The pair got out of the vehicle and returned to the road on foot. They ran down the recently plowed road for half a block, then turned up to a house that had a single light on in a downstairs room.
Adem knocked on the door. Both of them had broken into a sweat as they ran. That sweat evaporated in a steamy cloud around their heads in the frigid night air. It was negative twenty, or colder. The sweat beads froze solid in the shell of their clothing. They both started to shiver uncontrollably, hands stuffed deep into their pockets, shoulders raised against the cold, as they awaited the response from within the house.
A short, stocky Korean man in his early sixties with slate gray hair answered the knock. He motioned for them to enter and closed the door behind them. “Did anyone see your faces?” he asked.
“No one who is still alive,” Nikola replied, a deathly tone in his voice.
“Good. The vehicle is in the garage. Move to the other house across town. We are too close to finishing to evacuate you now. As long as no one saw your faces, you are in no danger and the mission will continue.”
They walked through the living room of the house to the kitchen. A door led from there to the garage. A red Dodge Dakota pickup truck sat waiting for them. As Adem and Nikola stepped over to the vehicle, the Korean man pressed the garage door opener button on the wall just inside. The large, paneled garage door yawned open, letting the cold night air drift into the heated room in billowing clouds of condensation that looked like a nightclub fog machine.
“Thank you, Mr. Kim,” Adem said. “We will await your call.”
Nikola got into the driver’s seat of the Dakota and started the engine. Having been stored in the garage, the vehicle needed no extra time to warm up. Adem jumped into the passenger seat. Nikola put it in gear and backed down the driveway. As they left the neighborhood, several police cruisers turned onto the road that led directly to the house they had left. They were moving very fast. The colorful emergency lights twirled on top of the cruisers, but they did not sound their sirens.
“The cops are trying to sneak up on us,” Adem said, and then grinned. “They are too late.”
Chapter 8
Marcus Johnson’s Cabin
Salt Jacket, Alaska
18 December
07:00 Hours
The morning darkness lay solid on the snow-blanketed arctic landscape. The earth glowed pale and cold under a three-quarter moon as it finished its sideways arc across the far north sky just above the horizon to the northeast. Dawn would not break the tree line for two more hours, the full sun not rising until after ten.
Marcus had gone the previous night to his friend and gunsmith Al Philbert’s cabin/business. He had left his grandfather’s old Springfield 1903 .30-06 rifle with Al for a general maintenance once-over. The weapon was in immaculate condition, but was also nearly a hundred years old. The last thing Marcus desired was to have it explode in his face while out in the field. As it turned out, there was nothing to worry about. Grandpa Johnson’s old rifle was a prime example of one of the most tried and true firearms ever produced in America
While there, Al offered Marcus a sample of his latest homebrewed smoked porter ale. Marcus, who had developed an affinity for the rich, dark stout beers while serving several tours with the British SAS and the Royal Marines, accepted the offer.
As it turned out, “Al’s Black Ops,” as the brew master had titled the concoction, was much stronger than either of them had expected, topping out at somewhere between ten and twelve percent alcohol. Marcus was religious about never driving under the influence. He made a point that even if he only had one drink, he would wait at least an hour before getting behind the wheel. Therefore, after two pints with Al in the period of an hour, Marcus told his friend that he would be sacking out on his couch for a couple of hours before heading home. Al, of course, had no problem with that, and for that matter, offered more to Marcus since he was staying. Marcus declined, not desiring a hangover to take with him on the trap line when he left in the early morning hours.
At five in the morning, Marcus woke and let himself out of Al’s cabin. He had one hundred and twenty miles of trap line to run in the next two days, and didn’t want to get a late start. He drove the twenty-five miles back to his own cabin. A note was tacked to the bulletin board that hung on his door.
Marcus had no phone or other way of answering the request, and couldn’t wait until Linus’s store opened to call the troopers. He left the note where it was and entered the cabin to get ready for his trip.
The cops can talk to Linus or Bannock—they know everything I know.
The trap line he was about to run was actually owned by another friend of his from the base. Air Force Major Steven Krisler, commander of the Arctic Survival School, had run a long string of snares to capture furs for his side business. Krisler was retiring from the Air Force soon and trying to get himself established as a taxidermist. He had been running the trap line across the back of the base for a couple of years now, and had taken Marcus out earlier in the season as a riding buddy.
The previous week, Krisler had gotten a hold of the retired Marine to ask him to run the line for him, as he had just received emergency orders to report to Afghanistan
