Ray’s brother, Frank, nodded at that, but said nothing, preferring to smoke his hand-rolled cigarette while he secured the load on the back of his four-wheeler. He wore a pair of gray sweats tucked into black high-topped rubber boots. An unzipped fleece revealed a red T-shirt stretched tight over a belly even larger than his brother’s.
“And we only have to pay you for the one way?” Volodin said. He was becoming more unsettled by the moment, as if he might fly away in a gust of wind.
“The price covers gas but you’re just payin’ for one way. We’ll hunt our way home.” He slid a lever-action rifle into the fleece-lined plastic boot bolted vertically to the front of the ATV.
“We can reach big city from Ambler?” Kaija said in broken English.
Stubbins tied a plastic jug containing an extra five gallons of fuel to the back of his ATV. “There’s a milk run flight that will take you from there to Fairbanks. You should call and get a seat now though.”
“I lost ID. We have problem with security in Ambler?” Kaija asked, seeming worried, but sounding far from guilty of smuggling deadly nerve gas.
Stubbins scoffed. “There ain’t no security out here. I’ve flown from Fairbanks to Anchorage on some of the smaller planes without them checking ID. Takes longer to get there, but they’re more worried about weight and balance than who you are.”
Kaija nodded, the faintest of smiles perking the corners of her mouth.
Finished packing, Ray lit another cigarette and turned to his brother. “You about ready to go?”
Frank Stubbins cocked his head to one side. “You hear that?”
“We expecting a flight in this morning?” Ray said. He took a long drag on his cigarette and gave a disgusted shake of his head, blowing smoke into the cool air. “Why do all the visitors have to come when the caribou are passing through?”
The roar of an approaching aircraft sent a sickening shiver of panic through Volodin’s belly. The smile vanished from Kiaja’s lips.
Ray looked at Volodin and shrugged. “No skin off my back if you want to hop on that plane,” he said. “They’d probably take you to Ambler if they got seats. Be a lot quicker.”
“No,” Volodin said, abruptly enough to bring a narrow look from Ray Stebbins. “What I mean is, we would much rather travel overland—”
The plane came in low, clearing the housetops of Needle village by no more than a hundred feet, tilting the wings back and forth. They were clearly looking for something.
“What the hell?” Frank Stubbins yelled. “Shithead’s gonna pay for flyin’ that low over the village. I’m gonna kick his ass whenever he lands. What’s he thinkin’?”
Ray Stubbins sloshed through the mud and snow between the houses after his brother, keeping a wary eye on the airplane as it headed toward the gravel runway at the edge of town.
Volodin looked at his daughter, trying to make sense of all the noise. Kaija winked at him, giving a quick nod toward Ray’s ATV. The key was in the ignition.
“What?” He looked at his daughter in dismay. “You mean steal it? We cannot steal from these people. They were going to help us.”
Kaija moved to the ATV, her long leg poised over the seat. She shot a worried glance over her shoulder toward the airstrip. “It is the FSB, father,” she whispered. “They are after you. We must leave at once.”
Chapter 41
August Bowen entered the gym first, peeling right to allow both Thibodaux and Garcia to fan out behind him. Petyr Volodin was just dumb enough there was a chance he’d be inside, and the big Cajun had vowed to give him a little “layin’ on of hands” when next they met.
Thibodaux paused when they were inside and took a deep and audible breath through his nose. “You smell that?” he said, grinning.
“What?” Garcia scoffed. “Old jockstraps and horse liniment?”
“No,” Thibodaux said. “That’s the smell of pain, cheri. And I miss the hell out of it.”
Two muscular Hispanic men stood at a computer screen behind the front counter. Oddly, a large screwdriver stuck up from a broken credit card machine beside the men. Bowen recognized them from a large banner behind the counter as the Ortega brothers, the owners of the gym. Both men wore sweatpants and loose tank tops to display their impressive muscles. They were not the large mirror muscles like those found on a body builder. This was a fight gym, and the broad shoulders and thick necks of the two men at the counter said they practiced what they preached.
“… I’m tellin’ you, bro,” the shorter of the two Ortegas said, chewing on the end of a plastic coffee stirring stick. His name was Maxim according to the wall banner. “Luis is gonna kill it at the shock put this year.”
“It’s shot put, dude,” Raul, the taller of the two brothers said. “You’re sayin’ it wrong.”
Maxim shook his head. “No, it ain’t,” he said. “And you’re a dumbass. I said it that way all my life—shock put.” He over-enunciated the k and t of each word, puffing out his chest as if he could prove himself right with bluster.
“You’re the dumbass.” Raul laughed out loud. His eyes shifted toward Bowen, amused. “I’m pretty sure it’s shot put.”
Thibodaux stepped up to the counter. “Do you know what you call the big metal ball they toss around in the event you’re talkin’ about?”
Maxim shrugged.
“The shot,” Thibodaux chuckled. “Not sure if that helps.”
“What the hell you want?” Maxim glared.
Raul stood beside his brother, glaring. Shot or shock, it was clear they were united when it came to outsiders.
“We’re looking for a guy named Petyr Volodin,” Bowen said.
Garcia moved to the end of the counter taking a quick peek behind it. They’d decided before they came in that she’d be the one to look for hidden weapons.
Maxim folded his arms across his broad chest. “Never heard of him.”
“Really,” Bowen said. “Is that the way you want to go, genius? Because that looks like his picture on the wall with his arm around your shoulder.”
The muscles in Maxim’s jaw tightened. “Are you cops?”
“They are,” Thibodaux said. “I’m just their pet ass kicker.” He snapped his fingers. “Tempus fugit, boys. Times a wastin’. When’s the last time you saw Petyr the Wolf?”
“Forget it,” Maxim sneered. “The gym-client relationship is sacrosaint. You know what I’m sayin’”
Raul threw up his hands. “The word is sacrosanct, you stupid…” He looked at Bowen. “Look, we don’t talk to cops about our friends.”
“Yeah,” Maxim said. “There ain’t no law that says we have to.” His eyes played up and down Garcia. “You come back later without your pimps, chica. I’d be happy to talk to you.”
Bowen reached across the counter and slapped the plastic stir stick out of Maxim’s mouth. He squared off for a fight, but Garcia pushed him back.
“I really wish you tough guys would let me stomp my own cockroaches.” She glared at Bowen. “Would you slap someone who insulted Thibodaux?”
“He can take care of himself,” Bowen said, glaring at Maxim Ortega.
“Well guess what, mijo,” Garcia said. “So can I.”
She spun quickly, ripping the screwdriver out of the credit card machine and shoving it into a surprised Maxim’s groin, denting, but not quite piercing the fabric of his sweatpants. A string of Spanish curses Bowen couldn’t understand flew from her lips.