Field of Fire

by Marc Cameron

  “It’s been a while since I’ve been out this way,” Quinn said. “Ambler is up river past Needle, right?”

  “Another forty miles or so,” Henderson said.

  “That puts it what, seventy miles from here by water?” Quinn said, picturing the winding Kobuk River. He’d taken a three-week fishing trip from the headwaters to Kotzebue with his brother, Bo, and their Aunt Abbey when he was in high school.

  Henderson gave a non-committal nod. “Closer eighty by airplane. Over a hundred by river because of the oxbows.”

  Quinn remembered the Kobuk’s meandering path very well. In some places the river turned back on itself so sharply, he had Bo had been able to scramble up one bank and look over the top to see the portion of the river they’d be paddling on two hours later.

  Quinn looked at his Aquaracer. “Fiver hours of daylight,” he said. “Plenty of time to fly ahead to Needle and then on to Ambler.”

  Lovita squealed, uncharacteristically giddy. She jumped up and down like a schoolgirl, causing a thin trickle of blood to weep from her crooked nose. “I wanna be where you are if Worst of the Moon is comin’ after us.” She grinned at Quinn around a chipped tooth he hadn’t noticed before. “You won’t regret this, Jericho.”

  “Worst of the Moon,” Quinn muttered, pulling the straps on the drag-bag containing the sniper rifle tighter onto his shoulder. He regretted his decision the moment he opened the door. A bank of thick clouds rolled in from the north, black with trailing green edges that meant hail. Lovita marched past toward her airplane, seeming not to notice the storm moving directly into their path.

  Chapter 24

  New York

  August Bowen chewed on the inside of his cheek and thought of angry nuns, dead kittens, anything to try to keep his brain in focus while Ronnie Garcia climbed the narrow wooden steps. It didn’t help.

  The sultry Cuban took the stage like she owned it. Her back to the audience, she moved only her hips and arms at first, starting slowly, and half a beat off the music. It didn’t matter. Bowen doubted anyone in the club could hear anything but the sound of their own throbbing pulse. Far from tentative, Garcia’s every movement was relaxed and natural, as if she were dancing alone and for herself rather than the pitiful audience. Somehow, she had the uncanny ability to make the men in the room believe she was actually enjoying herself, a fantasy they all gripped as fast as their beers.

  Bowen folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the edge of the padded leather booth next to Gug’s table. A cold surge of empathetic embarrassment for Garcia washed over him when he thought she might actually take off her clothes. Then he realized it made no difference. Veronica Garcia didn’t need to strip to send every jaw in the room dropping to the floor. The sad-eyed waif who had held the stage before her even stopped to watch, bony arms dangling, head shaking in disbelief that this fully clothed woman had stolen the eyes of what had been her small audience.

  The younger girl’s head snapped up suddenly, looking offstage. She peered through the darkness behind Ronnie for a moment, then down at her own bare feet. Something had startled her, and that something was walking toward Garcia.

  A tall woman wearing a gauzy red robe and matching princess slippers stopped next to the gleaming stripper pole on the far right of the stage. Blessed with the same curvy body type as Garcia, this new woman walked with a heavy, cowlike gait, unable to carry the thickness around her hips and chest with the same ease and grace. She stopped for a moment, folded arms pushing up an ample chest, with her hips and a single knee cocked to one side. Her black hair was cut in a twenties-style bob—short in the back and slightly longer in the front. It shimmered under the glaring stage lights as if it had been combed with oil. Pink blotches of skin covered her neck and chest, making her look like she’d just run a mile. Her face was flushed as red as her robe.

  Her hair was different from any of the booking photos, but there was no doubt that this was Nikka Minchkhi.

  “And who ith thith?” the woman bellowed, pointing at Ronnie with a forefinger that bore a costume-jewelry ring the size of an apricot.

  Bowen shot a quick glance at Thibodaux, nodding toward the woman in red.

  Gug stopped the music with the remote and raised his eyebrow as if interested to see what was about to happen.

  “I athked you a quethchon?” Nikka said, wiping the spit from her mouth with the sleeve of her robe.

  “A new dancer?” Gug said, shooting a conspiratorial glance at Bowen. It killed the deputy inside to think that this slob believed they were on the same team.

  Nikka leaned in, glaring. “Well, she can’t come into our plathe and danth with clothe on. Itth. Not. Right.”

  “This is tryout,” Gug said. “She’ll get there soon enough.” His eyes went back to Garcia, and Bowen went back to wanting to knock the guy out.

  Garcia stopped dancing and leaned against the center pole, rolling her eyes at the woman.

  “She ith too clean,” Nikka stammered. “I thay she thmellth like a cop.”

  “You are jealous of my new kitten, dear,” Gug said. “I’ve never seen a cop dance like this.”

  Thibodaux took the opportunity to walk up and ask Gug where the toilet was.

  “Saba,” Gug said to the muscleman behind him, flicking his fat fingers. He was more interested in the women on stage than some customer who needed the john.

  Saba frowned, put out at having his attention drawn away from the women, but stepped forward to point out the small neon sign in the back corner that led to the restrooms. He shot a quick glance at the big Cajun but waved him past, a hyper-inflated ego binding his mind like his bulging muscles tied up his body.

  Bowen made his way up on stage as if to escort Ronnie off, but turned midstride to face the lisping stripper.

  “Turns out you’re right,” he said. “U.S. Marshals, Nikka. We need to talk to—”

  Minchkhi’s face screwed up like a red raisin. She clenched her fists like a child throwing a tantrum.

  On the floor, Saba took a half step forward but stopped in his tracks when the twin barbs from Thibodaux’s Taser caught him, one in between the shoulder blades and one at the fold where his butt cheek met his right thigh. His muscles knotted and he fell like a stiff pine board, bouncing off the filthy carpet nose-first.

  Gug raised his fat hands. “I not move,” he said. Thibodaux drove the contact points at the end of the Taser into the man’s neck, shocking him on general principle. The barbed prongs, still buried in Saba’s tender parts, conducted the second shock as well, keeping both men compliant.

  The two drunks sipped their beers, blinking sleepily as if this was all part of the show. The Asian waitress smiled at Thibodaux, looking like she wanted to kiss him.

  Nikka’s entire body shook so badly that Bowen thought she might be having a seizure. She shot a glare down at her boss, before turning back to the deputy. “I cut your heart!” she screeched. Slinging spittle, she launched herself toward him.

  Bowen moved to one side, preparing to snag her as she came by but Garcia swooped in out of nowhere, catching the screaming woman with a devastating palm heel to the chin that slammed her teeth together with a loud crack. Nikka had obviously been hit many times before, and the blow dazed her but didn’t stop her. Stunned but still furious, she ramped up her attack, bright red fingernails clawing the air. Using the woman’s own momentum against her, Ronnie grabbed a handful of hair and yanked, pulling Nikka face first into the nearest stripper pole with a sickening metallic thud. Nikka slid down it to land in a heap of red silk and blotchy flesh, finished fighting, but still muttering lispy threats.

  “That’s the trouble with you good guys,” Ronnie said, winking at Bowen. “It’s hard for you to really hit a girl like you mean it. Even if she’s trying to gouge your eyes out. Me, I’m an equal-opportunity ass kicker.”

  “That was pretty damn smooth, Cheri.” Thibodaux grinned, still holding the Taser above Gug’s neck. He used his free hand to take a flat
toothpick from his mouth and pointed it at Garcia, wagging his head as he spoke. “But mercy! The next time I gotta watch you dance like that, I’m puttin’ in for danger pay.”

  Chapter 25

  Gug and his goon, Saba, slouched on the grimy carpet with their hands cuffed behind their backs. It took two pair of cuffs linked together to get Gug’s arms behind him. Three would have been better, but Bowen didn’t really care if the fat slob was uncomfortable or not. The two drunks had been shown the door, and the Asian waitress and skinny dancer now sat together in one of the booths, wearing thick terrycloth robes while they wolfed down bowls of stew Gug had been preparing in the kitchen for his lunch.

  Nikka Minchkhi sat in the center stage where she’d fallen when Ronnie decked her, knees up, legs splayed, her red lace robe blossoming like a trodden red thistle flower. Garcia had secured the spitting dancer’s hands behind her around the stripper pole to keep her from flying off the handle again. One of her red princess slippers had come off during her rant, revealing a hole in her pink stocking through which poked a stubby big toe, pedicured, but blackened on the bottom from dancing barefoot.

  Thibodaux stayed down by the two male prisoners while Bowen and Garcia stood on the stage around the sullen dancer, arms folded, waiting for her to answer their questions.

  “I do not know what you are talking about,” she said, refusing to look either of them in the eye.

  “Are you saying you don’t know Petyr Volodin?” Bowen said, shaking his head in disgust. “Everybody we talk to says you two are an item.”

  “Then everybody you talk to ith misthtaken.” She tried to throw her head back in a scoff, but accidentally banged it against the stripper pole in the process. The blotches on her chest flushed to a bright crimson.

  “We’re not the regular cops, you know,” Bowen said. “It’s against the law for you to lie to us.”

  “Tell us where he is and we’re outta here,” Ronnie said. “You get on with your life or whatever it is you call what you do.”

  “I do not know where he ith,” she said.

  “Lithen thweety!” Thibodaux raised the brow over his good eye. “Get your stories straight. You don’t know him or you don’t know where he is?”

  “You are not copth.” Nikka glared back at him. “You will only try to kill my Petyr, but you will never find him.”

  Gug craned his fat neck as best he could. “Hey,” he said, getting Thibodaux’s attention. “Why you not tell me you are looking for Petyr. She’s one of his girlfriends.”

  Nikka screamed. “His only girlfriend, you piece of—”

  “Shut up!” Garcia stepped closer to cut her off. “I’m sure your man is completely faithful, chica.”

  “Seriously,” Gug said, putting on a somber bargaining face. “I have information on my computer to help you find Petyr. Maybe you could do a little to help me.”

  “I cut you for thith,” Nikka spat. The red blotches on her chest began to move up her neck.

  Bowen hopped off the stage and moved to the booth where Gug’s computer sat on the table by the smoldering stub of his cigar.

  Bowen snapped his fingers at Gug. “Give me the password.”

  “Petyr isth not an idiot,” Nikka screeched through clenched teeth. “He knowth anyone would come here to look for—”

  In the back of the club, the kitchen door swung open to the sound of someone whistling, loud and off-key.

  “Hey, Zaychik moy,” a young and muscular man said as he rounded the far booth. He wore a white wife-beater shirt under a maroon velvet tracksuit. A large yellow duffle bag hung from a beefy hand. Earbud wires trailed from both ears, rendering him oblivious to the fact that he’d stumbled into his girlfriend’s interrogation. It had to be Petyr Volodin.

  Apparently used to seeing his girlfriend tied to a stripper pole in the middle of the day, he hardly gave her a second look. His eyes instead fell to Ronnie as a lascivious grin spread across his face. “Lucky I got here in time,” he said. “Let’s see some of that ass, sweet—!”

  Nikka screamed, yelling a warning in Russian. His head snapped up and he turned on his heels to run. Bowen caught him with a well-placed snap kick to the groin.

  The Wolf’s eyes rolled back in his head. The duffle slid from his hand. His knees buckled and he toppled over sideways, green around the gills.

  Bowen couldn’t help but chuckle when Nikka threw back her head in exasperation at the stupidity of her boyfriend and banged her head against the stripper pole.

  “Too smart to come here?” Bowen mused.

  “You son of a bitch,” Petyr groaned.

  “Hey!” Bowen cut him off. “There are women present.”

  “Strippers!” he said, breathless. “I think they’ve . . . heard it . . . before. They are whores . . .”

  Bowen gave him a smack in the back of the head. “Language,” he said.

  “Okay,” Petyr said, curling up from the pain.

  “Just don’t kick me in the ba . . . in the privates again . . .”

  “Privates,” Bowen laughed. “That’s fitting. I call mine ‘the generals.’”

  Volodin’s head sagged, resting against the filthy carpet. He moved his jaw back and forth like he was about to vomit.

  “Well, ain’t this a surprise,” Thibodaux said, looming over Petyr and pulling him into a seated position to pat him down for weapons.

  “It’s no surprise,” the younger man groaned. “You obviously expected me to be here.”

  Thibodaux gave a genuine belly laugh. “No, sir,” he said. “We expected to have a little chat with your spittin’ stripper girlfriend. We honestly had no idea you were such a dumb shit.”

  “Go ahead and do it then,” Volodin said. His entire body slumped as if he’d given up.

  Bowen shot a glance at Garcia, then Thibodaux. “Go ahead and do what?”

  “Kill me.” Volodin shrugged. “Isn’t that what Mr. Anikin sent you to do?”

  “We don’t aim to kill you,” Thibodaux scoffed. “Unless you start in with that whistlin’ again. That was some awful shit.”

  “Why does this Anikin guy want to kill you?” Ronnie asked.

  Volodin looked at Garcia, then looked away as if afraid Bowen might kick him again. “Vory would never allow a woman to ask your questions.”

  “Vory?” Bowen looked at Garcia. “Whatever that is, we’re not it.”

  “Vory v Zakone, Russian prison gang,” Ronnie said. “What have you done to piss off the Vory?”

  Volodin pulled back one shoulder of his tracksuit jacket to reveal the eight pointed stars tattooed on his shoulders above the neck of the wife-beater shirt.

  “Listen up,” Thibodaux said, “We could give a shit about your fictional ink. We need to talk to you about your daddy.”

  Volodin’s head snapped up. “My father? Is he all right?”

  “You’re close to him then?” Bowen asked.

  “Not close.” Volodin shook his head. “I guess he wants to make amends for abandoning me and my mother years ago. He’s some kind of scientist so he helps me out with Russian body-building supplements.” His eyes turned pleading. “He swears it’s all legal shit.”

  “When’s the last time you talked to him?”

  “I don’t know . . . an email about two weeks a—”

  A heavy rapping at the front door cut him off.

  Thibodaux moved to Gug’s computer and checked the surveillance cameras outside the building. “Four dudes with guns,” he said, looking at Petyr. “I’m bettin’ these are the Russian mob boys you’re worrying about, coming for your fake ink.”

  “You led them here!” Volodin fumed. “That’s the only way they could find me so fast.”

  Nikka rolled her eyes at his stupidity, clunking her head a third time on the stripper pole. “You are idiot,” she said. “I am your girlfriend. This is first place anyone would look for you.”

  “I should go,” Volodin said, grabbing the yellow duffle and pushing himself to his feet.
r />   “Sit your ass down,” Thibodaux snapped.

  The banging grew louder, followed by a loud crash as the door gave way.

  The Asian waitress and the bony stripper both ducked out of sight under their booth. Gug and Saba knew enough to roll to the floor, but Nikka was a sitting duck ziptied to the stripper pole. The pop of small arms fire rattled down the front hallway and bullets began to thwack against leather upholstery and wooden rails. Two of the stage lights exploded in a shower of sparks. Petyr fell, face forward, doing a pushup over his yellow duffle.

  “Get her down from there!” Bowen yelled at Ronnie as he moved in a crouch around the end of the stage toward the door. He returned fire blindly down the entry hall, hoping to hold the attackers at bay long enough for Garcia to cut Nikka free and move her out of the line of fire. Minchkhi was a hateful woman, but few people deserved to be gunned down while chained to a Cheekie’s stripper pole.

  “One of the four just turned tail and ran,” Thibodaux said. The big Cajun had drawn his weapon but he’d turned the computer around so he could scan the camera feeds while keeping an eye on the back entrance to the club. “Conserve your ammo, Gus Gus,” he said.

  “Thanks, Gunny,” Bowen shouted over his shoulder, sending three more rounds down the hallway. “But this isn’t my first prom.”

  “Never mind,” the Marine yelled back. “I keep forgettin’ you were Army. You’re not apt to hit nothin’ anyhow.”

  Ronnie came up beside Bowen and tapped the elbow of his support arm. “I cuffed Minchkhi under a booth. We’re good,” she said. Her tight clothing had made carrying impractical during her dance, so they’d agreed beforehand that he would loan her his ankle gun if things turned rodeo. Now that Minchkhi was out of the way, he passed Garcia the baby Glock 27.

  Between the two of them, they were able to lay down a steady rate of fire that didn’t burn up their meager ammunition supply.

  “Looks like they’re haulin’ ass,” Thibodaux said, watching the computer.

  Bowen took a deep breath, heady from the gun battle, not to mention the proximity of Garcia. Her chest heaved beside him as she worked to slow her breath now that the shooting had stopped.