“Six hundred fifty-one meters,” Kravchuk said, seeming to read Zolner’s mind about the target that needed to be ranged. “He has some kind of hunting rifle.”
“Ah,” Zolner said, holding off with the marked hash marks in his scope rather than taking the time to readjust the turret for elevation. “Six hundred fifty meters may as well be point blank…”
The Native man continued to shoot. Bullets pinged all around Zolner and his men, but so far had only hit the airplane.
Zolner took a deep breath, thinking of the name the Native people called him — Worst of the Moon. He exhaled slowly, steadily, locking bone and tendon, letting the crosshairs of the scope settle perfectly still on the man’s chest as he reached the quiet respiratory pause at the bottom of his breath.
The trigger broke with a crisp, three-pound snap, sending 350 grains of copper and nickel alloy screaming downrange at 3200 feet per second.
The Native man pitched forward an instant later, surely dead before he even knew he’d been shot.
“Worst of the Moon, indeed,” Zolner whispered.
Another shot ricocheted off the gravel at their feet — this one from a second shooter who seemed intent to go for more than the airplane.
“Ten o’clock, boss,” Kravchuk said. “Hiding behind that wrecked fire truck. Four six one meters.” Another bullet hit a rock at Kravchuk’s feet and ricocheted away with a zinging whir. Kravchuk didn’t move.
“Fools,” Zolner said over his shoulder as he swung the rifle toward the new threat.
“Wind is gusting north now at fifteen…”
Zolner shot the second man in the neck. “Four hundred meters,” he spat in disdain. “These idiots make it too easy.” He spun back to reacquire Volodin in his scope, but the ATV had vanished, melting into the tundra.
Chapter 43
Quinn let off the throttle immediately when he heard the shots, slowing the boat so he could hear above the burbling grind of the motor. Another band of Arctic weather rolled in from the north, but they were pointed almost directly east and a low morning sun dazzled the surface of water in front of them. With little haze in the clear air and a sun that bounced in a great arc just above the horizon, eye protection was a necessity this time of year. Quinn and Beaudine had been separated from their sunglasses during the crash and now spent a good deal of time squinting.
Quinn had to use his free hand to shade his eyes so he could see Beaudine, who crouched at the bow holding a plastic bucket. Constant vibration from the choppy river caused the wax patch to flake and separate from the aluminum. Water dripped from her elbows as she tried to stay ahead of the incoming deluge with a plastic margarine container that had been tied to the gunnel for just such a purpose.
“You hear that,” Quinn said. He turned his head, birdlike, straining to hear over the idling motor. The frothy wake of brown water that spread in a giant V behind the boat caught back up to them as they slowed, sloshing and slapping against the stern. The current, slow as it was on the snaking river, caught the bow and began to turn it, shoving them back the way they’d come.
Quinn rolled on the throttle again, pointing the boat upriver again as the shots faded away. He’d counted nine. Two of them, spaced by a period of about seven seconds, were much louder than the others, and hung for some time like a loud wind in the chilly air.
Quinn gradually added more throttle, coaxing the little boat forward. It plowed the water grudgingly now, never quite getting up on step.
“Caribou hunters?” Beaudine gave a quick nod.
“Could be,” Quinn said. “But the odds are against it.“
“How far out do you think?”
Quinn willed the little boat to go faster, but three inches of water pooled at his boots. Even with the throttle open as far as it would go, the boat moved forward at a grinding wallow, agonizingly slow.
“I just realized this is a damn good metaphor for my life.” Beaudine looked up from her bailing and shook her head at their progress. “Seems like I’ve been fighting against the current in a leaky boat since I was a kid.”
Quinn nodded. “She’s leaky,” he said, “but she gets the job done. According to Brian Ticket there are three big sandbars between the fish camp and Needle.” He pointed with his chin toward a long, boat-eating spit of brown that lay off the left bank like a sleeping river monster. “That’s number three, if I counted correctly. That puts us less than a mile out of Needle.”
Quinn cheated the boat right in a wide, slogging turn. Riverbanks that fell abruptly away generally provided much deeper water than the more gradual slopes, which could run just inches under the surface for several meters, waiting to catch a boat driver unaware. The last thing he needed was to run aground on hidden sand when they were nearly there.
Quinn breathed a little easier when they made it around the bar.
“Want me to spell you on the bucket?” he asked. “You can drive the boat.”
“I’m good,” Beaudine said, turning to look at him while she bailed. She’d shoved her wool hat into her jacket pocket to keep from overheating, and a gentle wind now tousled her frosted hair. Quinn made it a habit to keep an eye on her sutures, checking for any sign of infection. It wasn’t hard. Sweat and consistent exertion on the water made it impossible to keep the gauze bandage in place. Beaudine had tried at first, but eventually ripped the thing off and threw it in the river.
So far the stitches were holding — which, considering how much Beaudine’s face twisted into a frown or grimace, was very near a miracle. Blood matted her bangs to her forehead, and her left eye seemed to be frozen in a sort of permanent squint. “Cyclops psyops,” she called it, reckoning she’d get the mental upper hand against any opponent that had to look at her. Thibodaux had been right when he’d said his cousin was crazy, but the longer Quinn was around her, the more he saw it as a good kind of crazy. No one had ever accused him of being particularly sane.
“We should be there in less than five,” he said. “But I’m guessing we’ve got over twenty gallons of water. That extra hundred and sixty pounds is slowing us way down.”
“Thought I warned you about that whole math thing.” Beaudine glared at him, throwing water over the side with rapid scoops from the plastic tub. “‘Join the FBI,’ they said. ‘It’ll be fun,’ they said…”
Quinn smiled. A sense of humor could be an extremely valuable asset in a battle plan.
“Seriously,” she said. “How do you want to do this if they’re already shooting at each other?”
“I won’t be sure until we get there,” Quinn said. He’d favored strategy over tactics for as long as he could remember, preferring to work amid the big picture and let the little things flow. Explaining such a mindset so it made sense was nearly impossible, which, Quinn supposed, was why he found himself at ease working with only a handful of people, people who operated under the same philosophy and moved through life the same way. “Movements like this have to be fluid. According to Brian, the school is downriver a couple of hundred meters at the other end of the village from the airstrip. We’ll park the boat there and come in as quietly as we can.”
Beaudine dropped the plastic tub to the floor of the boat, trading it for the AR-10 and looping the sling around her neck. Rifle up, she took a seat at the bow, scanning the banks ahead and no doubt getting her mind wrapped around what was about to happen next. The Kobuk swept back northward, funneling them into the line of winter weather but making it easier to see without the sun directly in front of them. Above, the clouds rolled in, pushed by winds aloft, but the sudden appearance of millions of drifting snowflakes brought foreboding to the river.