by A P Bateman
The hut was an Aladdin’s cave of equipment, past and present maintenance projects and tools. King couldn’t see anybody, but he could see where they had been. A prima-stove and dirty coffee cups were scattered on a workbench and there was the aroma of coffee on the air. King closed the door behind him and started around the hut, picking his way through and around the equipment. Two snowmobiles were in pieces, tools and parts left on the floor. King picked his way around them, side-stepped a broken wardrobe and that’s when everything went blank. He was aware of falling, his ears ringing and a flash of white behind his eyes. He landed heavily amongst the tools and parts, felt a searing pain to the back of his head, followed by a groggy numbness. He fought unconsciousness, his inner voice screaming at him to fight. He felt someone step on his foot, and he rolled onto his back in time to see Huss coming at him with a wrench raised above his head. King kicked out with his other foot and caught the man in his groin. Huss wasn’t used to pain, and he did not take it well. He grimaced and halted his attack, which gave King enough time to kick out again, harder this time and to the side of the man’s kneecap. Pain was a fickle emotion, and inflicting it was a science. The man’s groin was already flared, and the brain was sending endorphins to numb the area. Another kick to the same place, and the effect would be partially anesthetised. The kick to the knee sparked a whole new experience, and the brain would already be struggling to prioritise. King dropped his heel onto the man’s instep, and Huss went down not knowing where to hold or comfort, his survival instincts overtaken by three areas of excruciating pain. King sat up, picked up the wrench and struggled to his feet. He looked down at Huss, raised the weapon above his head and raked it down onto the man’s knee. There was a crunch of bone shattering and the man wailed, his entire body clenching before he writhed on the floor.
King was angry. He didn’t appreciate somebody trying to kill him, but he had been given enough time to make the decision to wound the man in front of him and not drive the wrench deep into his skull. Timing was everything, and he had been given enough time. He looked around the hut, found a length of rope and snatched it up.
“Who are you working for?” King asked, looping the rope into the start of a slipknot.
Huss grit his teeth and sucked through the pain. “I’m not,” he grimaced. “Not willingly, at least.”
King bent down and slipped the rope around one of the man’s wrists. He pulled him over, yanked the other arm behind his back and fastened both wrists together. He pulled Huss to his knees and pressed him to the floor through his shoulders. The man screamed as his knee took up pressure, and he gave him a moment to counter the pain.
“What do you mean?”
“My family,” Huss winced. “They’ve got them under watch in Helsinki. If I don’t cooperate, they will kill them.”
King hesitated for a moment but looped the rope around the man’s neck and trailed it back to his feet. He cast another slipknot, looped it around the man’s ankles and pulled tightly. Huss grimaced, then sobbed. He was bent unwillingly into the foetal position, before King tested the gap around his throat and neck. Satisfied that the man was going nowhere, and if he tried he would tighten the rope around his own neck, King stepped back and leaned against the desk, his head feeling light and verging on dizziness.
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” Huss said. He was clearly in pain, but it would be easing. Well, all but the shattered knee. That would smart for a while yet. The hog-tied situation he found himself in was a more immediate problem for him. “They send pictures of my daughter on her way to school, of my wife when she goes to the gym. I am up here all winter and they have told me to tell my family not to visit, but to stay down in the city.”
“Where’s your phone?”
“In my inside pocket.”
King retrieved it and looked down at him. “Passcode?”
“One-zero-nine-four.”
King got into the phone and studied the texts. There were plenty, but nothing suspicious. He looked at the call lists. One recent in-coming.
“What did you tell them?” King asked.
Huss hesitated. “That the side exit was safe, the front entrance too. That your force numbered five and that my staff were to be spared at all costs.”
An explosion sounded and although they did not feel the rumble of the detonation, the noise was enough to cut out the howling wind for a few seconds.
“And does that sound like they give a shit about your staff?” he asked, picking up the assault rifle.
Huss tried to shake his head. “No,” he said solemnly. “It does not…”
72
Caroline led the way, scanning in front of her through the tiny sights of the Makarov pistol. Marnie was tucked in closely behind her. She carried a can of the bear spray. It was more like a weed-killer gun with a co2 canister screwed into the bottom. The manager had informed them that it had a ten-metre range and was good for four shots. Ramsay followed, the pistol held towards the floor, his finger off the trigger. Rashid stood behind Natalia and brought up the rear. He reached around her and tapped Ramsay on the shoulder and passed him the rifle.
“Sorry, mate, but I’m taking that.” He took the pistol out of Ramsay’s hand and the man took the rifle more out of reaction than choice. “You get behind me and carry that for me.”
“What? I’m your bagman now?”
Rashid smiled. “Bagman, side-kick, that sort of thing…” He eased Ramsay back by his collar and aimed the pistol over Caroline’s right shoulder.
“Consigned to carry your equipment?” Ramsay said indignantly.
“Well, when you’ve put twenty-thousand rounds onto targets in the Killing House at Hereford, or half-million rounds down the range,” Rashid paused. “Or a couple of thousand on the battlefield, then you can argue who carries the most suitable weapon and who carries the spare kit…”
“Boys, boys, boys,” Caroline chided. “Now isn’t the time. Whoever is covering, peel off and check the stairwell as I make my way down.”
Rashid did just that, using the gap between the staircases to take up aim.
Ramsay looked at the rifle in his hands. “Is this ready to fire?”
“Yes, but I’d rather you didn’t. There’s only three rounds left…”
“Oh, I’ll just fling myself in front of the bullets if you like…” He shook the rifle. “Use this as a bloody club!”
“That’s good of you, thanks.” Rashid grinned. He looked past Ramsay and said, “We’ve got company…”
The chef and the waitress were running down the corridor towards them. They had been told to take cover under the beds in a room at the rear of the hotel but had clearly had a moment of panic.
“We’ll come with you!” the chef shouted. “I’d rather take my chances outside than with the rockets!”
The waitress looked terrified, nodded enthusiastically.
Caroline looked hesitant, then relented. “Okay,” she said. “But hang at the rear and follow us. We’re not babysitting you, though. There’s a vehicle parked up on the west side. Get in it and take cover…” They both nodded, and Caroline looked at Rashid. “Ready?”
He nodded and aimed the pistol down over the bannister. Caroline eased her way down the flight of stairs and when she reached the bottom, Rashid guided Natalia forwards then made after her, overtook the her and Caroline, and Caroline covered the next flight of stairs with the pistol as he took point. Ramsay nodded for the chef and the waitress to follow, and he closed the rear holding the rifle in a manner akin to one of the cast members of Dad’s Army. He had already decided that if he lived through this then he was going to get some weapons training. He hadn’t signed up for this, and always preferred his comfortable office over anything he’d done this past year. But if he continued to find himself in these situations, he was going to bring more to the party.
Rashid checked the area of the lobby he could see, signalled for Caroline to join him. The wind swirled through, raining
debris on the reception desk and office wall. It was difficult to see, and the temperature had dropped twenty degrees from upstairs. Rashid pulled up his collar and zipped his suit up tightly. Caroline copied him but crouched when she saw a movement. Rashid hadn’t seen it, but he dropped down all the same and aimed his pistol in the direction she had been looking. There was a flicker of flame as the muzzle flash flared in front of them and bullets slammed into the stair treads above them.
Caroline fired twice and ran out to the reception desk, taking cover behind the thick oak. She signalled to Rashid for him to cover her and when he fired three successive rounds, she leapt up, kept low and made her way along the length of the desk. There was a burst of gunfire and when it stopped she dodged out and fired two shots. She was buffeted back into the desk, but she had seen a splash of red against the white snowsuits and had heard a howl. The injured man in front of her turned and kicked his way through the wooden boarding and charged into the ice hotel. Caroline was about to follow, but heard Rashid screaming for her to stop. She remembered the IED setup that Rashid had constructed, and she ducked back to the cover of the desk.
The sound of detonation was deafening and shut out the howl of the wind for a moment as the series of explosions tore through the ice passage and large chunks of ice blew out through the opening and peppered the walls adjacent to the reception.
“Stay put!” Rashid shouted above the wind. He half ran, was half blown across the lobby to her. “There are two devices in there. Low yield, but maximum effect. He’ll be crushed flat by the roof to the tunnel. Leave him.”
Caroline tucked in beside Rashid as they made their way back to the staircase. “What the hell was that?”
“Those bear-scaring bangers, some fuel and few things out of the kitchen. A trip wire and a rough-pull fuse. A bit old-fashioned, but deadly.” Rashid shepherded her into the lee of the stairwell, out of the wind. There was a lull and he found himself shouting too loudly. “We’re doing the bloody conga here with these two tagging along,” he said, nodding towards the chef and the waitress. “Let’s get them someplace safe and find King. What about the wine cellar?”
“But that will not be safe!” the waitress said incredulously. “There are bombs dropping, people with guns and the storm is still raging. We are safer staying with you!”
“I think she has a point,” Ramsay said from behind her.
“The mortar rounds have stopped,” said Rashid. “I got the man operating the mortar from upstairs.” He shrugged. “That’s three with the guy in the ice hotel and that makes four with the man I took down when we rendezvoused with the asset…” He looked at her and said, “Sorry, I mean Natalia.” Natalia shrugged like it was nothing.
“So, there are still more unaccounted for. And where is Niles, the hotel manager?” the waitress asked. “And the two Russian workers?”
Rashid spun around as a metallic scraping was clearly audible, and a cannister around twice the size of a soft drinks can rolled through the lobby and came to a stop against the reception desk. He turned back to the group and shouted, “Grenade!” Before crashing into Caroline and landing on top of her amid an explosion of smoke and shrapnel and a flash of hot white light.
73
The service stairs were just like others that King had seen in expensive establishments around the world. Smooth concrete, no carpet and narrow. A way of getting the staff to where they had to be without cluttering up the stairs for paying guests. The lighting warranted no shades, just simple low-energy light bulbs hanging from bargain-budget ceiling roses above each landing. It was a stark reminder of the façade of a hotel. That people worked hard behind the scenes but were never wanted in sight unless they were waiting on or serving drinks. Nobody wanted to see a fifty-year-old chambermaid who earned minimum wage struggling along with armfuls of soiled sheets and used towels.
King kept the AK-74 ready. He had ditched his jacket in the hall below and wore his all-in-one snow suit undone to the waist like a wetsuit. He was sweating in the heat of the sealed stairwell. The destruction of the glass and the roof meant that much of the hotel was well under minus-twenty.
The wind had died down, and the cloud was now blocking out the sky to the east which gave some ambient light in which he had been able to view the destruction to the grounds. Many trees had fallen, and the once pristine snow was now covered with a thick layer of pine needles and twigs. King could not see any of the hunter force in the treeline, but the mortar rounds had ceased. King had rounded the ice hotel but would not chance the boobytraps that Rashid had put in place. He had entered the hotel from the main entrance and made his way down the ground floor corridor, where he had picked up the service stairs and started to climb. He had heard an exchange of gunfire and the unmistakable sound of one of Rashid’s IEDs detonating somewhere in the distance, and if he was not mistaken, a grenade from somewhere in the body of the hotel. He had resisted the urge to meet the gunfire head-on and continued to climb. He wanted to find Caroline and the rest of the team and the best place to start would be at the top of the hotel and work his way downwards.
There was no electric upstairs. The mortar rounds had taken out wiring as they had impacted and torn through the floors, taking an entire electrical circuit with them. The air was savagely cold, a blustery sixty-mile-per-hour wind still blowing ice crystals and debris through the corridor, the glass having blown out in most of the rooms. Some doors had been left open, and the wind cut through the corridor with savage effect. King paused, took a knee and pulled the snowsuit over his arms and shoulders. His perspiration had almost frozen in the fifty or so paces he had taken from the sealed service stairway. He stood back up, semi-shouldered the rifle. He had passed three rooms, the doors all blown off their hinges. The ceiling was hanging down in front of him, and the floor beneath was creaking under every footstep. He listened for movement, but the wind made that too difficult. Shards of glass dropped from the frames, shattered as they hit the debris on the floor.
King stopped as he reached a service door on his left. He stared at the floor, the discoloration on the carpet visible in the half-light. He stepped aside, checked the handle but it was locked. He bent down, touched the stain. It had frozen, but he could tell it was congealed blood. His heart started to race as he thought about Caroline. Then the same pang of guilt as he thought about the rest of the team. He stood back up and aimed a well-placed kick with the sole of his boot at the door beside the lock. It didn’t give, but after two more, the frame started to splinter. King stopped, caught his breath and checked both ways down the corridor. Satisfied it was clear, he lunged in for another kick and the door gave and crashed inwards. He brought the weapon up to aim but knew he wouldn’t need it. He relaxed his guard but was far from comfortable at the sight. He had seen worse, but that wasn’t something he’d never brag about. That was for him alone to live with, and the longest hours before dawn was when he thought about those things and sleep was a lost companion.
The Russian barman and waiter had been trussed tightly. Seated on the floor, back to back, their hands bound in front of them, their ankles tied together tightly as well. To stop them working their way free, they had a long length of rope wrapped around them, cutting tightly into their elbows and stomachs. They had been gagged, too.
The manager was sprawled on his back, unbound and frozen in the horror of his last moments. Most of his head was missing and had splattered on the Russians behind. King could see a ragged hole in the manager’s right hand. He could see how it had gone down. The Russians had already been captured and contained. The manager had been thrown inside the room. He would have been scared and panicked, unable to comprehend what was happening. Possibly more so when he saw the two men already imprisoned. But whoever had killed them had aimed the gun at the manager first and out of reflex the man had shielded himself with his hands, most likely begging for mercy. The bullet had travelled through the man’s hand and into his forehead. The Russians would have been terrified now, knowing thei
r fate. A single gunshot to each man’s temple had turned this prison into a tomb and as the bodies ticked and twitched their way to stillness, that same person had calmly closed the door behind them.
King pulled the door to, leaving it open just a crack on stretched hinges and a broken lock. He drew a deep breath and shouldered the weapon again. Further along the corridor, the gallery walkway ended, and the north-facing rooms started. King couldn’t kick in every door he came across, but he stopped at the first open doorway and could see where Rashid had made his firing point. The bench, cushions and ejected brass on the floor. Four rooms on, and it was much the same. Another ejected bullet case, cushions propped up on a sideboard in the middle of the room. King hoped Rashid had found his targets. The man’s sniper skills were legendary in the SAS. Although not committed to paper, his antics were exaggerated in the mess and bar, not even Rashid knowing the proper distances anymore.
As King neared the stairwell, he heard a noise. Distant, but consistent. Footsteps on carpet, getting closer. He swung himself out onto the landing and lowered himself in a crouch with his weapon trained on the woman at the bottom of the flight of stairs. He recognised her as the waitress, and the fearful expression on her face said it all. She was terrified.
“Please, help!” she exclaimed.
