Black Gold Deception

by Jess Walker

  Lawrence Woods admired the view below. Rolling hills of evergreens stretched across the horizon, intersected by the turquoise blue waters of a lake, which gradually narrowed into a river. The cold northerly wind caressed his face and felt soothing against his rough skin. He had long, unkempt hair and a thick bushy beard that clung to his face like an overgrown bush, acting as a shield and an insulator against the cold.

  The other men stood behind him, hunched over and wheezing for air after the long trek up Porcupine Mountain. Lawrence, on the other hand, was not tired after the three-hour long hike. He was used to such physical activity as he often went for hikes double the distance, over terrain far more dangerous and rugged.

  He turned around and surveyed the mixed assortment of men standing behind him. He was running a three-day wilderness training retreat at Porcupine Mountain National Park, a cluster of small mountains located along the shoreline of Lake Superior in northwest Michigan. Lawrence had been leading groups for the better part of two years with a great deal of success. His talents and leadership qualities put him in high demand, usually with big corporations looking to enhance relationships with their top executives.

  How Porcupine Mountain got its name was a subject of debate. The most accepted answer was that the First Nations who lived there centuries ago thought the tree covered mountain tops of the area looked like a silhouette of a quill-covered porcupine. The name had been passed down from generation to generation until it was formally adopted as the official name. Home to the largest tract of old-growth forests west of the Adirondacks and a vast assortment of wildlife including black bear, deer, timber wolves, river otter, and moose, it was a popular destination among outdoor enthusiasts of all walks of life.

  “Everyone okay?” Lawrence bellowed.

  His baritone voice cut through the air like deep, rumbling thunder.

  The men nodded, too out of breath to speak.

  “Good, once you get your lungs back, check out the view. If you’re afraid of heights, don’t look down, only straight ahead, as your knees will likely give out.”

  There were eight members in the group of men. Most looked like high-level executives, the suit and tie type for a company named Bluenose Energy, a Multinational Corporation in the oil business. Its latest project was the building and designing of a controversial oil pipeline traveling from the oil fields of Alberta, Canada to refinery plants in Louisiana, Mississippi, Texas, Alabama, and parts of Mexico.

  Once the group had taken in the view, Lawrence suggested they build a fire and take a break before they retreated back down the mountain to base camp. All the men in the group agreed. Each of them was dog-tired, cold, and somewhat miserable.

  “If you want a fire,” Lawrence muttered, “you’d better get going and find some wood before we all turn into ice cubes. Don’t get yourselves lost, either. Stay within earshot of me and with your hiking buddy at all times,” he hollered as the men went in search of some wood.

  They returned shortly after with branches, leaves, and tree bark, pretty much anything that was combustible. Lawrence got a healthy fire going. The men sat around the fire, most with their boots off letting the fire warm their feet. The light chatter of the group was muffled periodically by the occasional laugh and cough mixed with the hissing and crackling sounds of the fire.

  Lawrence was a keen observer of people. He sat back and watched the group dynamics at play, taking notice of the different personalities. The leaders and followers were easy to spot. Whether obnoxious, boisterous, or quiet and shy, each contributed in their own way to the social interactions unfolding before him.

  Most of the men fit the generic description of a middle-aged man: thinning and graying hair with an extra spare tire around the mid-section. With the exception of one much younger looking man, two of the men stood out, as they didn’t fit the typical executive profile. Lawrence found this peculiar. Their complexions were rough and tanned, their arms bulged with muscle, their bodies were lean, and their hair was full but cropped short.

  “How’s everyone making out so far?” Lawrence asked as he threw another piece of wood onto the fire.

  The light chatter stopped, replaced by an awkward silence until someone spoke up. The leader of the group, known to everyone as Bubba, was a pudgy man with rosy cheeks and a receding hairline. He croaked, “If it wasn’t so damned cold out here, it would be fine. I can’t feel my feet, and my lips have gone numb.”

  He spat a wad of chewing tobacco onto the hot coals of the fire. A dribble of tobacco juice rolled down his chin, and he wiped it off with the back of his hand. Vincent Anderson, AKA Bubba, was pushing sixty and had an uncanny resemblance to Winston Churchill. Lawrence had read that Vincent had done well in the oil industry. He had worked his way up the ladder, starting his career in the oil fields of Texas as a roughneck, doing the dirty jobs of connecting and disconnecting pipelines along with countless other low-level jobs. From there, he quickly climbed the ladder thanks to his tireless work ethic and competitive spirit, winning anything and everything at all costs. His rise to power, as the CEO and owner of Bluenose Energy, had been swift and methodical like a surgeon, eliminating all threats as though they were cancers.

  “What’s the plan for the rest of the day?” Bubba asked. The words fumbled out in a lazy Texan drawl through his nicotine-stained teeth.

  “When everyone is ready,” Lawrence replied, “we’re going to travel back the same route we took to get up here and, seeing as we’ll be going downhill, we should be back before sundown to enjoy a couple of warm beverages and a hot meal.”

  Lawrence glanced around the circle of men sitting around the fire. This was only the first day of the three-day retreat. The men didn’t appear to be engaged or enjoying any part of the experience. The two burly men were speaking in hushed tones with each other. Even though he couldn’t comprehend what was being said, the intensity and weight behind their words set off internal alarm bells. His intuition told him trouble lay ahead. Almost immediately, he felt a sense of dread and a chill ran down his spine. He would have to be vigilant.

  To clear the air and perhaps calm his own fears, Lawrence decided to play on the offensive and call the two men out.

  “You two okay over there?”

  Attention shifted to the two men. Neither men said anything, but both glared at him. A brief moment of silence passed until Bubba broke in.

  “Forgive me for my rudeness. I don’t believe I’ve informed you that Sergei and Leo are my security detail. As they are Russian, their English is a bit weak. They’re responsible for my safekeeping as well as that of all my employees.” He spat out another wad of tobacco. The stream of brown fluid landed close to Lawrence’s boot, an act that bordered on belligerence.

  Both Russians nodded their heads and acknowledged him. Lawrence returned the nod with one of his own. He decided not to probe the matter any further as he felt a potential confrontation coming on. Why is Bubba as well as his security detail so defensive, he thought? He knew Bubba had a temper that got the better of him at times and once he got going, it was hard to stop. It would be best to say or do nothing. At least for the time being.

  Questions began to circulate in his mind as to why Bubba felt it necessary to bring security with him. He could understand if they were in an urban area that was heavily populated, but on Porcupine Mountain, there wasn’t another soul for miles, just the immediate members of the group. The only formidable threat would be from a bear or a pack of wolves, which was highly unlikely.

  An uneasy feeling gnawed at him as he glanced again at the two men and Bubba. He noticed the similar dragon tattoos sprawled down the sides of the Russian’s’ necks.

  Interesting, Lawrence thought, but why the same tattoo? Do the drawings represent some kind of brotherhood?

  A short while later, with hiking bags packed and the fire put out, Lawrence led the procession of men in single file down the mountain.
Much of the ground cover consisted of dead pine needles blanketed over a thin layer of soil spread across flat bedrock. The sound of the wind whistling through the pines coupled with the creaking of trees swaying and bending under its pressure drowned out any other sound. Talk was kept to a minimum. Each man chose to remain silent, as it was hard to be heard over the wind.

  Stops were made periodically during the descent to allow members of the group to get a breather and take a water break. Lawrence used each stop as a teachable moment, showing them something of interest, whether it was a survival skill, wildlife common to the area, or interesting features of the landscape.

  “Gather up,” Lawrence hollered. “Let’s throw out a scenario, one in which you are stranded in a place like this. What are your priorities for ensuring you live to see tomorrow? In other words,” his voice grumbled, “what the hell are you going to do to survive?” He stared each man in the face.

  “If it’s as cold as it is right now, the temperature hovering around the bone chilling mark, you want to keep yourself warm,” Lawrence said. “You want to keep your core body temperature elevated to prevent yourself from getting hypothermia.

  “What must you do to stay warm, you ask? There are a couple of things,” Lawrence continued. “You can start by building a fire. What could be warmer than the heat given off by a fire? But don’t overexert yourself, because once you do, you sweat. You know what happens if you sweat and stop moving when it’s cold outside?” he asked. “The sweat will intensify the effects of the cold and sap the heat right out of you. You’ll feel like you’re sitting in a bathtub full of ice cubes and from there, your problems only get worse—anything from blue lips, frozen hands and feet, to slurred speech, you name it.

  “Another way to stay warm is to build a shelter so that you’re better protected from the elements. Find a spot that is dry, shielded from the wind, and high enough up to prevent water from pooling. It could be an overhanging ledge, a hollowed-out tree, a cave, an uprooted tree, or even under the lower branches of a pine. Once the shelter’s location is found, you can add stuff to solidify it, such as building a wall, roof, or a floor. To insulate it, use dead leaves, branches, grass, and pine needles—any type of natural material that will create the dead air space needed to keep the cold air out and warm air in.”

  “Shall we carry on?” Lawrence asked.

  The group obliged with a collective moan. Each man got back to his feet. What was left of the day went by in a blur. They reached base camp at dusk, just as the snow started coming down heavy. The snowflakes felt more like pin pricks as the strong winds blew the snow sideways. The cabin was a crude collection of logs underneath an old rusty tin roof, situated in a nook of pine trees overlooking a meadow. A partially frozen stream flowed at the far end of the field. Inside the cabin, a single lantern hung from the ceiling in the center of the room. When lit, it cast a dull light over the interior, illuminating a table, a wood burning stove, cots on the periphery, and a large fireplace at the end.

  The rusty hinges screeched, as the door was pushed open, scraping along the old wood floors.

  “Come on in!” Lawrence hollered.

  Before heading out that morning, Lawrence had jam packed the wood stove with wood and had built a hardy fire in in the fireplace. The cabin was warm and welcoming. With their faces glowing red and their feet numb from the cold, the men clambered inside. After their boots, hats, and winter gear were stripped off, they enjoyed steaming mugs of hot apple cider and hearty beef stew. With night slowly descending and darkness blanketing the land, the whistling wind eventually died down to a light breeze, replaced by an eerie silence.

  Later that night, Lawrence noticed a younger man who looked noticeably uncomfortable. Wanting to ease the man’s nerves, he decided to strike up a conversation. “I haven’t met you yet, your name is?”

  “D-Dexter,” the man stammered.

  “Is everything okay?”

  Dexter dismissed him with a fleeting smile. “Oh, I’m fine. I feel a little sick. Maybe I have altitude sickness or something. I’m going to try to get some sleep… se if that helps.”

  “Okay. Let me know if I can help you in any way.” Lawrence watched the other man cross the room to his bunk bed. His movements were stiff, and Lawrence noted the way his eyes darted back and forth between the Russians and Bubba. Something was definitely going on with this small group. He could sense the tension in the air.

  CHAPTER 9

  November 3, 2016, Late Evening—Porcupine Mountain…

  After a final card game and a few more drinks, the men retired to their cots. Most of them fell asleep the second their heads touched their pillows. Lawrence, however, struggled to stay awake as he sensed that danger was close. Fatigue eventually caught up to him, and he drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep. He was awakened in the middle of the night by the pitter-patter of footsteps shuffling toward the door. The creaking and groaning of the floorboards compressed under foot punctured the silence of the room. The door opened and closed, and Lawrence assumed someone needed to use the outhouse. Moments later, he heard more shuffling, followed by several dark shadows, swiftly exiting the cabin. He glanced at the cot beside him and noticed that Dexter was not in it. He got up and gingerly walked past the sleeping men, doing a quick head count. Two other cots lay vacant. They belonged to the two Russians.

  Lawrence put on his boots and winter gear. Upon reaching the door, he paused and took a deep breath before he gently pulled it open. The door creaked in protest. He stepped outside and pulled it shut. The snow and howling winds had died down. Only a light dusting of snow swirled about in the gentle breeze. He stood still and listened for sounds out of the ordinary, noises that would indicate the Russians knew they had company.

  The ground was covered in a thin layer of snow, which clung to the frozen surface like paper on glue. It exposed three sets of tracks, all of them boot prints leading around the cabin toward a thicket of trees where a lone outhouse sat. He grabbed a snow shovel resting against the side of the cabin and followed the tracks, walking as quietly as possible across the snow-covered ground.

  When he reached the outhouse, he saw the door was open, but nobody was inside. The tracks continued past the outhouse, through the woods, toward the stream. He gripped the shovel a little tighter when he saw drops of blood sprinkled along the edge of the trail. His heart began to race as he realized his suspicions had been accurate. Dexter was in a world of trouble, and Lawrence was probably his only lifeline.

  Lawrence followed the trail into an open field and stopped to scan the area around him for anything unusual. He spotted movement in the distance. Three shadows at the edge of the stream came into focus. Each was silhouetted against the dull gray glow of the night sky: Dexter and the Russians. It had to be.

  Shouts could be heard as he drew near. The one advantage he had was the element of surprise. If he could sneak up on them unnoticed, he stood a chance of coming out on top. If he had to go toe to toe with them, he might end up in the same predicament as Dexter—beaten, broken, and bleeding.

  He was twenty feet away and closing in. Both Russians stood at the edge of the stream with their backs to him. One smoked a cigarette while the other pushed the kid’s head in and out of the freezing water. Lawrence hadn’t been detected, at least not yet! He continued to creep closer and closer until he was behind a boulder, five feet within striking distance. Both men were oblivious to his presence. The trickling sound of water edging its way down the partially frozen stream coupled by the gentle breeze and the ensuing altercation helped masked his approach.

  “Talk now, kid, or you’re going to die!” Leo hissed.

  Dexter gazed up at him. He swayed back and forth, barely able to stand. Leo looked down at him with a look of superiority. He grasped a handful of Dexter’s hair in the palm of his hand. Dexter’s one eye was swollen shut and his nose was smashed in, but he still managed to flash him a sm
ile.

  “Kill me if you have to, I’m not going to talk!”

  Leo snapped Dexter’s head back down with a violent jerk, submerging his head under the water, holding it there for what seemed like an eternity until finally pulling him back up. Dexter spat out a mouthful of water, coughing violently and wheezing for breath.

  “Where is the memory card?”

  His question was answered promptly by Dexter. A spray of spit—a mixture of blood, saliva, and mucous—landed on the Russian’s face. The Russian, with hands the size of a giant’s, responded without hesitation. He cuffed Dexter across the side of his head with an open hand, knocking him down, then grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled him back up to his knees.

  Leo glanced over at Sergei who took a deep draw of his cigarette. He flicked the butt end into the water and exhaled the remaining smoke from his lungs. The expression on his face remained blank, but his black eyes sparkled with a look of anticipation over what needed to be done next. The corners of his mouth curled up into a sadistic grin.

  He took out his Glock and held it inches away from Dexter’s face. He muttered in a thick, Russian accent, “Last chance, speak now or the fish will be eating your brain bits for dinner.”

  Dexter was a beaten down man. With no fight left in him, he hung his head, not bothering to acknowledge his assailants.

  Lawrence knew the time for watching was over. He had to act before it was too late. Without hesitation, he sprang out from behind the boulder, wound his shovel up, and swung it at the man with the gun. The makeshift weapon hit Sergei flush against the side of his head, knocking him out cold. Leo’s jaw dropped, stunned by the sudden intrusion. He let go of Dexter and fumbled to retrieve the gun tucked under his waistband but was a half second too slow. Lawrence swung the shovel at him. The blade of the shovel connected flat against his forehead and nose. The blow knocked him senseless.

  Lawrence stood frozen. He looked at the scene before him trying to comprehend what had just happened. The two Russians lay unconscious. He looked over at Dexter who was sprawled out on the ground, face down in the snow. He ran over to him and rolled the younger man onto his back.