Day Zero (3 page)

Beyond the thick stands of willows, the new airplane’s engine gunned as the pilot taxied to the parking apron. Ukka stepped to the steering console beside Quinn, passing him the harpoon as he grabbed the wheel. “Better let me take over,” he said. “People here like you, but they won’t be so quick to let us in if a
gus-sak
’s drivin’ the boat.” His face darkened as he looked at Quinn, squinting over round cheeks. “You’re armed, right?”

“Of course.” Quinn let his elbow tap the Colt 1911 in the holster over his right kidney. As an agent with OSI, there had been very few times he didn’t have a sidearm. Lately, as a fugitive, those times were fewer still. Opposite the pistol, a Severance hung from a Kydex sheath on his left side. It was as much a tool as it was a weapon; Quinn found uses every day for the heavy seventeen-inch blade.

Ukka leaned around the windscreen of the steering pedestal to shout at his two daughters. Both in their teens, the girls sat on Yamaha ATVs halfway up the bank, waiting to accept the load of salmon. They were dressed in blue cotton hoodies that bore the “Strivers” mascot of their school. Their forest-green Hellys hung unbuttoned to vent the heat while they worked.

“You girls bring your Hondas down here closer to the boat,” the big Eskimo said, eyes darting back toward the airstrip. Quinn had learned early on that in the Alaska bush, all ATVs were “Hondas” no matter the brand, just like every soft drink was a “Coke” in the South.

“We’ll give the girls the fish,” Ukka said. “They can take care of getting them weighed and recorded while I go see what’s up.”

Quinn hated hiding in the shadows while someone else did his dirty work. But they had planned for this—going over and over the possibilities during the long winter nights in the Perry home while they listened to Molly Hatchet on Ukka’s vintage stereo system. Quinn had always known he couldn’t hide out forever—and in reality, had never planned to.

Up the bank, the girls gunned their engines and began to slosh their way down the steep gravel.

Quinn stowed the harpoon along the side rail of the skiff and took several deep breaths of the chilly air to clear his head. Logic said this new aircraft was likely nothing to worry about. Unscheduled planes had sometimes landed in Mountain Village over the course of the last five months. But his gut told him this was different. And if he’d learned anything in his thirty-seven years, it was to trust his gut.

His parking spot assured, Ukka passed control of the skiff back to Quinn and then hopped off the bow into the shallows by the bank. No sooner had his feet hit the gravel than the throaty burble of a boat prop in reverse caught Quinn’s attention. He turned to find a shiny new aluminum riverboat bearing down on them from upstream.

“
Gussaks,
” Ukka hissed. He gave the bow of his skiff a mighty shove, turning it outward, toward open water.

Three men crowded under a canvas cover peered out through a foggy windshield. Quinn could see at least one of them had a gun—and if one did, they all would.

Quinn kept the skiff at idle. Parallel to the bank now, it was still nearly beached. The hull crunched softly against the gravel bank, nudged by the waves.

The driver of the new boat appeared to be unaccustomed to maneuvering a boat at all, let alone working a river as large as the Yukon. He struggled in the strong current, constantly throwing the engine in and out of reverse in an attempt to bring it under control. Too far downriver on his first attempt, he gunned the motor and made a quick circle to try again.

On the banks, people stopped with fish in their hands to watch the debacle, grinning at the hapless driver’s problem of simply bringing the boat to shore.

He was finally able to bring it to heel in a small eddy of slower current thirty feet out. The swinging door in the center of the walk-through cabin swung open and a middle-aged man stepped to the bow. Baggy rubber knee boots covered half his khaki slacks. A tight, muscle-mapping turtleneck showed he spent a good deal of time in the gym. The skiff’s bow dipped in the water at the added forward weight and the man had to grab the brow of the canvas cover to steady himself. Dark eyes that had surely seen plenty of the world methodically scanned the crowd.

A second man, younger than the first by a decade, but dressed the same and every bit as fit, emerged behind him and stepped to the rail. This one wore a black wool watch cap snugged down over his ears. Both men carried MP7 submachine guns on slings.

The older man cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. He held the submachine gun barrel up, elbow resting against his hip, as if it might release a string of fire into the air at any moment.

“My name is Rubio.” He addressed the people along the bank in a deep, pharaohlike voice. “I am here representing the government—and I’m looking for a man named Jericho Quinn.”

R
ubio paused, letting his words sink in. Quinn sized the men up in a heartbeat. Rubio had introduced himself not as an agent, but as a representative of the government—a contractor. Quinn had worked with many during his deployments to the Middle East. With the US involvement overseas winding down, many of these companies had come home to roost and landed lucrative private security contracts on American soil. Some were salt of the earth—former special operators who’d moved on to ply their very special skill sets in the private sector for exponentially more money than they were making wearing the uniform. But some were little more than thugs in khaki slacks and black T-shirts. Unable to cut it in their old units, they were still highly trained and capable of dishing out all manner of death and destruction, then ducking behind a convoluted corporate bureaucracy whose ethics stopped where the bottom line began.

Rubio and his men looked straight through the villagers gathered along the bank. Their fingers were far too cozy with the triggers of their weapons for Quinn’s taste. Drifting now, the new boat crossed directly in front of Ukka’s open skiff, less than fifteen feet away. Quinn’s Apache heritage and heavy rain gear would make it difficult for them to differentiate him from the rest of the villagers at first glance.

Along the river’s edge, people froze in place, nets, buckets, and even fish in their hands. All stared at the ground avoiding the question. Quinn had made many friends over the last few months, but he was also certain there were a few who would be glad to see him leave the village. Thankfully, none of those were on the bank at that moment.

“Let me be clear on this,” Rubio barked. The cadence in his voice made Quinn guess he’d spent time in the military. “Hiding this man is not an option. I know he’s here. Your guilty looks are enough to tell me that. Jericho Quinn is dangerous, wanted for murder.”

Skiffs’ bottoms scraped gravel, motors chugged, and the Yukon gurgled along, but no one on the bank said a word.

Rubio screwed up his face like he was going to spit.

Ukka started to move, but Quinn caught his eye, giving a slight shake of his head. The two had ridden motorcycles, boxed, and chased girls through junior high and high school. There was zero doubt the man would die for him.

Quinn had just made up his mind to raise his hands when Rubio spoke again.

“Listen up!” he barked, lips frozen in a dismissive sneer. “I tried to play nice. Now, I’m going to shoot one of you
muktuk
-eating sons of bitches every thirty seconds until someone digs the—”

“That’s enough of that.” Quinn stepped forward, hands well away from his waist.

“It’s him!” the younger agent yelled—and opened fire.

Quinn dove beneath the gunnels as bullets thwacked into the aluminum steering pedestal, stitching their way up to shatter the glass windscreen. The fickle Yukon current nudged the boat sideways, just enough to keep Quinn from taking any rounds on the first volley.

Trapped between the bank and the shooters, Quinn crawled on his hands and knees toward the steering console. Bullets continued to stitch the side of the boat as he reached up and shoved the throttle all the way forward. The aluminum gunwales provided some concealment but no real cover, and he watched as dots of light appeared with each new bullet hole in thin metal. Mired in the shallows, the prop ground against a slurry of gravel and mud before Ukka gave the boat a mighty shove and pushed it away. With only Quinn and the salmon on board, the little skiff jumped forward, chewing up the distance to Rubio’s boat before he or his partner could adjust their aim.

Rather than try to avoid them, Quinn held his course, bracing his shoulder against the aluminum pedestal as the bow took the other boat in a direct broadside, riding up to put Ukka’s skiff nearly vertical in the water. Metal shrieked and motors roared as both props cleared the surface.

Rubio staggered to the side, arms flailing as he teetered against the forward rail. He was smart enough to let the MP7 fall against his sling, giving him both hands to hold on. Regaining his balance, Rubio launched himself over the bow and onto Ukka’s skiff like a boarding pirate. He brought the machine gun up as his rubber boots hit the slanted deck just forward of the steering post.

Thrown forward by the crash, Quinn met the new arrival a half step in, surprising him with two quick shots to the chest from the .45. Rubio was wearing a vest, but the blunt force of two 230-grain slugs shattered his collarbone. He backpedaled instinctively in an attempt to get away from the pain, toppling over the bow rail into the waiting river.

The rubber boots filled instantly, dragging him along with the current. Rather than relaxing to simply remove the waterlogged boots, the man thought he was strong enough to fight against the unbeatable current of the mighty Yukon. The boots acted as a sea-anchor, towing him sideways in the swift water. A frantic gurgle caught in his throat as the Yukon tugged his head below the surface.

With Rubio no longer a threat, Quinn focused on the others in the skiff. Pistol up and ready, he chided himself for being so focused on the new airplane that he’d missed the threat right in front of him.

Welded together in a sort of twisted tee, the two boats caught the current and began to spin downriver. A great gash had opened up along the front quarter of Ukka’s boat below the waterline. Gallons of brown water gushed through the ripped metal. Dead salmon bobbed in the rising brown water around Quinn’s boots.

Stunned by the sudden death of his partner, the younger man regained his senses and sent a wild volley from the MP7. Quinn dove sideways, splashing to the relative safety behind a thick plastic tub full of drift net to avoid another string of fire. Frigid water rushed beneath his float coat, soaking him to the skin.

Fortunately for Quinn, the younger agent fell victim to dependency on the machine gun and used spray-and-pray tactics. Quinn, with only eight rounds, had to be more judicious and actually aim.

Peeking around the corner of the steering pedestal, he put two rounds in the youngster’s left shoulder, outside the vest. He knew his shots were on target, but as he’d expected, in the heat of the fight, the kid didn’t even know he was hit.

Regaining his composure after the crash, the driver of the other boat threw his motor into reverse in an effort to free it from the rapidly sinking skiff. The yank of the larger vessel sent Quinn sliding backwards in a soup of fish, fuel, and river water. His shoulder slammed hard off the unforgiving aluminum transom, knocking the .45 from his grasp. The younger agent fell directly on top of him.

Quinn was keenly aware of the MP7 wedged between them, digging into his ribs. It was sideways, for now, but the kid still had a good hold and worked feverishly to wrestle it away. The .45 was lost and useless somewhere under a foot of brown water.

On his back and nearly submerged, Quinn felt a low growl grow in his belly. Quinn gave the kid a vicious head butt. The blow brought a torrent of blood, but failed to get him to release the grip on the gun. Fear and adrenaline caused the kid to kick into high gear, flinging himself into the fight. The head butt was no more than a stunning injury, but soon he’d feel the effects of blood loss from the bullet wounds in his shoulder. His face just inches above the water, Quinn wondered if it would be soon enough.

Quinn’s legs trapped the young contractor’s body against his, heels hooked behind the small of the young man’s back. Snaking his left arm through the MP7’s sling, he jerked the kid in close. It constricted his movements, but wasn’t quite enough for a proper choke.

Rising water lapped at Quinn’s ears, and he had to crane his neck to stay above the surface. In a matter of seconds, the river would be above his face and do the kid’s work for him.

Quinn held what he had while his right hand searched desperately under the surface, shoving aside dead salmon and coils of gill net. The Severance was on his left side, useless for the moment. Now with just his nose above the water, his fingers wrapped around the wooden shaft of the harpoon just as the silhouette of the boat driver appeared on the bow above the younger shooter. Backlit by the gray clouds, he loomed above for a split second, MP7 in his hands. The man shouted something but water lapped around Quinn’s ears, making it impossible for him to make out the words.

Quinn was vaguely aware of pistol shots, and at first thought the boat driver may have shot directly through his partner. Instead, the man toppled over the side and into the river.

Way to go, Ukka
, Quinn thought. Bucking his body upward to create the needed space, he drove the point of the harpoon through the young contractor’s ribs.

The kid’s eyes flew wide as he tried to make sense of what was going on. Blood covered his teeth by the time Quinn had swiped the MP7 out of the way and dragged him sloshing onto the bow of the other boat. His rattling wheeze said the shaft of the spear had gone through the vest and pierced a lung. Quinn used his hand to try to seal the foaming wound as best he could. The bullet wounds on the opposite shoulder were not life threatening in and of themselves, but taken together, shock and additional loss of blood only sped up the inevitable brought on by the harpoon.

“What’s your name?” Quinn asked, cradling the young man in his lap.

“Lane . . .” The kid said, choking on his own words. He looked up, blinking terrified eyes. “We came to kill you . . . and you’re trying to save me?”

“You’re too far gone to save.” Quinn gave a slow shake of his head. “But I’ll sit here with you while you die.”

“Thank you . . .” His face tensed at a sudden shot of pain. Tears welled in his eyes. Quinn had seen many men die and often thought how they looked like little boys the nearer they got to that moment.

Lane’s pulse grew faster as he fell deeper into shock. More blood oozed from the wound around the shaft of the harpoon. Quinn leaned in so the kid could hear and understand him. “How many on the plane?”

Lane swallowed. He didn’t have long. “Five, counting the pilot, I think. . . .” His body began to shake uncontrollably. “They’re . . . picking us up.” A wave of pain brought on a twisted grimace. His words came in short, panting breaths. “This . . . is so . . . wrong. . . .” The boy gave a rattling cough, and then fell slack in Quinn’s arms. Pale blue eyes stared up blankly at the mist.

Ukka had commandeered his cousin’s battered skiff and now motored up alongside the two wrecked boats. He sat on an ice chest at the stern, working the tiller to keep the boat steady in the current. Quinn pulled the earpiece out of the dead kid’s ear and took the radio off his belt. He grabbed the MP7, checked the chamber, and then slung it around his neck.

Ukka held up his hand. “Don’t forget the harpoon. It was my grandfather’s.”

Quinn looked back over his shoulder at the dead contractor. “The barb’s going to make it tough to pull out.”

“He can keep that for his trouble,” Ukka said, frowning. These men had attacked his village and he felt no sorrow for them. “It comes off anyhow. I can make a new one.” Quinn gave the harpoon a quick yank, freeing it from the body, and hopped over the gunwale and onto the deck of Ukka’s new ride.

The big Eskimo threw the boat in reverse, and then turned to take it upstream, free of the drifting wreckage of the other two vessels. “You know the plane that just landed is full of another hit team,” he said, once Quinn was on board.

“No doubt,” Quinn said. “The kid told me five more.”

Ukka’s lower jaw pushed forward and stayed there, the way it did when he was angry. “We need to haul ass up to the village. That first bunch didn’t care much who they shot—and my family is back there.”

“I appreciate your help.” Quinn nodded, shaking his head. “Seriously, James, I am sorry about bringing these guys down on your family.”

Ukka pushed the throttle forward, bringing the boat up on step. He pointed it toward the bank a half a mile downriver, well below the fish processing plant where they would be closer to his house. “I ever tell you about the time I left my good friend out to die on the tundra?” He raised his voice to be heard over the drone of the motor.

“No,” Quinn answered. “I have to admit, you’ve skipped that story.”

“That’s because I don’t do stuff like that.” Ukka twisted the throttle and laid on the gas.

Inside the pocket of Quinn’s float coat, safely wrapped in a plastic Baggie and barely audible above the sounds of wind, water, and the outboard engine, his phone began to chirp.

Far from anything close to a “smart phone,” the little Hershey Bar–size device was a prepaid “burner.” It was difficult, but not entirely impossible, to trace, given the right set of circumstances. In the five months since he’d had the phone, Quinn had received a grand total of three incoming calls. Considering the fact that men were trying to kill him at that very moment, the timing of this fourth call was no coincidence.