Field of Fire

by Marc Cameron

  “Yes, ma’am,” Beaudine said. “I’m putting you on speaker.”

  Pond gave a quick rundown of all the security measures that were being put in place at the last minute—a testament to the adaptability of a population of Anchorage who knew they had no one else to count on for the first thirty-six hours of any emergency.

  “Still no sight of Feliks Zolner,” she said. “We’ve blasted out a photo of Kaija Merculief over emails and internal databases. Every gun-toter in Alaska who’s ever even heard of the JTTF is either standing post or out looking for this girl.”

  “Any luck narrowing down the venues for possible targets?” Quinn said. He kissed his daughter on the top of her head.

  “The ones we discussed are all soft targets,” Pond said. “What’s your take on the play at the Performing Arts Center? It fits the profile of the football-game attack in Texas. The place is packed with families and kids. We’re going to evacuate the building when everyone gets up for intermission in a little over half an hour.”

  “Good idea,” Quinn said, rubbing his face in thought. “Tell me about the thing at the Dena’ina Center?”

  “The American Forum for Citizenship,” Pond said. “Turns out the Forum is sponsoring a state competition for youth. Something called Students for Civic Action—or SCA. About three hundred middle school and high school students from all over the state are competing—add the parents and teachers to that, and it’s a pretty juicy target as well. That’s the place APD accosted the federal judge they thought was Zolner.”

  “Is he still there?” Quinn asked.

  “He wanted to stay but the Marshals talked him into leaving. Wasn’t too hard when they reminded him what the gas did to the people in Dallas.”

  “I’d like to check out that site,” Beaudine said. “The new Black Hundreds hates everything the West stands for. American citizenship and civic action seems like something Kaija would want to stop.”

  “She’s right,” Quinn said. “That would make a statement. Trooper Evans said he’ll drive us. The Performing Arts Center is just a block away. We’ll check the Dena’ina first, then head over and watch for her when you evacuate the play.”

  “Very well,” Pond said, ending the call.

  Quinn kissed his daughter on the head again before picking up the duffle of fresh clothes his ex-wife had brought him and heading for the men’s room.

  “I guess I better go change too,” Beaudine said. “Hate to look at myself in the mirror though.”

  “Hang around Jericho for too long and you’ll get wounded,” Kim said.

  “I’m not wounded,” Mattie said, frowning at her mother.

  Kim shot a glance at Beaudine. “He said you looked out for him out there. Thank you.”

  “I would have died eight times without him,” Beaudine said.

  “Maybe so,” Kim said. “But it keeps him going when he has someone to save.”

  * * *

  Two Anchorage Police officers wearing navy blue jackets and black wool watch caps against the cold October evening allowed Trooper Evans through the roadblock on D Street outside Fifth Avenue Mall. A Kevlar helmet was clearly visible inside the open door of one of the cruisers, within easy reach. Each officer had a three-foot hickory baton in a ring on his belt beside the black bag that contained a gasmask. “Hats and bats” meant they were prepared to get serious about the roadblock. Beaudine couldn’t help but think how much less civilized civilization felt since she’d seen it last.

  APD had roadblocks at all four possible targets, but they’d cordoned off an area of twenty-five city blocks in order to conserve manpower while grabbing both the Dena’ina and the Performing Arts Center inside the perimeter. There was still no mass evacuation at this point. They just weren’t letting anyone inside.

  Trooper Evans took his SUV through a secondary roadblock as he turned off G Street and parked in a loading zone on Seventh Avenue in front of the Dena’ina.

  “We’re dealing with nerve gas here,” Beaudine said as she got out of the backseat. “We have plenty of plain clothes agents inside. There’s no need for you to go inside.”

  “Nice try,” Evans said, giving her an easy grin. “But you’re not getting rid of me that easily. I’m an Alaska State Trooper. We blend in around here like the postman.” He nodded to a very green looking APD officer posted at the entrance. “Plus, it’ll keep you from having to show your badge all the time.”

  The exterior of the Dena’ina Center was essentially a wall of windows all the way up to the top floor, three levels up. Even before they went inside, Beaudine could see the crowd of people packed into the lobby and reception area. Proud parents posed for pictures with their children in front of a life-size copy of the Constitution along the far wall. Exhausted adults took the time, after what must have been a long day of competition, to drink mock champagne and recharge. Beaudine estimated there were at least two hundred people in the lobby alone. Some program must have just ended upstairs, bringing a steady flow of flushed youth and beleaguered adults down the escalators.

  Quinn turned as soon as they got inside. “Who’s the agent in charge here?”

  Beaudine looked at the note she’d scribbled on her hand. She was so tired she didn’t trust herself to remember. “Margot Fischer,” she said. “A supervisory agent with the Bureau.” She stood on tiptoe trying to get a better look at the faces in the packed lobby, then nodded toward the elevators just across from the entrance. “We need to get to higher ground.”

  “Agreed,” Quinn said, pushing his way past a table of teenage boys wearing white shirts and American flag ties. “The elevators are this way. See if you can get Fischer on the phone. This place looks ripe to me.”

  “Think we should evac?” Beaudine asked.

  “I’m all for that,” Trooper Evans said. “If I was going to pop gas for maximum effect, this would be the place.”

  “Let’s take a look from up top first,” Quinn said, turning in front of the elevators. “Something’s bothering me. Dr. Volodin says his daughter has become extremely anti-Semitic. From what I read on the plane, the Black Hundreds are all about a pure, white Russia.” He turned to push the elevator call button. “Why would Polina help out in such a cause? And if she’s so prejudiced, why would Kaija Merculief link up with a Native?”

  Trooper Evans shook his head. “Polina isn’t native.”

  “What?” Beaudine took a step back.

  Evan’s scrolled through his phone. “I worked the Kobuk for three years while I was stationed in Kotzebue. Polina Stewart is as gussaq as they come.”

  “She’s white . . . ?” Beaudine said. “But . . . we talked to her.”

  “We talked to someone.” Quinn looked at the trooper. “Pregnant, early twenties, little birthmark at the corner of her lip.”

  The elevator door opened and they stepped aside for a dozen spit-shined youth on their way to the reception in the lobby.

  “That’s Ruby Ingik,” Evans said. “She’s Polina’s best friend so I’m not surprised she covered for her.” He held up his phone to show a photo of a pretty brunette in front of the faded yellow house in Ambler. “This is Polina,” he said. “Easy to recognize her from the half-shaved head.”

  Beaudine let out a deep sigh. “So we’re looking for a pregnant woman with an undercut . . .”

  They stepped onto the elevator.

  Quinn pressed the button for the third level. “If she’s even preg—”

  The distinctive crack of a rifle from the floors above cut him off at the same moment the elevator doors slid shut.

  Chapter 63

  Quinn’s hand dropped to the grip of his Kimber the moment he heard the shot. His first reaction was to try and get back off the elevator, but his gut told him to move toward the sound of the gunfire.

  “Sounds like Kaija Merculief is down,” Trooper Evans said, head cocked to the side, listening to his radio earpiece.

  “Where?” Quinn asked. The elevator chimed as it passed the second floor. />
  “Bottom level,” Evans said. “She was dressed like the staff serving at the lobby reception. No word who got her yet. And no sign of the gas.”

  “We need to evacuate,” Quinn said. “And get that picture of Polina out to everyone. I’m betting she’s still out there.”

  “Roger that,” Beaudine said.

  “I’ll send you the photo,” Evans said. Since he was in uniform, he stood at the door, ready to make a hole in the crowd that would surely be fleeing the sound of the shot. When the elevator doors slid open, it wasn’t a crowd they faced, but the cold blue eyes of Feliks Zolner.

  The Russian grabbed the trooper by his collar and pulled him straight into a brutal punch in the jaw. Evans sagged, staggering forward and falling to one knee as he tried to regain his footing. Directly behind him, Beaudine rushed in, knocking Quinn sideways in the close confines of the elevator. Zolner was a foot and a half taller, but he was startled by her presence and earned himself a solid slap to the ear before he was able to swat her away. The feisty FBI agent grabbed his arm, rolling up in a ball and kicking out with both legs at the Russian’s exposed gut. He bellowed, more in frustration than pain and slammed her against the edge of the elevator door like a hammer, scraping her off but losing his backpack in the process.

  Keeping up his momentum, Zolner rushed into the open elevator, driving Quinn backward and upward, shoving his head and shoulders through the opaque plastic ceiling. Kimber in his hand, Quinn raised both arms to protect his head and face from the metal support structure as the giant Russian slammed him upward again and again.

  A thin piece of steel frame hooked on the right arm of his leather jacket, yanking the Kimber from his hand and leaving him suspended from the top of the elevator like a punching bag.

  Head above the ceiling, Quinn wondered why no one was helping him. Pulling upward in a frantic effort to unhook himself, he twisted and kicked to keep Zolner at bay. He heard a chime above the throbbing of his own pulse and felt the telltale lurch as the car began to descend.

  Still suspended and trapped by the heavy leather of his jacket, Quinn spun in a full circle, narrowly avoiding a slash to his own throat on the jagged plastic of the demolished ceiling. The Kimber lay right in front of him on a metal ceiling support, less than an inch from the edge, one good nudge away from falling into the elevator. Quinn knew if the Russian got his hands on the pistol while he still hung like a side of beef, it would be over in an instant.

  Quinn doubled his efforts and pulled up with his right arm, straining against exhaustion and the old wounds in his shoulder and ribs. Below, Zolner must have seen blood weeping from the shotgun-pellet wounds. The Russian began to pummel him mercilessly in the thigh. Sick to his stomach from wave after wave of pain, Quinn clawed for the gun with his free hand, missing it by a fraction of an inch, but gaining enough of a handhold on an upright metal strut that he was able to unhook his sleeve.

  Quinn hit the floor hard, bending his knees but feeling it in his teeth. He was able to keep his feet but Zolner towered over him, raining down sloppy but powerful blows. His back to the cold wall of the elevator, Quinn covered up, blocking the blows with his elbows and forearms. The Russian had ten inches of height, a good foot of reach, and seventy-five pounds on Quinn. A glancing right hook slid off his hand and into his forehead, staggering him and shoving him sideways. He followed the motion toward the corner, dragging his feet so as not to get them tangled in the process.

  The corner could be a friend and force multiplier in close-quarter battle. It gave Zolner a diminishing V in which to attack and protected Quinn from the wide and ungainly haymakers the big Russian seemed to favor. This forced Zolner to bring his attack straight in.

  When Zolner committed with a left jab, Quinn parried, stepping into the shadow of the much larger man and punching downward into Zolner’s unprotected groin. The blow was surely nauseating but had the added shearing effect from the angle. The Russian roared, bending forward in pain and putting his chin in perfect line for Quinn’s left uppercut. The blow would have finished the fight on a lesser man but Zolner lashed out with both hands, catching Quinn in the ear by accident with a massive left paw.

  Quinn fell back to his corner arms up, looking for a new angle of attack. He caught a look of something he hadn’t expected in Zolner’s eyes. It wasn’t fear. Quinn was not sure the big man had the capacity to fear. Zolner was unsettled. Just as a shooter needed a respiratory pause before a shot, a fighter had to be settled—fully joined in battle.

  Zolner was a bully and he was big. His previous opponents were surely little more than victims of a quick gunshot or beat down. There was a good chance that no one had ever had the audacity to fight back. The taste of his own blood was something new and it was clear in the Russian’s eyes that he wanted to be finished with it.

  Sloppy as he was, Zolner moved like a machine, with each ungainly punch packing just as much power as the last. Quinn felt himself fading and knew he had to do something to even the odds. He’d fought taller opponents before, and found that if he couldn’t bring them down to his level, he could usually use parts of their body to climb up and get a good choke or strike.

  Waiting until Zolner stepped forward with another left jab, Quinn pushed off the wall to step onto the top of the Russian’s exposed calf muscle, intent on climbing up his body and enveloping him in a choke. Fatigue and pain made him a fraction of a second too slow and Zolner grabbed him around the hips. Roaring what were surely Russian curses, he battered the ceiling again and again with Quinn’s head and shoulders. Shards of broken plastic ripped Quinn’s jacket and cut his head and neck, raining down on Zolner. Arms up in an effort to fend off the metal ceiling supports, Quinn saw the Kimber on the third trip up.

  In the fog of battle, everything but getting his hands on the pistol fell away from Quinn’s mind. It took him two more trips through the ceiling, but he was able to grab it on the way back down. Without pausing, he flicked the safety down with his thumb and shot Zolner in the top of the head.

  * * *

  The elevator doors opened at the first floor to a phalanx of blue. APD officers in gasmasks poured in around him. Quinn let the Kimber fall to the floor and raised his hands. The hydrostatic pressure of a 10mm round through the top of Zolner’s head proved devastating. Blood and bits of the Russian covered Quinn’s chest and belly. Even his face felt moist. Two of the officers dry heaved into their masks.

  “Federal Agent!” Quinn muttered, dazed from exhaustion and the after-effects of adrenaline.

  One of the officers stepped in to grab Quinn by the shirt and drag him out of the elevator, away from Zolner’s lifeless body. The officer passed Quinn off to someone else, then secured the pistol.

  “Get your hands behind your back!” The second officer said, putting a thigh lock on Quinn’s neck. His voice was tense, disembodied from the gasmask filter.

  “I’m . . . I’m a . . . federal . . .” Quinn said, his words garbled gibberish in his ears. “Beaudine? Polina? Gas?”

  “FBI!” Khaki Beaudine’s Texas accent cut through the fog of Quinn’s mind.

  He was vaguely aware of her pushing her way through the uniformed officers to stoop down and help prop him against the wall.

  “Polina?” He asked again, trying to get to his feet.

  Beaudine patted his arm keeping him down. “She’s done, Jericho. She was about to deploy the gas. I had to shoot her with the .22 rifle Zolner had in his pack. It’s the same gun he used on Kaija.”

  “Wait,” Quinn said. “Zolner shot Merculief, and you shot Polina?”

  “Yes and yes,” Beaudine said. “Polina was bent over the gas canisters down in the lobby. I didn’t have a choice. That shaved undercut made it easy to spot her.” She gave a somber shake of her head. One of the sutures above her eye had pulled through the skin during her altercation with Zolner. “She’s not going to make it, but an ambulance is taking her to Alaska Regional now to try and save the baby.”

  “The New Arch
angel?” Quinn muttered, feeling the dark edges of the world creeping in around him. Repeated bashing against the elevator ceiling had taken its toll.

  “APD has it in hand,” Beaudine said, patting his shoulder again. “With the eight canisters Jacques got in New York and the dozen in Kaija’s case, that makes the twenty Volodin said were out there.”

  Quinn swayed for a moment, staring into her face, grinning stupidly. “Ha,” he said, before his world went black. “You just did math . . .”

  Epilogue

  Anchorage, three days later

  Quinn left his mother’s pickup in the public parking lot off H Street and walked with Jacques Thibodaux up Third Avenue toward The Marx Brothers Café. Ronnie Garcia and Beaudine were already in the restaurant. The big Marine lumbered along in a relaxed gait as easy as his Cajun accent, scanning the evening traffic with his good eye. Quinn limped from the ache of the shotgun pellets in his thigh. His right shoulder hung a few inches lower than his left. Mattie called it “wonky.”

  Quinn had given the Troopers the location of the plane crash and they’d been able to retrieve Lovita’s body. He and Beaudine would both return to the bush the following morning to attend the funeral in Mountain Village.

  “I’m feelin’ sorry for that Russian chemist,” Thibodaux said, falling into the philosophical funk that was his custom after any mission.

  “He did manufacture the most deadly nerve agent the planet’s ever seen,” Quinn said.

  “And our scientists will reverse engineer that shit and make even more of it,” Thibodaux said. “Should we go after them next?”

  “I’m just saying he’s not an innocent,” Quinn said. “But I guess none of us are.”

  “It’s still a shame he’s losing his mind and the only kid he’s got left is a useless bag o’ ass.” Thibodaux nodded toward the small, gray cedar shake house that was The Marx Brothers Café, suddenly brightening. “The girls are in there comparing notes on us.”