by Marc Cameron
Cursing spilled from inside the plane as Quinn made his way toward the rear cargo door. That was a good sign. Deeper water piled up in the trough of gravel behind the wreckage and shoved him sideways. The fuselage was badly twisted and Quinn was unable to pry open the rear door, even when hooking the fingers of both hands inside the lip. Beaudine was on her belly, already working her way forward by the time Quinn made it around to the front door. Leaning inside and half submerged in the freezing water, he grabbed her flailing hand and fell backward, pulling her under the headrest and through the narrow crack in the door like he was delivering a newborn baby. He floundered in the stream with Beaudine on top of him.
“You okay?” she sputtered, clamoring to her knees. Achingly cold water rushed in around them, and she had to hang on to Quinn’s shoulder to keep from being upended in the current. A cloud of white vapor blossomed out of her mouth with each unsteady breath when she spoke. A nasty mixture of drizzling rain and wet snow began to fall, peppering the river and making it feeling even colder.
Outside of the shadowed interior of the plane, Quinn was able to get a better look at the nasty gash that ran down Beaudine’s forehead, splitting her left eyebrow and bisecting the bridge of her nose. River water and blood plastered sodden hair to her face. The wound didn’t look like it went to the bone, but it was deep enough that they would have to do something about it.
Beaudine swayed as she struggled to her feet, rapidly falling into shock. Unless they did something to get dry, hypothermia would follow in a matter of minutes.
“Lovita?” she said, her teeth chattering in time with the raindrops. She pushed sopping wet hair out of her eyes and then held up her fingers to look at the blood.
Quinn nodded toward the bank. “The crash knocked her out,” he said, panting. Water dripped from the end of his nose. “But she’s a tough kid.” He held Beaudine by the arm as they walked, bracing her against the shove of the icy current. If his assistance bothered her now, she didn’t mention it.
“Am I hurt bad?” Beaudine said, dabbing at the wound again with her fingertips as they staggered into the shallows and up onto the bank.
“It’ll be . . . a cool . . . scar,” Quinn stammered. His teeth chattered so badly it made his jaw sore.
Slogging out of the water, he dropped to his knees beside Lovita. Water drained from his clothing. His soaked wool shirt had grown several sizes too large and his sleeves hung past his hands.
Lovita’s eyes fluttered at the growing intensity of the rain. She turned slightly at the crunch of gravel to look up at Quinn, her lips pulling into a tight grimace from even that slight movement.
“Hi, Jericho,” she whispered, licking chalky lips.
“Hey, kiddo.” Quinn peeled off his jacket and draped it over her. It was wet but would provide some protection from the drizzle. “I’m going to get us a shelter put up. We need to get you dry and warm—”
She reached for his arm but missed, flailing feebly at nothing but air. He took her hand in his and patted the back of it.
She opened her mouth to speak but broke into a series of ragged coughs that wracked her entire body. Her face seemed to grow even paler than it had been. “Stay,” she whispered once she regained control, swallowing hard. “Please, just stay with me.”
Quinn nodded. “But just for a minute,” he said. “I need to get a fire going.”
Lovita’s eyes rolled back, and then fluttered shut. She struggled to swallow again, then gave his hand a weak squeeze. “I think I broke somethin’.” She used the grimy fingers of her free hand to point at her left shoulder.
Beaudine staggered up beside them to collapse in the wet gravel, legs akimbo, hands cradled in her lap. Quinn was afraid she might fall forward on Lovita, but her body listed heavily to one side. Her eyes drooped as though she might pass out at any moment. “Can . . . I . . . help?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Quinn said, fighting back a futile panic that pressed at his chest. He brushed a matted strand of orange hair out of Lovita’s eyes. “Okay, hon,” he said. “The pain, you say it’s in your shoulder?”
“Uh-huh,” Lovita whispered. She strained to roll toward him to take the pressure off her shoulder blade, like she was attempting a sit-up but couldn’t manage it. Tears welled in her eyes. Her tongue flicked over pale lips. She was beginning to hyperventilate.
The fact that she complained of pain in her shoulder but was still able to move both arms sent a flood of worry over Quinn. This was something far worse than a broken bone. Hoping he was wrong, but knowing he was not, he moved to unzip the pink fleece jacket, and inadvertently brushed Lovita’s abdomen. He barely touched her, but she recoiled, screaming the unintelligible noises that humans make when pain or fear was too overwhelming for them to form words.
Quinn’s heart fell when he lifted the tail of her shirt. Her belly was tight and distended, an ugly purple bruise forming a donut around her navel. The harness should have prevented such an injury, but Lovita was so small she’d had to scoot her seat forward to reach the airplane’s foot pedals. This put her dangerously close to the yoke during the crash. Intense pain in the left shoulder after impact very often meant a damaged spleen. It was called Kehr’s sign. Quinn had seen it far too many times when vehicles hit IEDs and the driver was slammed against the steering wheel. Lovita was bleeding inside—and bleeding badly. Quinn put a hand to her neck. Her pulse was fading fast, hardly even there.
Stifling a scream, Quinn fell back on his knees and squeezed a handful of gravel in his fist until his hand shook. A man of action, the tremendous weight of helplessness pressed him down, threatening to grind him into the earth. Three years of tactical medical training, dozens of real-life operations as a Combat Rescue Officer in some of the most austere and dangerous environments on earth—and he could think of absolutely nothing to do. There were really only two options with traumatic internal bleeding—transport to the nearest surgeon . . . or stand by and wait for his friend to die.
Lovita reached for his hand again. Her breath came in short, shuddering gasps now. Eyes clenched, her small, almost Asian face twisted from the unbearable agony as blood filled her gut. Quinn smoothed the hair out of her eyes, gently resting the back of his hand against her cheek. He was covered with oil and his hand left a black streak across her copper skin.
“I’ll stay right here beside you,” he said, willing his teeth not to chatter, his hands not to shake. “I promise.”
The wind kicked up from the north, and the drizzle turned into heavy snow.
Beaudine’s mouth hung open. Her eyes grew wide and stricken as the gravity of the girl’s injuries dawned on her.
“I’m . . . sorry, Quinn,” Lovita whispered. She tried to cough but couldn’t summon the energy. “I guess that Russian gussaq . . . he did knock me out . . . long enough . . . to mess with my airplane . . .”
The wind stiffened, and snow began to fall in earnest.
Snowflakes landed on Beaudine’s hollow face and stayed there, her skin too chilly to melt them quickly. A tear creased the grime on her bloody cheek.
Lovita’s lips drew back with another wave of pain. Slowly, the grimace fell away and she relaxed, grinning. She looked up, seeming to focus on the falling snow. It was her old grin, the one she’d give Quinn when she joked and called him names or tried to feed him her strange Native foods. “You know what I always wished, Jericho Quinn?” Her gaze fell back to him. She sounded amazingly calm—her normal self.
“What’s that?” he said, forcing words from a throat so tight he could hardly breathe.
“I . . . wish . . . you woulda been about ten years younger . . .” Her tiny hand gave him a final squeeze and then fell away.
Quinn felt for a pulse again. He collapsed back, slouching in the wet gravel when he found none and stared up at the falling snow.
He knelt there beside his frail little friend for some time, letting the silent rage close in around him with the cold that seeped through his soaking wet clothes. So
on, even anger was not enough keep him warm, and he began to tremble from grief and exposure. At length, he folded Lovita’s hands across her chest and climbed to his feet with a low groan.
Beaudine looked up at him with drowsy, unfocused eyes, chin against her knees. Her hair was covered with a cap of fresh snow.
Quinn’s feet crunched in the gravel as he slogged over to her. Her lips and the backs of her hands were blue.
“Hey,” he asked, reaching to touch her forehead. “Can you remember what happened?”
“Do what?” Beaudine jerked her head away. “Of course I remember what happened. What kind of dumbass question is that?”
“Hypothermia,” he said, struggling to stay on his feet. “Your skin is cool and clammy . . . and you’re even more irritable than normal. You are still . . . shivering, so it’s not as bad as it could be.” He turned toward the river.
“Where . . . are you . . . going?” Beaudine gasped through ragged, shaky breaths.
“Back . . . to the plane . . . to get my pack.” Quinn’s chattering teeth were now so out of control that any conversation was difficult. Physically and emotionally spent, instinct alone carried him forward.
He’d just reached the water’s edge when he heard a sickening moan behind him, like a beached fish croaking for air. He turned in time to see Beaudine topple over.
Mechanically, he staggered back up the gravel incline and dropped to his knees beside her. He made certain she was still breathing, then got his jacket from where he’d left it over Lovita’s body. Dragging it across the snow and gravel by one sleeve, he made it back to Beaudine and draped it over her shoulders. She stirred at his touch. Her eyes blinked half open and then flicked back and forth, confused.
“Hang on . . . a . . . couple . . . minutes,” Quinn said, trying desperately not to crack a tooth. He knew he should probably say something more, something to try to rally her hopes, but he had little hope left himself. Any time now his core temperature would fall so low his body would lose the ability to warm itself. One thing was sure; if he hoped to save Beaudine, he had to save himself first.
Struggling to his feet, he slogged back down to the bank. His arms dangled and flopped at his sides, far too heavy to lift. His legs barely obeyed his orders to move. Memories of the crash, his mission, even Lovita’s death, slipped from his mind. A single truth drew him forward, through the cold water and into the darkness of the mangled plane—without a fire, both he and Beaudine would be dead by nightfall.
Chapter 28
New York
Ronnie Garcia found a bottle of aspirin in the first-aid kit mounted to the wall in Gug’s kitchen and marveled that even a skanky strip club like Cheekie’s was subject to OSHA rules. Bowen talked on the phone with his people, securing babysitters to keep Nikka and Gug under wraps and ensure that no one tipped off Petyr about their new lead to the MMA gym. Thibodaux sat in Gug’s booth, a cell phone pressed to his ear, trying to get in touch with Palmer. Elbow on the table, he rested his chin in his hand, still brooding over letting Petyr slip away.
Garcia rubbed her aching temples and washed down the aspirin with a glass of water—knowing it might calm her headache, but wouldn’t even dent the pain in her shoulder. Attempting an erotic dance on a strip club stage in front of your friends was about as exhausting as running a marathon. It was no wonder the poor girl dancing naked had such a desiccated look to her soul.
Ronnie had seen the way Jericho hobbled around early in the morning as the wounds on his body woke up one at a time. He often joked that the injuries he got in China stayed on Beijing time and took a while longer to loosen up than the ones he obtained in the good old U.S. of A.
Ronnie smiled, remembering how she’d take a Sharpie and threaten to label the geographic location of each place he’d earned a scar. Since so many were from growing up in Alaska, she made it a point to work in reverse alphabetical order, beginning with a knife wound on his right bicep from a short stint he’d done in Yemen. She’d pretend to label a bite wound on his forearm from the UK, a gash from a broken bottle in Turkey, before moving to an interesting half moon arc an inch above his bellybutton from a mission in Thailand. It took him a year to tell her about that one.
Garcia closed her eyes, imagining she wasn’t in this stinking strip club but back with Jericho when he’d held the Sharpie. He always started with the scar she’d earned in Afghanistan, and when he started there, the game moved away from the marker in short order . . .
“Hello, Boss.” Thibodaux’s deep Cajun drawl jostled Garcia out of the pleasant memory and back to the sad reality of the strip club. Thibodaux flicked his fingers to motion her closer. The President’s national security advisor was a bombastic man in word and action, so she had no trouble hearing both sides of the conversation when she plopped down in the booth next to Thibodaux.
“Situation report?” Palmer said. He was never one to chitchat, but his tone was even more brusque than usual. The tap of his computer keyboard was clearly audible in the background.
“Sounds like you’re busy,” Thibodaux said. “I’ll call back.” The big Cajun had a pet peeve against people typing or scrolling the Internet while he talked to them—on the phone or in person. Ronnie gave a silent chuckle, surprised he’d enforce such a notion on a man who was the right hand of the President of the United States.
The tapping stopped.
“As a matter of fact I am extremely busy, Gunny,” Palmer said, giving an exasperated sigh. “We have five chemical weapons experts in custody—two Russians, a Pakistani, a Kuwaiti, and a card-carrying member from the Sword of God’s Chosen from some place in Idaho. Every one of them is capable of manufacturing the stuff behind these attacks. I’ve got six more chemists who have dropped off the radar, not including your guy’s father. So how about you tell me some good news?”
“Well,” Thibodaux said, “it looks like Petyr Volodin is in the grease with the Russian mob so we’re not the only ones lookin’ for him. You want us to come in and help follow up any of those other leads?”
“No,” Palmer said. “Stick with him until we hear back from Quinn. He’s yet to find Dr. Volodin, and the kid may know where he’s going. Quinn can tell us when we can close the book on this trail.”
“Roger that,” Thibodaux said.
“How’s Garcia holding up?” Palmer asked, sounding genuinely concerned.
Thibodaux grinned and gave a thumbs up for Ronnie’s benefit. “She’s good to go, Boss,” he said. “Doin’ great. Any word from our little buddy?” The Marine asked the question about Jericho that was ever on Garcia’s mind.
“Nothing since this morning,” Palmer said. “When last we spoke he was about to follow Volodin out to some remote fishing lodge with Special Agent Beaudine.”
“Oh ye yi!” Thibodaux gave an audible shiver. “I feel me some sorry for Chair Force if he’s gotta fly anywhere with my crazy cousin.”
“Are you saying she’s not capable?” Palmer said, his voice tight and annoyed.
“Oh, she’s plenty capable, sir,” Thibodaux said. “But that don’t mean I’d want to spend a day in the woods with her.”
Chapter 29
Alaska
Quinn made it a practice to carry an extra set of wool long johns in a vacuum-sealed bag whenever he went into the woods. Inside the same bag he kept a box of windproof matches, a candle, and a baggie of cotton balls. Thankfully, his aunt Abbey had grown up in Alaska and shared the same sentiments. She had stuck a similar sealed packet of extra woolies in the duffle she’d thrown together for Beaudine.
The snow came down hard now, driven by a stiff north wind. What had been a barren gray gravel bar just minutes before was now covered in white. Beaudine, cloaked in the same blanket of snow, no longer stirred. Quinn wasn’t even sure she was still alive, but it would only waste valuable time if he stopped to check. Without a fire, there was nothing he could do for her anyway. He estimated the temperatures to be in the high twenties—not particularly cold for interior Alaska
—but the wind chill on wet skin was sucking the life out of both of them. With most of his blood rushing to warm his core, Quinn’s hands were little better than useless claws by the time he’d dragged enough standing dead wood to start a fire beside a large boulder, away from the cold sink of the stream bed. He staggered up and down the bank, swinging his arms in an attempt to drive blood into his extremities while he searched for a dead black spruce that was small enough for him to push over in his weakened condition. He located one the diameter of his ankle and wiggled the spiky gray trunk back and forth. Thankfully, it was easy to tip out by the roots in the shallow topsoil. It was a poor excuse for a tree, but Quinn didn’t care that it had few limbs bigger than a pencil. He was looking for the nestlike crown of needles and twigs the sorry spruce wore like a ratty wig.
Dragging the tree to the flat spot beside the boulder, he dropped it next to the rest of the wood he’d already gathered. Exhausted, he sank to his knees in the snow. His hands shook so badly he thought he might drop the four cotton balls he’d taken from his survival pouch. Leaning over the spruce nest to shield it from falling snow, he stuffed the cotton at the base of the twigs that made up the crown of the little tree. The simple act of grasping a match between his fingers was a Herculean task and he wasted three matches, dropping them into the snow with his clumsy efforts. Delirious, he laughed out loud that his life could hang in the balance over whether or not he had enough dexterity to hold on to a two-inch sliver of wood. The fourth match ignited before he dropped it, landing in the spruce crown rather than the snow. In a state of near euphoria over the tiny flame, he slowly, carefully, began to nudge the match close enough to catch one of the cotton balls. Thick, gray smoke seared Quinn’s eyes and threatened to choke him, but he didn’t dare move for fear that blowing snow would put out the feeble beginnings of the fire. Damp twigs in the spruce crown sputtered at first, but in no time the entire sappy mass burned as if it had been doused with gasoline. The flames cast long shadows in the cold gray twilight, illuminating Lovita’s lifeless body. Quinn wiped a tear from his eye with a trembling hand and allowed himself a moment of melancholy, thinking of how Lovita often said, “turn on” instead of “light” the fire.
