Cold Snow: A Legal Thriller (29 page)

At last they reached a grove where Alex held his hand up, calling for them to stop. Hart protested, saying they had to keep moving to shake off their pursuers.

"We don't even know if anybody's chasing us!" Alex said, raising his voice. "Besides, look at all these trees…this whole place is a disguise. They won't find us."

"Shut up and listen for a moment!" Sarah called. She was standing beside a tree a few yards from them.

The footsteps of several men could be heard amid the whistling wind.

"What are you waiting for!?" Sarah shouted. "Get moving!"

Alex, Hart and Anthony immediately dove through the wall of trees and headed for the river.

One of the men yelled something to the other three; Sarah judged him to be the leader. Three of them, including the one that had shouted, turned toward the river. One continued toward the grove, directly for where Sarah was hiding.

Sarah was standing, facing the tree. She dodged into his sight line and fired twice, missing both shots. She quickly took cover again behind the tree.

The Moose Killer fired several shots past her, unable to hit her through her cover.

He was getting too close. She had to move.

Sarah dodged backwards and headed for a bank of bushes to her right, shooting twice more and again missing.

She ducked and rolled as the Moose Killer blasted at her. The bullets streaked dangerously close but missed.

Behind her cover she checked how many bullets she had remaining. Three.
Better than nothing…

The Moose Killer had vanished, presumably taking his own cover. Sarah scanned the row of trees and the riverbank beyond.

The man appeared again, firing a series of shots at her, which again barely missed. Sarah crouched low behind her bush, then rolled out and stood up. She let off another shot and stood facing the Moose Killer, ready to attempt what she thought was her only chance. Sarah advanced.

The Moose Killer fired. Instinctively she flung out and arm and felt the bullet strike the edge of her hand. Her left hand was instantly covered in blood. Cursing, screaming and fighting back tears, she continued moving forward, held the gun before her with both hands, and shot him through the stomach.

He collapsed on the ground. She aimed at his head and closed her eyes, not wanting to hear what came next. She squeezed the trigger, and instantly had a vision of somebody else lying on the ground, a fired to his head.

Still fighting tears, she picked her way through the trees to see how the rest of the battle was going.

Alex was crouching on all fours beside the riverbank, waiting for a shot he knew would come soon. His adversary was hunting him along the stretch of land beside the water's edge. When there was a single shot he would know the position of the Moose Killer leader. Then, the fun would begin.

Alex looked over to the far bank. Between the trees, he swore he saw a creeping shadow, but seconds later knew he had imagined it. He held his gun ahead of him, waiting for the sound.

Hart cocked the rifle as he ran to the right along the banks of the river. There was somebody in the brush on the opposite bank, somebody who was looking for Hart as Hart looked for him.

He ducked behind a pine as a volley of shots rang out. For a split second after, the man was visible on the opposite bank. Hart hurled himself out from behind the tree, fired off a round of shots in the general direction of his opponent, and rolled down the snowy hillside, bullets striking the ground behind him.

He had one chance, and that was to keep the assassin from drawing a bead on him. What Hart forgot, though, was that the snowy slope eventually came to an end. It was too late for him to stop before he flew off the slope and crashed into the river.

Spitting water, struggling to get his balance in the current, he saw a spray of bullets hit the water to his left. Looking wildly for some cover, he spied a bank of reeds, and dove behind them, dodging another hail of fire.

The Moose Killer was ready, much readier that Hart, and they both knew it.

His shadow flashed between the trees as Hart aimed his rifle once more.

Hart fired wildly, at everything on the opposite bank, and heard a scream. The Moose Killer had collapsed, crumpled, and fallen to the river, staining the blue water red.

Hart closed his eyes, breathed, and hurried up the hill to rejoin the fray.

Anthony charged his enemy's shelter before the gunman had time to react. He leapt over the pile of fallen branches and kicked the Moose Killer to the ground. Anthony cursed—it wasn't painful enough, the ground in this small wood being cushioned all over with twigs and needles.

The assassin's gun was in his hand as he fell back, making it impossible to steal. Anthony threw his pistol to the ground. It was empty, useless.

He put up his fists, ready for a fight. The Moose Killer forced himself to his feet, but before he could raise his gun, Anthony struck a blow to his right hand. It was forceful enough to send the gun into a tangle of bushes, irretrievable.

The Moose Killer turned and adopted a battle stance. He was very fast, dodging to the left and right, leaping away from Anthony's fists. He struck the first blow, a jab to Anthony's face. Anthony keeled over backwards and struck the pile of branches.

As the Moose Killer raced at him, preparing to strike again, Anthony threw himself upward and forward, barreling his full weight into the hitman. Anthony grabbed the assassin's face, the assassin seized Anthony's throat, and they fell to the ground, kicking, punching and clawing.

Just when Alex was considering moving, he heard the shot ring out from the trees not far from where he was crouching. Ignoring Sarah, racing down the slope; and Hart, standing with the rifle in the river; he hurried toward the spot where he'd heard the sound. He forced through a pair of trees, a distance from the riverbank, and saw a man pointing a gun at his face.
Sarah and Hart moved at once when they heard the same gunshot, the one that had been meant to land in Alex's heart. Following the same route to the same trees, they found their leader standing at the base of a tree, and found themselves at the end of the same gun.

The first thing the assassin did was hold Anthony down by his throat, and then attempt to choke the life out of him. Anthony, flailing wildly, kicked the man in his knee. The man cried out and relinquished his hold. Anthony scrambled backwards and hit the man in his face. He fell backward.

The assassin leapt to his feet as quickly as he had fallen, and punched Anthony again, a left hook that sent him crashing into the tree and subsequently to the ground. Unable to rise as fast as he needed to, Anthony resorted to groping wildly on the ground for something he could use.

His hand closed around something solid.

"I'm glad you're all here," the killer said, in a very light French accent. "Now, all that remains is who to kill first. Let's start with…hmm…ah, yes! The girl!"

He clicked off the safety and pointed at Sarah.

Alex's mind lashed out. "No!" he shouted. "Sarah—she knows something you need to know!"

The Moose Killer instantly changed his expression from a hardened poker face to a barely masked surprise. "What does she know? Tell me!"

Sarah had latched onto the plan the moment Alex had shouted. "It seems to me that if I tell you, you'll kill me."

The Moose Killer's face contorted with rage. "Fine!" he said at last. "I'll kill the boys and take you with me to see the boss. Would you like that!?"

Then Alex saw it again—a dark shadow between the trees.

Drawing up again, Anthony found that he had clutched a branch from the pine tree. The assassin's eyes widened in shock and anger, and he struck Anthony again. Anthony's face was now bleeding, but he gritted his teeth and swung the club.

It hit the Moose Killer in the side of his head. He fell to the ground, motionless and bleeding from his head. The battle was won. Anthony hurried from the wood.

"You've forgotten something else."

The killer sighed in exasperation. "You are simply stalling your inevitable death!"

"You've been eating fish, haven't you?"

Everybody—Hart, Sarah and the killer—was confused at this. "What?"

"I said, you've been eating fish," Alex repeated. "There's a lot of fish in this part of Canada. It's on every menu. And when you tracked me through the wilderness, you probably lived on fish as well. Am I right?"

The killer's gaze faltered. "What do you mean by this?"

"I mean," Alex said, "that you've been eating so much fish that the smell is on your skin, and in your bloodstream."

"What are you talking about!?" The killer was enraged.

"Out here," Alex said, "that comes with certain risks."

Then the shadow pounced.

The killer screamed, but it was already too late. The animal reared up long enough for Alex to examine it: a stately black bear, as tall as two of him. He slashed at the Moose Killer, tearing his face, his chest, his stomach, his limbs.

While the bear was occupied with the assassin, the three ran, needing no instruction.

They met up with Anthony at the riverbank, each of them describing how they'd won their battle.

"Are they all dead?" Hart asked.

"They're dead," Alex said, smiling broadly, "and Ordonez is going to answer for this."

CHAPTER 21

The Moose Killers

In the heart of Ottawa, there was a building which was not tall enough to be called a skyscraper, but tall enough that it blended in with the landscape of downtown. None of the Ottawans that passed it every day paid it any heed—not those that walked hurriedly and purposefully, nor those that strolled, nor those that didn't seem to do anything in particular. All anybody knew about it was that it housed a corporation called The McTavish Group, and few Ottawans could say for sure what services they provided.

If you walked inside it, you'd see a lobby, containing a small, unpretentious fountain, black tiled walls, and usually a few men in expensive suits standing in the corners, talking on cell phones. A reception desk, sometimes with a receptionist that changed every few days between different men and women, stood in one corner, but rarely did anybody with The McTavish Group need reception services.

Then you'd go into an elevator, up to the ninth floor, and down a lavishly carpeted hallway with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side and oak paneling on the other. Down right to the end where a pair of double doors made of translucent glass stood, marked with the words:

Boardroom

Do not disturb during meeting

If you opened those doors you'd see a table full of men, dressed (depending on their distance from the head of the table) in everything from cheap polo shirts to tailored pinstripe suits. These were tough men, the kind you wouldn't cross if you didn't want to wake up in the hospital.

But at this moment, all of their attentions were focused on the end of the table, and a man with slick dark hair and medium build, bent over a chessboard as though it were the only thing in the universe. He tentatively put his hand out and touched a piece.

"Rook to e5 would force check…no! Stalemate."

He withdrew his hand. The men around the table exchanged glances but knew better than to interrupt him.

"Knight to c3…then the king must go…"

He examined the board for a second, checking all possible options before moving the king diagonally to the right.

"And then…"

He pushed the white bishop two squares.

"Checkmate!"

He replaced all the pieces in a compartment under the board, put the board under the table, and looked around at the board members of the McTavish Group.

"Well, gentlemen, I think it's time we called this meeting to order."

A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair sitting to the left of the chairman spoke with a British accent. "Monsieur Potard, I think an update on our objective is needed."

The chairman waved his hand. "Go on, Mr. McTavish."

"Well, unfortunately," McTavish shifted nervously in his seat, "we appear to still not possess what we need. But I assure you, we're working as hard as we can."

Potard continued to sit calmly through the news, and then slowly rose from his chair, turning to face McTavish. "My dear Edmund," he said, slowly, "I don't think I have to remind you that we are on a very, very tight schedule here."

McTavish did not speak. Potard's simple statement was intimidating beyond words.

"There is no room for any kind of mistake in this operation, Edmund," Potard went on, "surely I have made that message clear to you. Without the piece de resistance which you—" he spoke to the table at large, "—seem incapable of acquiring, what are we?"

Nobody spoke.