Hard Cold Winter

by Glen Erik Hamilton

  “Come here.” Reuben’s voice. “You’ll appreciate this.”

  He grabbed the zip tie that was around my elbows like a handle, and dragged me across the floor. He was strong enough to make it a fast journey. The sharp plastic of the zip tie bit into my skin, and the blessed pain whisked away the last of my dizziness.

  Reuben propped me up at the corner of the workbench. “Look,” he said, striding over to the boathouse wall. A dozen large black duffel bags were stacked near the door. Reuben lifted one with a grunt of effort and unzipped it as he brought it over to me. “I brought the party.”

  There were three steel boxes inside the duffel, each about a foot square and half an inch thick. Each box was open at the top, revealing the inside packed with gluey, cream-colored Tovex depressed into a V.

  Shaped charges. Closed on all sides to direct all the kinetic force of the detonation into that V. The blast wave would slice through just about anything. They used charges like them to demolish buildings.

  “We made fifty of these in the last two days,” Reuben said.

  The two squat Bratva thugs came into the boathouse. They were wearing blue pants and matching coats. JURLEE PETRO was in white across their backs. Kasym barked something at them in Russian, and they each picked up two of the large duffels and shuffled out the door as quickly as they could manage under the weight.

  Reuben yanked the stool around, where he could sit in front of me. His eyes looked electric, despite the bags of fatigue underneath. Cranking himself up with coke or meth or maybe both.

  “It takes some hours to set all these in place. Like dominoes. But oh, it will be worth the wait.” He winked at me. “You’ll see.”

  “What will I see?” I asked, slurring the words.

  “The culmination,” he said. “I like that word. It’s a new one, for me. You have been one stinging pain in my ass, but now I understand why. It was destiny. Because you were supposed to be here.”

  “Where?” There were tools on the worktable. Maybe something that could cut through my zip ties. If I could convince Kasym and Reuben that I was still out of it.

  “Don’t play stupid,” Reuben said, as if he’d heard my thoughts. “I know you’ve been watching, you and your uzko glaziye friend. He’s the same little shit who was at your house when Kasym threw our message through your front window, yeah?”

  A message. The bomb had just about killed all three of us, and it had most definitely killed the house.

  Leo. He’d have been watching BerPac. He would have called the cops.

  “No, no,” said Reuben, giggling as he read my mind again. “No help from him. We thought you might come poking in, little rat. After he put you on the dock, I called some soldiers of my own. They waited for him to come back to shore. Bye-bye, slant-eye.”

  Oh, Christ.

  Kasym walked away from the worktable to the boat. He pulled a wheeled trolley over next to the dock’s edge, and then jumped down agilely into the cockpit and disappeared into the cabin.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. I dunn unnerstan.

  Reuben sighed. “Maybe we inject a quarter dose, next time. Okay. No point in bringing you here if I don’t explain.”

  That’s right. I’m too stoned. Go away and let me see what’s on the table before your killer, Kasym, gets back.

  Instead Reuben reached up to the table, took a roll of duct tape, and wound a long strip of it around and around me and the four-by-four workbench leg. Stuck. Very. I tried hard not to let the comprehending fear show in my eyes.

  Reuben grabbed a bucket off the floor and marched over to dip it into the water, on the end of a slim rope tied around its handle. He came back and tossed the water into my face. The icy salted jolt across head and chest felt like a baby brother to the Taser. I gasped.

  “Good,” said Reuben. “Not much time, and I want you to know everything I’ve done for you. Fucking ingrateful shit.”

  He was angry. Happy, too, because Reuben was always the happiest of psychopaths. Anger was new.

  “I tried to bring you in,” he said. “I told you the world was changing. That it was my time. Didn’t I?” He pointed at the remaining duffel bags. “That’s my proof, right there. Kasym dials his phone and all the little bangs go off like firecrackers. They destroy the retaining wall at the waterline. They cut holes in those fat tanks, and let the pressure inside spray the jet fuel and diesel for a hundred meters. A tsunami of one million barrels all over that corner of the island and all the water around it. And then—”

  He gestured with his thumb at Kasym, who was using the Cobalt’s hoist to lift something large and heavy off of the powerboat, out of the crate I’d seen in its cockpit. It was bluish-white and shaped like a stretched barrel. I’d seen some like it, on airfields in Iraq.

  An MK-77 incendiary bomb. Kerosene and white phosphorus and God knew what else. Over seven hundred pounds of Hell.

  Reuben gave me a huge smile. “And then we light the match.”

  THERE WAS NO POINT in pretending any longer. I was stuck tight. “You’ll kill thousands,” I said.

  “Oh, hundreds only. Maybe less. Not the point, really. I’m not a fucking anarchist.” He said it like I’d offended him.

  “Then why?”

  “Magic, Van my man.” He was excited now. A kid looking forward to Christmas morning. “The biggest trick in the world, with everyone looking the other direction. Police. Fire. Every-fucking-one of them. Can you imagine?”

  I could. I could imagine a fire that was unquenchable, so hot that it burned right through the concrete island itself to the water. Millions of gallons floating and ablaze in the Sound. A bonfire higher than the gantry cranes, devouring the huge freighters. Crossing the eighth of a mile to the Seattle shore, where it would find a new feast in the piers and boats and buildings.

  “You’re going to steal the metal shipment. All of it,” I said to Reuben. My voice sounded hollow.

  “That’s right! Very good, Van. But the metal is just money. A means to an end.” He spread his arms wide, as if to embrace the world. “Right now there’s more than seventy million dollars at our dock on the other side of the island, just waiting for me. We’ll load it as soon as we hear the first bang, and be gone before the cops shut the island down.”

  “Lev will bury you. Even if you are his son.”

  “Papa will be dead before anyone unravels what happened.” Reuben said. “Right now he’s in the air, coming in from Irkutsk. By the time his Gulfstream lands here, his money will be my money. Lev will not see Russia again.”

  He got off the metal stool, picked it up, and calmly threw it twenty feet across the boathouse. It landed with a crash and I heard Elana cry out in muffled alarm from behind me. Kasym barely paused in loading the incendiary bomb onto the wheeled trolley.

  Reuben sat down cross-legged next to me. Two buddies having a heart-to-heart.

  “Lev is ancient. He didn’t even question why the BerPac orders had spiked so much. I created fake companies, to buy lots and lots for this shipment. I told you. It’s my time. And the seventy million is my war chest. The Brotherhood captains who aren’t already on my side will be gone, just like him. We are ready.”

  His face distorted. The jollity and even the anger cracking like dry clay, so that the madness showed through. “I wanted you to be my friend, Van. You got the skills, the smarts. When that insect Broch came to me and said you were poking your nose into Kend Haymes, that you’d busted up his gambling place and his men, I laughed. Of course you were too much for him. I told him I’d take care of it.”

  There was a tiny bubble of saliva at the corner of Reuben’s mouth. The bomb was tied to the trolley now. Kasym wheeled it slowly toward the doorway.

  “And I did. I did right for you. Kasym ended them both, so no more problems from Broch.” He waved a finger at me, chiding. “But you’d keep fishing. I knew you would. Right then was a very risky time for you to get too close. So we gave you a distraction. Sorry about your house, but you
know. You shouldn’t be attached to things.”

  Things like Luce, and Leo. “You’re fucking bughouse, Reuben.”

  His slap came so fast that there was no pain at first, just a snap of my head to the left and a flash of light.

  “I did you a favor. And you repay me by what? Trying to skull-fuck the best day of my life?” His voice cracked. As he looked at me a new mask slowly formed, this one of sadness. “You could have been rich.”

  He stood and began loading the last of the duffels with the shaped charges onto the trolley, next to the incendiary bomb. Kasym stepped onto the boat and shouldered a full rucksack onto his back. He adjusted the straps as he spoke Russian to his chief.

  Reuben picked up a red packet made of soft plastic from the table. The packet was about half the size of a shoe box. He and Kasym walked over to the incendiary bomb on the trolley, and began conversing. The red packet had what looked like a digital timer on the side. Wires led from the timer into the packet. As I watched, Reuben twisted the dial on the timer and red numerals appeared.

  I didn’t speak Russian, but I got the gist. Firebombs rupture and explode on impact. The red packet was a small bomb, probably crafted from the Tovex. It would provide the kick that would set off the much much bigger and hotter bang of the Mark 77, once there was a lake of refined fuel surrounding it. Reuben slapped Kasym on the shoulder and put the packet bomb into the top of the hard case’s rucksack.

  Kasym heaved his weight into moving the laden trolley out the door, just as the two thugs in their Jurlee Petro costumes came back. The duffels were gone. Most of the shaped charges, excepting the few Kasym had on the trolley, would be in place now.

  One of the squat bruisers pointed at Elana and said something to Reuben.

  “Yeah,” Reuben agreed. He pointed to me. “Here.”

  The thugs walked over and picked up Elana and set her gently down in front of me. Her eyes were wild and she was drenched in sweat. They yanked the strip of tape off her mouth and she spat out the wad of rag.

  The three men got into the Cobalt. Reuben started the engines and began backing out of the boathouse. He looked over and gave me a blissful smile.

  “You know what the very best part is? Why I decided I needed you both to be here at the end?” he said. “When the cops eventually ID your bodies, they’ll tie her to Kend and the stolen explosives. They might even think that you, hero soldier man, were working with them, building the bombs. Cable news will eat it up. Terrorist plots. Beautiful girl. Rich family.”

  The boat was clear of the dock. Reuben shifted into forward and the engines rumbled with power. He raised his voice over their growl.

  “It’s all very romantic.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  OH GOD,” SAID ELANA. She was curled up, still hoarse from the cloth gag. “God.”

  “Elana,” I said. “Elana, look at me. Get up on your knees. Now.” She started moving, but I wasn’t sure if she’d really heard. I bent my legs and planted my boots on the cement floor. The zip-tie bands squeezed into my thighs.

  She focused on me. Her eyes seemed clear of the effects of the drug, but there were bags of exhaustion underneath.

  I tilted my head toward the man on the ground. “Is he dead?”

  “N-No.” She’d gotten herself onto one side, but it was too precarious and she fell back. “They gave him a shot. I saw it.”

  “Wake him up. Hurt him, if you have to.” She started squirming his way, like a worm.

  I pushed hard with my feet. Harder. My boots had traction, and the leg of the worktable ground into my spine as I pushed with all my strength. I could leg-press a thousand pounds. Sprint like a motherfucker. Maybe I could tip the table. Break the four-by-four leg off. Anything.

  Nothing. The table might have been bolted to the wall, for all it moved.

  Elana made it to the man in the coveralls. She shouted in his ear. Bit him on the cheek.

  “He’s too far gone,” she called.

  “Then you’ll have to get on your feet. Find something on the table that can cut me loose.”

  “He’s got a little screwdriver. In his chest pocket.”

  “Grab it.”

  She went to work with her nose and chin. No whining. No delay. A smart girl in a tight situation. She worked a tiny Phillips head out of the boathouse worker’s pocket, got its yellow plastic handle in her teeth, and started worming her way back.

  Elana used my legs as a step to get onto her knees, her back toward me. Her hands were close to my chest. She dropped the screwdriver onto my stomach and got it into her hands.

  “Start punching holes in the tape,” I said. “Don’t worry about aiming. As many as you can, as fast as you can.”

  It took a bunch of attempts before she got into a rhythm. The screwdriver’s point jabbed my bicep and chest muscles a dozen times, and a dozen more, the pain welcome as each tiny dot appeared in the tape.

  I leaned forward, hard as I could, like I was trying to hoist the entire table onto my back. I felt a strand of the tape pop. Another.

  “Keep going,” I tried to say, and all at once the tape tore and I fell clumsily on my side.

  I twisted up onto my forehead and got my knees underneath me. I took one practice bounce, kneecaps banging hard into the floor, and with the next one jumped up onto my feet. I leaned against the table to stay upright and see what it held.

  A claw hammer, with two more screwdrivers and a bunch of painting supplies. Blunt pliers and bits of wire left over from Reuben making the packet bomb. Nothing that would cut the thick plastic of the zip ties. There was a metal toolbox, closed but lid unlatched. I craned way over and used my head to knock it to the floor. It spilled its contents with a jangling crash.

  Just tubes and soldering bits and pieces and a small propane torch with pistol grip and blue fuel cylinder, probably for tiny welding jobs on portholes and copper pipes. No utility knives or box cutters.

  Oh, shit.

  I knew what I had to do.

  I fell to my knees and worked my way over to the torch. Got the nozzle between my fingers and hopped awkwardly back to Elana.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  “Stay right there,” I said. “Lean against the table.”

  I worked the fuel cylinder of the torch in between her lower legs, just above her bound ankles. The brass nozzle pointed outward. It looked like a snout of a cartoon character, puckered up for a kiss.

  “Hold very still. And don’t look,” I said. “Jesus.”

  “Are you laughing?” said Elana.

  “Nervous response.” I turned and felt blindly until I got the pistol grip handle between my hands. It was clumsy. The trigger was under my ring finger and pinky. I had to squeeze as hard as I could. Squeeze click. Squeeze click. Click Whump as the flame started, singeing the hairs on my forearm. It settled into a steady, sibilant breath.

  I took two long, slow breaths of my own. Made my mind go somewhere else, where what was about to happen was just a picture on a television screen seen from far away.

  This was really going to hurt.

  I leaned backward. My wrists dipped toward the torch. Its flame licked my hand and I matched the torch’s hiss as I got the thick plastic of the zip tie into the right spot. Was it melting? It was all by feel, I couldn’t see behind me. The heat on my wrists went from bearable to the instant horror of someone sawing my hands off with hacksaws. I pulled against the zip tie, muscles popping, away from the flame. Burning plastic dripped down onto my fingers. I might have screamed. Fall backward, tip over the torch, and Elana or I or both of us could be ablaze in an instant.

  Then my hands flew apart, just as far as the strap around my elbows would allow. I gasped and choked with the immediate respite. I wanted to throw myself into the cold water of the boathouse. Drowning would be an afterthought.

  “Van,” Elana was saying. I nodded shakily. We weren’t safe yet.

  With my hands unbound, I picked up the torch and began to cut Elana�
��s hands and elbows free. She got singed, even with me keeping the flame away from her skin, but she only showed it in clenched teeth and the occasional curse. After that, the rest of the cursed plastic ties were easy.

  There was no phone in the boathouse, and the only boat in the wide slip was a dinghy with oars. Not even an outboard.

  “Can you row?” I said to Elana.

  “I guess. But you—”

  “No.” There wasn’t time for help to get here. Kasym might be preparing to set off the shaped charges right now. The big blast would follow moments later. Uncontained, with the winds in the worst possible direction, I could even envision the blaze reaching the skyscrapers of downtown. There weren’t enough firefighters in the state to stop it, once it got momentum.

  The boathouse worker was still out cold. I picked him up and set him in the dinghy.

  Elana climbed in and began fumbling with the oars. “Van, you don’t have to stay.”

  I untied the lines and pulled the dinghy to the mouth of the boathouse and pointed its bow towards the Seattle skyline.

  “Get to the opposite shore. You go to the first person you see. Forget explaining the truth. Tell them this guy’s your dad and he’s had a heart attack. Get their phone, and call 911 and say the words bomb and Jurlee Petroleum as quick as you can. Fill in the rest after. Understand?”

  She did. Her face was pale and stricken and fierce around the cat-green eyes.

  Before I ran out of the boathouse, I grabbed the claw hammer off the worktable. Better than nothing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE OMINOUS CLOUDS FINALLY opened. Splotches of icy rain began to patter onto the ground. Sleet dripped thickly from the chain fence of the petroleum farm. Reuben’s men had cut a large, square hole in the fence to wheel the trolley with its deadly payload onto the property.

  In the dark, the tanks looked like a pagan holy site, a twenty-first-century Easter Island. Some reservoirs were lean like grain siloes, some fat like small stadiums. Each perfectly rounded and glistening in the gentle yellow lights that shone from the top. Even the patchwork bits of light and shadow on the ground were curved.