The thumping deepened into a fast rhythmic thud thud thud, stabbing through the fog, reverberating in the mountains. Maratse knelt and pressed his palm on a large, smooth rock. He felt the thud of the approaching helicopter through the granite – not yet visible, but close.
Maratse glanced back up the path, calculating the distance to Kamiila and the handful of residents from Kussannaq. They would hear the helicopter too, if they hadn’t already.
Think.
“I’m thinking.” Maratse looked along the path to Kussannaq. The path led downhill. It would be quicker to run to the settlement and, “Safer to lead the helicopter away.”
You’re not thinking.
Maratse pushed Inniki’s voice out of his head, tightened the utility belt around his waist, and removed the pistol from the holster at his hip. He checked the magazine, slid the pistol back into the holster and tightened the loop and snap across the grip.
“Sometimes you can’t think, you just have to react.” Maratse flattened his lips into a grim smile. Reacting was what he did best.
Hunter.
“Iiji,” Maratse said, and ran.
The thunder of the helicopter’s rotors rumbled in the mountains, filling the air above Maratse’s head as he ran down the path to Kussannaq. He ran into the fog, felt the chill of its wispy grip on his cheeks, on the back of his neck, and he drew it to him, recognising its familiar touch, willing it to grow thicker still – a shroud to hide within.
Don’t say shroud.
Maratse stopped at the side of the first house, turning his head as the helicopter hovered before landing. The rotor wash cast grit and dried grass in his face. Maratse narrowed his eyes to slits, staring into the fog as he tried to recall the open patch of land on which they had landed on his first IGA mission to Kussannaq. He turned his head to the right – remembering, just as he slipped his hand to his pistol, popping the loop of the holster – preparing.
Think.
“I’m thinking.”
Maratse titled his head as the roar and the pitch of the rotors changed. He imagined it landing, then caught the first flash of the Coast Guard red and white livery on the helicopter’s fuselage through the fog, followed by black shadows leaping from the doors, rifles tucked into their shoulders as they approached the houses.
Maratse licked the grit from his bottom lip, taking a second more to think as the helicopter pilot shut down the engines and the rotors slowed from a roar to a low growl followed by a slow squealing spin.
The shadows materialised, closer now, revealing four determined operators clad in tactical gear, faces hidden behind masks, heads obscured by ballistic helmets.
Not helping. Think faster.
Maratse pulled back as they approached, then picked his way along the side of the house, judging the distance to the next one as he tried to recall the position of each house and utility building in Kussannaq. He remembered the store, close to the oil tanks and the chain-link fence surrounding them. The beach wasn’t far from the tanks, and like every beach in every settlement in Greenland, it would be littered with small boats.
As per the IGA’s instructions, residents were allowed little more than one bag for clothes and personal items, and another for children’s toys. Everything else was to be left behind.
“Abandoned,” Maratse whispered as he jogged across the gap between the buildings.
A shout accompanied by the metallic click of a weapon, gave Maratse an extra surge of energy, as he pushed for the beach, confident now that he had a plan, that he was thinking, and that for a second or more, he felt confident that he knew exactly what to do.
Until the first shots cracked through the fog, and the hunter suddenly understood what it was to be hunted.
Part 7
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The walls of the wooden house splintered under a blister of bullets, forcing Maratse to the ground. He crawled through the dirt around the side of the house, then made a second sprint for the store. More bullets thwacked into the packed earth at his heels, then punched through the steps as Maratse climbed them. Maratse put his shoulder to the door and tumbled inside the store, almost chiding himself for not trying the handle first to see if it was unlocked. He scrabbled to the counter, boots sliding and squealing on the linoleum floor, until he found a moment’s pause and some protection – long enough to take a breath and draw his pistol. Less than a week ago, Walcott had put him on an IGA team to help encourage the residents of Kussannaq to leave their homes in favour of modern apartments in Maniitsoq. Now that same team was doing its best to remove Maratse from Kussannaq – permanently. Maratse peered around the corner of the counter, gripped his pistol in both hands, and fired twice at the shadows approaching the door.
Permanent, he thought, works both ways.
Maratse fired again, then retreated deeper into the store, ducking his head and running for cover, as the IGA team reduced the store front to sawdust and splinters with returning fire. Thoughts of reaching the beach and a boat slipped from Maratse’s mind, as he studied the back of the store, wondering if the office at the rear had a door or a window, or if the storeroom contained anything useful behind the padlock that secured it.
Three more bursts of bullets forced Maratse to the floor. He crawled towards the storeroom, rolled onto his back, and blasted the padlock from the door. He kicked the door open and squirmed inside.
The storeroom shelves were bare, with little more than tinned goods, pasta, and winter clothes. The more interesting and immediately useful items were at the rear. Maratse ignored the shouts from the front of the store as the IGA team entered. He holstered his pistol and picked up the hunting rifle, slipping his fingers around the bolt, before
