotty-pine door off the back corner of the lodge’s great room, opposite the fireplace, and pushed it open. “This is where we’ve been putting her.”
“Does she leave anything here?” Quinn said. “In between visits, I mean.” He stepped past Henderson, scanning the room. It was rustic but cozy with pictures of loons on everything from the duvet to the hand towels outside the private bathroom.
Henderson shrugged. “A few toiletries and some rain gear I think so she doesn’t have to haul it back and forth from Ambler. She got a package last week.” He stopped short, pointing to a short table at the end of the varnished log bed frame. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “It’s gone.”
“What’s gone?” Quinn asked, though he already knew the answer.
“The box,” Henderson said. “I left it right there.”
Beaudine stood in the doorway, keeping an eye on the wounded Russian. “What was in this box?”
“Polina sometimes had packages delivered here,” Henderson said. “She told us they were her special cleaning supplies from Russia, but I’m guessing that’s not the case.”
“Not likely,” Beaudine said. “Did Polina take it the last time she was here?”
Henderson shook his head. “It came last week. She hasn’t been out here yet. Come to think of it, that girl was puttering around back here. She must have taken it.”
