1.

“Who is it?” asked the teenage girl staring down at the shirtless man, lying face first on the frozen filthy concrete. His hair knotted. Face and arms covered in scratches and bruises. Dried blood caked the left side of his face and ear. A large boot print bruise between his shoulder blades. Black army issue cargo pants, ripped, blood splattered; like he had been in a game of paintball. Thin bare socks that had walked far: bootless.

“Just another bum,” replied her older brother. Looking up to see the late model Lincoln, with the tinted windows, slide around the corner, on the iced over road, three hundred metres further on. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

The brother looked around at the old warehouses and storage sheds. Buildings that had been struck down by years of brutal winters, vandals, graffiti or owners that had given up on maintenance or had been driven out by costs. Old cars and trucks that had long since been operational. Pallets, crumbled clothing racks and signs lay beside twisted pipes and broken timber. Smashed windows and wind piled rubbish added to the blight. All indicators of the degradation of a once flourishing business and warehouse distribution area.

Grabbing her arm, he forced her to follow. Turning, she watched as the figure slowly started to roll over. He levered himself up on one arm. Shook his head as he opened and closed his fists.

“He’s coming round. He might need our help,” she said fascinated that anybody, half naked, could survive outdoors, in this weather.

“Stacey. Stop it. We need to get out of here. We should never have left the car in the first place.”

Stacey and her brother held hands. They crossed the road looking for an exit out of the rubbish infested, cul de sac they had inadvertently entered, before sliding their car into a power pole.

It had been an unusually mild, late autumn day in downtown Halifax, Nova Scotia but as darkness engulfed the horizon and the cold north, squalling winds picked up, the first flakes of snow scattered like sprinkles over ice cream and the ground snapped frozen.

Street lights could be seen off in the distance. The ram shackle, deserted buildings that had once serviced a thriving port district now sat idle, empty and dark. The distant noise of evening traffic, crossing the towering bridge, was the dominate sound.

“I’m scared,” said Stacey clutching her brother, Martin’s arm, frantically scouring the horizon for somebody that could help them. A street light tried desperately to scrounge the last vestibules of sodium vapour as it flickered and slowly died. A wind gust threw newspapers along the road and a sheet of corroded corrugated iron banged against a shed wall. The thousands of holes, that had been caused by kids throwing stones through the cross wired glass, whistled. The cacophony of noise started to resemble a horror movie.

They passed the rusting cyclone fence, that circled the building at the end of the street, and turned the corner. Neither saw the four men who seemed to have appeared from no where.

Two stood in front and two leapt behind. All in their early twenties and, except for the leader, were wiry and jumpy, as if coming of a drug high. They fidgeted and moved unable to keep their hands and feet still. Scratching and rubbing their face and hands. Glaring like out of control Cheshire cats.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this our lucky day,” said the leader as his hand flew out and grabbed Stacey by the shoulder, at the same time releasing the flick knife he held in his other hand.

Martin lunged to protect his sister but was no match for the sawn off baseball bat that smashed into the side of his head, dropping him like a sack of potatoes. Stacey screamed.

“Search him while I look after our little friend,” ordered the large native American gang leader.

The four men all wore different franchised baseball caps and full height, army issue, boots. The only visible parts of their bodies were covered in tattoos. ‘HATE and DEATH’ across their knuckles. Faces scared with knife cuts and fight bruises. Eyes with pupils so dilated they looked like they were about to pop out of their sockets. Jackets hung open exposing various knifes and pistols.

Stacey twisted, rocked, swung her arms and screamed as the big man grabbed her by the hair and slid the knife under her throat.

“You just might want to calm down bitch or I’ll stick this straight up through that screaming voice box of yours.”

Stacey’s eyes were glued to the brutish, battle scarred, filthy face that glared down on her. She froze in fear. His warm, foul smelling, acidy breath blasted against her face. She felt the knife start to prick the skin under her chin. Her arms hung limp and tears flowed uncontrollably down her face.

“Good. Now let’s see what you’re offering,” said the beastly attacker now satisfied his prize had succumbed to his demands.

He slid the razor sharp knife down her jacket, cutting it open. Finished; he stuck the back of the knife against her throat and slit down again. Her jumper and tee shirt peeled open exposing her bra. Like a skilled butcher he flicked the knife in his hand and the bra sprung apart and her breast fell out.

“Nice,” he said turning and hurtling the knife directly into the thigh of the unconscious Martin.

Stacey screamed and the huge open hand smashed into the side of her face. Like a crazed bear he reefed her hair back and threw her against the fence while ripping off her clothes. Blood poured from her mouth and nose. Two of the attackers grabbed an arm each and held her against the fence. The heat from her bare back and the cold frozen steel started a mutual attraction. As she was reefed and shunted the skin became momentarily stuck and then pulled away. Stacey could smell the alcohol and stench of body odour as the fourth man started pulling down her jeans. She wanted to scream but her mouth was swelling and she struggled to cough out the blood.

Stacey closed her eyes willing for a miracle. Suddenly the man, pulling her jeans, crashed into the fence between her legs. She opened her eyes to see the man, holding her left arm, release his hold and crash to the ground. Trying to focus, she felt her right arm released and the second man slammed head first into the fence.

The big brute attacker spun, raising his fist, only to feel the heel of an open hand, smash up into his nose. Staggering he tried to lift his head as an elbow slammed between his shoulder blades.

Stacey stood semi naked, transfixed at the sight of her saviour. He bent down retrieving her jacket.

“You might want to cover up,” came the softly spoken accented voice.

She watched as the olive skinned street bum, ripped a shirt into lengths. Took a bottle of alcohol from the pocket of one of the attackers. Poured some on his hands and some on the ripped cloth. Bent down with his weight on her brother’s chest and ripped the knife free. Slapped his hand over the blood engorged wound and like a skilled surgeon wrapped. Finished he poured more alcohol over the complete covering.

“You need to get him to a hospital.”

“How … Where … Who are you?” She mumbled still covering herself up and watching the growing pool of blood spread across the frozen concrete. Her four attackers scattered at her feet.

Lifting Martin, like he was made of feathers, the stranger motioned her to follow. They criss crossed four darkened streets, repeatedly changing direction. Stacey kept asking but the man said nothing. Rounding the corner, a small strip shopping precinct appeared. A cab sat idling in front of a liquor store. The driver, fascinated with his hot coffee, was completely unaware as Stacey opened the rear door, climbed in and helped settle Martin.

“Aren’t you coming?” she queried watching the man, still shirtless, backing out the door.

A half smile crossed his face and the door shut.

2.

“What happened,” mumbled Martin, haltingly opening his eyes and seeing his parents and sister standing beside the private hospital bed. The lights were dimmed and the curtains were drawn. His leg was raised and the intravenous fluid slowly dripped down its tube. His head throbbed and the wide bandage half covered his left eye.

Stacey explained between swollen lips. Martin looked on listening to his sister, not able to take his eyes off the large bruise that covered more than half her face and feeling of utter disgust for what he had said about their saviour.

“We need to find him. Thank him. He might need our help,” stammered Martin trying to lift himself up on to the pillow.

“It’s two in the morning. You have been bashed and stabbed. Let’s worry about that tomorrow,” answered his father.

Stacey couldn’t fathom her father’s response. Had he not heard what had happened and how this stranger had saved their lives. Her mother was busy texting on her mobile oblivious to what was being said. It was as if her parents believed this stranger was obligated to help them because they were rich and important. She felt disgusted.

“We need to find him … now. He will freeze out there tonight,” said Stacey gradually raising her voice and staring at the black, snow covered window.

John Burrows, CEO of Starma Corp and one of Nova Scotia’s most influential men. A self made multi millionaire John, and his wife Claire, were renowned for large philanthropic donations. Starma Corp, a world player in the shipping container arena, had been, two years earlier, under investigation for international tax evasion and smuggling. After failing to undercover any fraudulent links the authorities ceased their activities.

“You need to get some sleep, Marty. We’ll see you in the morning,” said Burrows, ignoring his daughter’s comments and shuffling the others out the door, nodding to the private guard as they passed. Burrows and his wife walked ahead talking about how they needed to look at better options of safety for their children. Stacey followed watching as her mother checked her hair and clothes at every window and her father continually appeared to be plucking unseen hairs and fibres from his six thousand dollar Armani suit. The vanity of her parents had slowly increased, over the years, to the point Stacey now felt they cared about nothing except themselves.

Stacey, her parents and their two bodyguards, exited the hospital. The snow cover had transformed the deserted streets and carpark into a white wilderness. The guards walked one in front and one behind, with their hands inside their jackets clasping their Glock pistols. The Burrows all buried their heads into their coats. Streetlights cast shadows like candles flicking in the breeze. A path worn by the constant movement of visitors was the only visible route to the carpark. A scrounging dog bound from behind a bush causing the leading guard to drop to his knees whipping out his pistol.

“Shit. Bloody dog,” he said to himself, gathering his composure and moving forward.

The limousine drove down the affluent south Halifax suburb. Stacey listened as her parents talked about what they were going to buy and who they were inviting to their next party. She noticed how they both spoke but neither heard what the other was saying. She sat in silence. The huge vehicle felt claustrophobic. She was willing it to go faster; she needed to get out. Her life of luxury had meant she had been given opportunities that others could only have dreamt about but the passing years had made her realise that no amount of money was worth loosing your moral beliefs. She had respected her parents and their philanthropic ways but she questioned at what price. She thought about how her mother would chair the board of the Halifax child abuse and single mother’s society as well as being the largest contributor of donations. Her father had been inspirational in helping homeless talented teenage artists gain success within various fields. His contributions to the study of drug addiction had been instrumental in saving many lives. The huge donations to the Muscular Dystrophy society were unparalleled. Finishing her final years of school, she had felt proud of her parents and what they were doing but upon finding out they had ulterior motives and the only reason for all the donations and social display was merely to increase their own profits; she felt morally disturbed and gutted.

They pulled into the underground basement of Halifax’s most luxurious apartment building. The car had not come to a complete halt when Stacey threw the door open and leapt out.

“Stacey?” yelled her mother. “Where are you going?” As she watched her daughter heading to the fire exit door.

“You might not want to help him but I do and I’m going to,” she screamed back over her head.

“Don’t be ridiculous, young girl. Get back here now,” shouted her father, climbing from the car.

Stacey didn’t acknowledge her father. She kept walking more determined than ever to do what she felt was right.

“Stacey. Please,” pleaded her mother, running toward her. “Even if you do find him what will you do then?”

“I’ll give him my coat. I’ll buy him some food. I’ll get him a hot drink … I don’t know what I’ll do but I have to do something. He saved my life and now he could freeze to death,” she said bending over, crying.

“It’s alright,” said her mother wrapping her arms around her daughter’s shoulders.

“It’s not alright mum. It’s not.”

“Okay. If it means that much to you, I’ll take your mother up and we’ll go and have a look,” said Burrows walking up behind them both.

“Mister Burrows. Would you like one of us to go?” asked his bodyguard. “I’m not sure it would be wise for you to be in that area at this time of night.”

“Thank you Jack. That is very nice of you to offer and I know you will look after her. So yes if you don’t mind. Maybe you should take Mitch with you.” He said referring to the second bodyguard.

“Sir, we’ll take my truck,” said Jack looking towards the Limousine. “I think your car might stand out too much.”

Burrows nodded in acknowledgement as he and his wife turned, kissed Stacey, on the forehead and started for the lift.

The trio walked up the fire escape stairs, out into the snow, across the street and down a small alley. The onslaught of the cold weather had caught many off guard. Bins that during the winter months are stored in sealed enclosures were partly open and the contents frozen. Snow had piled along the pathways and roads that could normally be cleared by machinery would now need to be manually dug out by shovel. Stacey baulked as she noticed a frozen rat lying beside the large cartaway bin. Jack’s multi coloured, panel beaten, F150 didn’t look out of place against the neighbouring, dented street vehicles. After clearing snow from the wheels and windscreens, many pumps of the accelerator, numerous false starts; the large V8 engine kicked into life. Smoke billowed out the exhaust.

“Okay Miss Burrows, do you remember where you were when it all happened?” asked Jack looking over his shoulder towards Stacey perched in the middle of the rear seat.

“Jack, Mitch can you please call me Stacey and no I don’t know where we were. I remember a bridge and the sound of ships. All the buildings seemed deserted and there were no street lights. Everything was either broken or smashed.”

“Could be Highfield or the Wallace area,” surmised Mitch. “Apparently the taxi picked her up just off Endeavour Drive so that would make sense.”

They crossed to the north side in silence. The snow had developed into a blanket of white. Street lights cast eerie shadows across the streetscape. Luckily the streets were deserted as Jack’s large lumbering truck slid, like it was on skates, each time they took a corner.

“Stacey, what the hell were you and Martin doing over here, anyway?” asked Jack.

Stacey dropped her head in embarrassment. “I wanted to meet a boy I’ve got to know from uni and he lives in this area. Or so I thought … I had eventually convinced Martin to take me but while we were driving around, looking for the address, a car accidently ran us off the road.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” quizzed Jack cutting her off mid sentence.

“Say what? … About meeting someone?”

“No the car running you off the road.”

“Why is that important? It was an accident.”

“Did the driver stop?”

“Well no, but I don’t think they meant it.”

Jack looked across to Mitch gently shaking his head. They continued in silence.

“How are we going to do this?” asked Mitch.

“I guess drive around and hopefully Stacey spots something she recognizes,” answered Jack looking at the pair of them. “Unless you guys have a better idea?”

They drove up and down streets, parked, talked, looked, watched; for one and half hours. The heater was blazing and they were becoming languid and tired. They had seen only one person and they watched as he crossed to his car and drove off.

The truck was parked across a tee intersection. The wind belted into its bonnet. Jack was mumbling, to himself, the futility of their search. Mitch was scrolling through Google Maps on his phone. Stacey suddenly sat forward.

“I know that spot,” she said leaping out the door.

“Stacey wait,” yelled Jack charging after her.

She raced across the street and ran to the rusty cyclone fence. Not thinking, and having forgotten her gloves, she grabbed the wire. Arriving Jack reefed her hands away just as the first sensation of warm hands sticking to frozen steel had started. She screamed at the shock.

“Stacey. What the hell are you doing,” asked the big man standing over her. “You know full well you can’t grab frozen steel like that in this weather.”

Tears trickled down her face as she looked up. “This is where he helped me.”

The two men stood in silence as they scanned the deserted, snow covered, pitch black streets. The area looking like it hadn’t seen human occupation for years.

“Come on. Get your coat and gloves and we’ll have a look around,” ordered Jack.

They entered alleys, walked behind deserted houses and large empty factories. Kicked in doors to check for possible homeless squats. Shined their torches in all potential sleeping spots. Having gone down three streets they were returning to the truck when Mitch thought they should try an old, deserted, corner café. Using the butt of the hardened steel torch he smashed a larger hole in the already broken glass rear door.

A beat up Toyota sat opposite the door. The two men waited for any onlookers to appear. Convinced no one was in either the car or the building they moved.

Leading with the torch Mitch entered. Like a flash of light, a hand came around his throat and hurtled him across the room into the far wall. Stacey who had been following; screamed. Jack instinctively shoved her aside and whipped his pistol from his holster.

“I don’t know who the fuck you are but if I have to come in there your history,” screamed the ex US Marine.

Jack, standing three metres back from the door, stood with the pistol aimed in the doorway. Snow building on his head and shoulders. Mitch groaned on the floor. Stacey stood behind Jack nervously waiting. While serving in the marines Jack had endured similar situations so he was confident of his abilities.

“Get out here now,” he screamed again. Pistol held rock solid. Two handed grip. Arms locked straight. Feet perfectly spaced to take the recoil and provide the best position for balance.

Seconds ticked by.

“Out … now,” he screamed between clenched teeth. “I have all the time in the world pal so you’re going no where. Might as well come out and save yourself a lot of grief.”

Jack could feel the weight of the gun start to lock up his shoulders. He watched as the barrel sight started to slightly shake. His experience told him not to grab the pistol grip tighter, as this would exasperate the shaking, but the combination of cold, a long day and the pistol weight; forced him to lock his shoulder blades more rigid. Mitch’s half buried torch was casting a surreal image out the doorway. Shadows flicked and moved. Stacey increased her grip on Jack’s coat.

“You’re not the man who helped me, are you?” quietly mumbled Stacey, trying to look while maintaining her shield behind Jack.

“I am,” he said standing behind them as they both spun around. Stacey screamed again. Dropped to her knees. Jack pointed the gun at his head.

“What the hell,” Jack yelled. “Get your hands up.”

The man didn’t move.

“Now,” he screamed. “Hands up or I shoot.”

The man half smiled.

Jack lowered the sights but kept his finger firmly engaged on the trigger and the pistol aimed at the man’s head.

“Who the fuck are you? … You could get yourself killed pulling a stunt like that.”

Jack stood rigid with the pistol locked on this phantom type character. Through the torch light Jack noticed that his eyes were relaxed, his body wasn’t tense and he showed no fear, even though he had a loaded gun three metres from his head.

“I wanted to thank you,” said Stacey, by now gathering her composure. “I also want to help you so you don’t get cold or hungry.”

“That’s very nice of you but I’m fine,” he softly replied.

Stacey looked over her saviour who had taken a coat and boots from one of her attackers. She noticed his hands were scratched and bruised. His nails hadn’t been cleaned for months or longer. His long hair was matted and crusty. Blood and dirt was embedded in his beard.

“Please come back to our house. I at least owe you that,” she said nervously. “Please.”

Jack lowered the gun and replaced it into the holster. “The name’s Jack Marshall. This is Stacey Burrows and my friend, who you nearly KO’d, is Mitch Glass. We work for Stacey’s father as his bodyguards.” Paused. “I’m sorry about how this all happened but I know the Burrows would be very appreciative if you would at least give them the chance to thank you,” he said holding out his hand.

The stranger nodded his acceptance and shook the hand as Glass staggered out the door.

The quartet walked up the road with the two bodyguards, walking either side of Stacey, wary of the stranger.

“What’s your name mister? And what the hell are you doing out in this weather?” Marshall asked opening the truck door.

Climbing in the back seat he looked across at Stacey. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know your name?” questioned Stacey surprised. “Where do you come from? You have a funny accent.”

“I don’t know that either.”

3.

The room was full of opulence. Large original paintings adorned the walls with each purposefully lit. Carvings and statuettes were strategically placed to appear scattered. The furniture was all Italian handcrafted and the ridiculously expensive Christofle silverware cutlery was spread across the King George, eighteen seat, table. The tall backed, velvet covered, chairs sat lined like soldiers awaiting the command to move.

“Thank you for coming to our house at this late, or early morning, hour,” said Claire Burrows, eyeing the bedraggled figure, standing before her, that normally she wouldn’t even take a second glance at. “Is there anything we can get you? Food, drink, clothes? Anything please ask.” She rattled off, like a machine gun, trying to sound concerned and portraying the perfect host.

“I’m fine thanks,” replied the stranger looking around. “You have a very nice home.”

“Thank you but please eat or drink something,” she said offering up the buffet table the waiter had wheeled in. Jack having prewarned the family that they had found their children’s saviour. Claire then instructed the staff to prepare for his arrival. The table was covered in freshly sliced fruit, pastries, quartered sandwiches, dips, meats, cheeses, biscuits. A second table was wheeled up with freshly squeezed juices, coffee, tea, various sugar drinks and water.

The man picked up a banana and a glass of water.

The three Burrows, the two bodyguards and the two serving staff watched on as the filthy, homeless looking figure, slowly ate and drank.

“The names John Burrows and as you can probably tell I am an extremely wealthy man. You have saved the life of both my son and daughter tonight so I owe you a huge debt of gratitude. I don’t know how to say this so I’ll come straight out with it. I imagine by the state you’re in that you are homeless, jobless and struggling to survive. I would like to offer you enough money to get you back on your feet. I will help you in every way possible to get your life back … How do you feel about that?” he said offering up his hand to shake.

The man half smiled and backed away. “Thanks but could I wash my feet if that’s alright?”

Stunned Claire leapt to her feet. “Yes. Sure. Please follow me,” she stammered, bewildered at the response.

They walked down a ridiculously wide hallway lined with more artefacts, statues, and paintings. A person could be forgiven for thinking they were traversing an art gallery or a museum. Lights strategically lit up as they progressed. The plush carpet felt like they were floating. They approached a huge oak door that led to the guest suite. She offered him towels and told him to take a shower, explaining there were clothes in the adjacent robes and all the necessary toiletries he would require on the shelves.

Returning to the lounge she asked, “What do you take of that?”

Her husband shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

Thirty minutes passed. The group had got restless. The waiting staff had finished and been sent to bed. Everybody was yawning or nodding off. Burrows, asked Jack, to check on him.

Jack returned with a perplexed expression. “He’s had a shower and is asleep on the bedroom floor.”

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?” asked Claire hardly recognizing the cleanly shaved and washed man who entered her kitchen. Dressed in slacks, shirt and jacket he looked remarkably European, and handsome, even with his long, still knotted, hair. She watched as he crossed the room to the full height windows. She realized the previous evening she hadn’t noticed the strong shoulders, the straight back and the commanding presence he exuded.

The snow had stopped falling and the sun was trying to peak through the clouds. Shards of snow crystal hung from the window ledge. Wind buffeted along the river, swirling like an out of control vortex. He looked out the window, of the twelfth floor penthouse apartment, down at the snow covered winter wonderland. People and cars appeared like miniatures as they moved about. A large tanker slowly steamed upstream flanked by two tug boats. A barge carrying river dredged dirt and topped with snow looked like it was on its way to a snowman building competition.

“What time is it, please?” he asked.

“Eleven, am.”

“Where are we?”

“This is our home.”

“No, I mean what is the name of this city?”

“Halifax, Nova Scotia. You are in Canada … why do you ask?”

Claire walked around the kitchen bench and stood beside him. She noticed, for the first time, now that he was clean, how badly bruised his hands and arms were. She looked up at his eyes that seemed to have a far away stare. His body rock solid.

“You really have no idea who you are or where you are?”

The man slowly looked across as he nodded, “No sorry. I don’t.”

4.

The old, up state New York, mental asylum had been deserted for years. Vines crawled over the weathered stone walls. Rust had engulfed the bars that covered the windows and doors. Once manicured lawns now resembled a jungle of rubbish and half dead trees and weeds. The building looked ready to be demolished. The closest buildings, either side, were in a similar state of disrepair. Ownership papers showed a company that was registered in the Bahamas.

Two black suited agents kicked in the main front gate and walked down the weed covered stone driveway.

“Tell me again. Why the hell are we here?” asked the larger black American FBI agent. “Have you ever seen a more deserted joint. I mean seriously what a waste of time.”

“Will you shut the hell up. We’re here to see if anybody’s about or if it has been occupied recently.”

“Well that’s pretty obvious. Nobody’s walked across this wasteland for the last ten years. Come on Mack let’s just tell them it’s deserted and we can get back to something constructive … this place gives me the creeps.”

“For a big guy you are a wimp.”

Stepping around the waist high thistles, that appeared randomly along the lead in path, they arrived at the entry stairs. Mack stepped on the first timber tread as the timber buckled under his weight. The stair nosing caved in on itself and the rotted timber peeled from the wall. Reefing his shoe from the hole, he yelled, “Fuck.”

At the same time a dog growled from under the verandah. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t feel like being bitten by some mangy junk yard dog,” he said.

The two men turned unaware of the eyes watching them through blacked out, dirt encrusted windows and the high powered listening device that had picked up every word.

“We can not afford any mistakes. We have come too far to loose it all now,” came the Russian voice over the secure Skype link up. “What do you intend to do to limit this occurring again?”

“We do not know if this was a random act, on the behave of the FBI, or if they are on to us but we have instructed our inside man to plant some dummy leads and see how they react. We will transfer some workload to Chicago while we let this calm down. We have also doubled the number of our men posing as homeless and included guard dogs acting as strays. I am comfortable with the security at Bone, as our New York centre of operations, but we will monitor,” came the Russian reply.

“Excellent Alexei. When are you expecting your next delivery?”

“Two days.”

“Good. Keep me posted,” he growled as the line was disconnected.

5.

The expansive office was minimalist decorated. The large bare Canadian oak desk stood centre stage of the room. Two luxury leather lounges sat either side of a gas fired, open look, fire place. A family photo on one wall and a brightly coloured abstract painting adorned the opposite wall.

John Burrows had his back to the door, of his ninth floor office, staring straight down the river across Georges Island. It was early afternoon. The cloud was high but snowing again. The only other person in the room, a thirty two year old, spectacled male, sat on the lounge glued to his laptop. Punching on his keyboard suddenly the rear section of the table parted as a desktop flat screen rose. Images and numbers flashed across the quarterly divided screen.

“Grigory has asked for another mother ship,” said the seated man.

“Another?” questioned Burrows. “Have we received this month’s payment?”

“Eight million U.S. hit the account last night.”

Burrows sat in silence. The phone buzzed. He ignored it.

“Can’t question their paying, that’s for sure,” he paused. “When do they want this next ship?”

“Immediately apparently. They want to be able to have three running at any time.”

“That’s incredible. God only knows how much money they must be making.” Pause. “How quickly can we make it happen?”

“I made some calls and we can get one from Costa Rica, fitted out in Mexico and delivered to them, in Riga, forty four days. Will cost us sixteen million U.S. I mentioned to Grigory in the vicinity of twenty five million and he was okay with that.”

Burrows swivelled his chair back to face his fellow room occupant.

Luke Masterton, a gifted mathematician and programming whiz who had developed a software package that was capable of self evolving and therefore undetectable to outsiders. He served as Burrows personal assistant and one of his trusted inner circle. With an incredible ability to remember numbers, both as formulas and randomly, which he stored in his head. He was a major link pin in the continually changing pass codes, balances and transactions to Burrows many bank accounts. Masterton sat hitting away on his laptop without looking up.

“Good work Luke. What about our percentage?”

“He agreed to increase from fifteen to twenty.”

“Brilliant, absolutely brilliant. We need to celebrate,” said Burrows crossing the parquetry floor to the bar, hidden in the wall.

Returning, with two tumblers of fine double malt scotch whiskey, the two men sat sipping their drinks, in idle conversation, when Masterton asked, “I hear you have a visitor.”

Burrows explained what happened earlier the previous night and was about to mention the memory loss when his private mobile vibrated. His wife was direct knowing how her husband was very particular about his time while working. She explained how she and Stacey had been in discussion with their visitor, that morning, and how their conversation seemed to be making his lack of memory worse. His questions were multiplying and he seemed to be getting extremely frustrated, especially not even knowing his own name or where he was.

Burrows thought for a moment and then remembered his friend the police commissioner, Joseph Owenisque.

“I’ll call Owenisque, see if he has any ideas,” he said cutting the connection.

Terminating their meeting Burrows left the room. He followed Jack into the lift and stood against the rear mirror. He thought of all the people he had met through years of business meetings, organised events, scandalous acquaintances and unscrupulous arrangements. He knew he had developed an uncanny ability to read people and their intentions but something about their visitor he couldn’t quite get a grip on. Why had he turned up out of no where? Why was he helping them? Did he have intentions against his family? Is this apparent loss of memory, real or manufactured? Burrows, a normally strong disciplined and controlled man, followed his bodyguard from the lift and into his car like somebody drugged.

The warmth of the car heating brought back his focus.

“Mister Burrows. Are you alright?” asked Jack looking back through the rear vision mirror. “You seem a little lost.” Burrows nodded as he dropped his head, gathered up the mobile phone hitting the speed dial and activating the window that separated the front and rear seats.

“Hi Joseph,” said Burrows staring out of his luxury limousine at the throng of people trudging through the now dumping snow. Burrows explained events and Owenisque suggested that he get a photo, of the man, and they could run it through the facial recognition data base.

“Actually I have one on my phone so I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

The red brick, single storey, flat roofed, ageing structure, that appeared to be sliding down the hill, presented itself as Burrows approached the front entry steps. He thought to himself, as he did every time he approached the police head quarters, who would design a set of entry steps to a police station that had ten handrails. It felt more like you were entering a corralled football stadium than a government police building.

Annoyed at himself for letting such a mindless issue continue to bother him he pushed through the front glass doors. Waved to the duty sergeant. Crossed the reception area and met his friend half way along the corridor.

Together they travelled a labyrinth of rooms, corridors and offices until they entered the police department laboratory. The room was bathed in sterile, bright, white light. Seven white lab coated scientists were labouring over various samples, making notes, punching away on computers, reading documents or staring into microscopes. Small and large plastic zip locked bags adorned all the free bench space. A young, seated, female forensic police constable had been pre-warned of the visit and had prepared the search system.

She uploaded the photo and the state of the art computer imaging software raced through a maze of faces, lines and half revealed images. Both men stood looking over her shoulder. Minutes passed. Burrows felt his eyes becoming blurry from the millions of changing scenes. Finally, ‘No Result’ flashed on the screen.

“Does that mean he doesn’t exist?” questioned Burrows.

“No sir. It means he has not been arrested, charged or faced any criminal proceedings in either Canada or the U.S. and more than likely has not crossed through border controls. I can run further enquiries through all the intelligence agencies, government departments and the military but it will take a few hours,” she answered.

“Please would you mind?” asked Burrows nervously. “Is that alright Joseph?”

Owenisque nodded in agreeance as he moved Burrows away. “John are you alright?”

Burrows eyes darted from the maze of endlessly changing images on the screen to his friend. “He has a strong foreign accent. No idea who he is. My bodyguards tell me he is like some super human machine. Doesn’t want our help and now there appears no record of him.”

“I’m sure we will find out who he is. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry?” questioned Burrows. “Joseph; he is living in my house with Claire and Stacey. Of course I’m worried.”

Owenisque put his arm around his friend’s shoulder as he led him from the room. “Look I understand. I’ll have my men keep an eye on him until we get some answers. Okay!”

6.

The North Atlantic Ocean had stood by its reputation and whipped up a violent storm. The swell was consistently at six metres with an occasional rogue wave crashing across the foredeck topping out at fifteen metres. Visibility was down to ten metres as horizontal rain slashed against the bridge. The captain peered through the fifteen millimetre thick plexiglass trying to catch a glimpse of anything other than rain or ocean spray.

The huge three hundred and eighty foot vessel crashed through the waves. Disguised as a mother ship fishing trawler all cranes, nets, hatches and lines had been locked down.

A massive wave loomed and alarms sounded on the captain’s screen.

“Nikolay, we have another. Hang on,” said the captain into the ship comms system.

Doctor Nikolay Petrov, a former Moscow leading surgeon who, after loosing his wife in a hit and run motor vehicle accident, had turned to drink. Four years later, an alcoholic, he lost his licence to practice. Now recruited as the ships doctor.

“Here we go again,” Petrov screamed. The three nurses, all covered in blood, slammed the lids on all the open containers. Petrov lay down over the bisected body, protecting the semi severed internal organs. Machines beeped, oxygen pumps whirred, hoses swung from the ceiling as everybody waited for the crash.

The floating operating theatre had been constructed at the lowest reaches of the enormous vessel. Build below the floor, of the fish holding tanks, any inquisitive eyes would think they were looking down on to the grid of the bottom of the boat. Designed as independent to the boat’s structure a relay system compensated for the wave motion. Huge mechanical arms and sixteen separate computer controlled shock absorbers kept the room level. Except during severe storms the medical staff were unaware of most movement. Stainless steel covered the walls, floor and ceiling to enable easy cleaning. The room was kept at a constant ten degrees Celsius. The entire facility, and all its internal compartments, had been designed to be locked down and secured very quickly. Equipment, bodies and supplies were smuggled on board inside the large darkened plastic fish holding tanks. Once at sea the tanks were drained and the lucrative enterprise commenced.

Drugged and unconscious people of all ages, sex, creed were kept alive on life support systems until used as fodder for Petrov to remove their internal organs. Snapped frozen the organs were sold on the high paying North American black market. Once everything of value was retrieved, the bodies were then minced to unrecognizable human parts and pumped out the bottom of the boat as fish berley.

The fierce storm was causing havoc. Three nurses, Petrov and his assistant all struggled to keep their footing even with the magnetic shoes.

“Captain how much more?” asked Petrov into the mouth piece.

“Nikolay, I hate to say it but the storm is getting worse. I would suggest you take a break for a few hours. We will pass the southern tip of Greenland in approximately three to four hours and then I believe it might calm down. How long do you need to finish up now?”

“Three minutes.”

“Well hurry. I can see another rogue developing on the screen.”

The surgical staff whipped open the various containers they were using for storage. Organs were frantically covered and lowered into the snap freezer. The assistant grabbed the dismembered body and slid it across the table in to a large cylindrical tube that resembled an oversized smoothie machine. Slammed the lid as the large razor sharp blades sliced it into small unrecognizable red fragments. With the blades still spinning high pressure sea water was forced through the tube and all remaining remnants were washed away.

While the nurses quickly placed all the surgical equipment in the large sterilizing autoclaves the assistant and Petrov locked down the remaining few movable pieces of equipment. All full cover gowns, gloves, face masks, head gear, foot covers were dropped into a hole, the size of a bucket, in the furthest corner of the small surgery. Checking everybody had removed all their surgical clothing the assistant hit the button and the blood stained clothing was sucked into a vat of acid. All evidence of the operation gone.

The staff left the room, locked the door as the self sterilising unit went about its full room cleansing and the bow of the boat started to rise.

7.

Martin looked up in excited expectation at meeting his saviour. His leg stitched and heavily bandaged he tried to sit up but the drugs held him back. Claire had been with him all afternoon as Stacey led the stranger through the door.

“Hello,” stammered Martin suddenly lost for words, watching the stranger’s half smile. He struggled to recognize the man now in clean clothes, shaven and standing at the end of his bed.

Stacey, Claire, Mitch and Martin’s personal nurse all stood in silence waiting for Martin to continue. Martin just looked and stared from his face blank.

“Honey, I thought you wanted to thank this man for saving you,” asked Claire trying to break the silence.

Without faltering his stare, he replied, “I do. I just don’t know what to say … I guess … thank you.”

“That’s okay. The least I could do,” the man replied not making eye contact but continually scanning the surroundings.

Martin screwed up his face. “Are you Australian?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know … I can’t remember.”

“You definitely sound Australian to me. I spent a year there on exchange and I recognize that Aussie slang in your accent.”

“Australian. Interesting. Thanks,” the stranger replied walking from the room, followed by Stacey.

They walked into the empty waiting room and sat. Silent. The stranger with his shoulders slumped, head dropped. Stacey watched as he fought with the demons of thought trying to remember. She noticed how he seemed mesmerised by the machines that beeped, pinged, flashed and continually went about the business of keeping the intensive care patient, who lay in the room across the hall, alive.

A young boy approached the water stand. Filled his cup and walked off, leaving the tap running. A muted television played mindlessly in the background. The hospital ward went about the business of being a hospital. Nurses checked charts. Staff moved trolleys of food and medicines. Doctors stood around their cubicle quietly discussing their work as they read reports and viewed x-rays.

“What is the last thing you can remember?” asked Stacey breaking the silence and desperately trying to help her saviour find answers.

With what was becoming his trademark half smile he glanced at the television precariously hanging off the wall. A story about a plane crash flashed across the screen. A small twin engine Cessna had developed engine failure and needed to make an emergency landing on a relatively deserted country road. A reporter was standing in front of the aircraft mouthing words.

His eyes opened wider as he watched the muted story.

“I think I remember two women talking to me, near a plane, and then I walked away,” he said not taking his eyes from the television.

“Well that’s a start. Do you think you can remember who the women were?”

He looked across, screwing up his forehead. Trapped in concentration.

“No.”

“What about what they looked like?”

“No,” he said lowering his head again.

“What about the plane?”

“The plane? What would I remember about a plane?”

“I don’t know. The colour? The size? Was it at a major airport? Or a private jet?”

The stranger sat silently. Staring. Squinting his eyes. Forcing himself to remember.

“It was quiet. No people. A small jet. A hangar … The jet was all black … A blue star on the stair … It had a black and white trophy with five prongs … and unreadable symbols all around it … and it sat above the star.”

“What does the star and trophy mean?”

“Sorry. No idea,” he replied becoming frustrated with his lack of memory.

They sat in silence. He turned off the tap of the drinking fountain. Stacey played with her hair and touched the bruise on the side of her face. Patients, and staff, criss crossed in front of them. Ten minutes of silence and then she suggested they should return.

John Burrows had arrived with Jack. Both men stood at the end of the bed. Stacey entered, the stranger stood in the doorway, beside the guard. Stacey proceeded to tell everybody what they had been discussing.

“A black private jet with a blue star on its stair and a five pronged trophy surrounded by unusual symbols?” questioned Jack interrupting Stacey mid sentence.

“I think so,” nodded the stranger.

Jack pulled out his mobile phone and started scrolling through web pages. Everybody waited. A nurse entered, and stopped, struck by the silence.

“Did the symbol look like this?” he asked holding up his phone.

“Well … yes, it did actually. I think.”

“The blue star is the symbol of Jewish faith. That trophy you are referring to is a Menorah, the symbol of the Israeli secret service, commonly called Mossad and a black private jet, well, that would definitely be Mossad style.”

“How do you know this Jack?” asked a surprised Burrows.

“From my time in the Marines. We did some training with the US Navy SEALS and they had two guys who were reputedly Mossad so I tried to learn a bit about this Mossad.”

Everybody was silent.

“Look buddy I’m not trying to say you’re Mossad. Your accent is not even Israeli. It’s just an observation,” said Jack.

A half smile appeared.

8.

The morning had arrived with a typical Nova Scotia winters day. Rain belted against the glass as the wind roared. People scampered for cover trying to escape the below freezing, wind driven, temperature.

Early morning traffic was heavy and slow. A three car accident, involving a pedestrian, had brought the inner city to a grid lock. Burrows had made all his calls and sat in frustration. He scratched his head, ran his hand under his chin and watched the droplets run down the window. An extremely impatient man he thought how no amount of money helps when idiots cause accidents and he gets stuck in the middle.

“Jack, what do you think of our friend and his possible association with a secret service?” asked Burrows trying to distract his mind.

As Burrow’s driver and bodyguard Jack kept his eyes glued to the road and its surroundings.

“Not sure, Mister Burrows. But you would have to question how somebody who has links to Mossad would wind up on the streets of Halifax.”

“You don’t think there is any connection?”

“I don’t actually but I can’t stop thinking about how easily he disposed of Mitch, the night we met him, and how easily he got around behind me. I didn’t hear a thing. He was like a ghost the way he moved.”

Burrows sat contemplating and decided to call Owenisque. He explained the latest findings about their newly acquired friend. Owenisque advised he would need a few hours and would get back to him.

Two hours later Burrows was at his desk checking his private bank account when his mobile phone beeped. The text message read ‘ring me urgently, Joseph’.

With his desk phone on loud speaker he was still checking his bank account; smiling at how much he had stashed away, from everybody, including his wife.

“John are you alone?” asked a flabbergasted Owenisque.

“Yes. Why? What’s the problem?”

“The problem is your friend is not some street tramp. He is a former soldier. And not just any soldier; SAS. On top of which there are twelve years where he doesn’t exist. What that means is he was probably associated with covert operations.”

“Joseph, slow down. I’m not following all this. What are you saying?”

“John, I’m telling you, your man is more than likely a highly trained soldier and possibly a secret service operative. Have you not heard of the SAS?”

“No. Should I?”

“It means Special Air Service. It’s a British army special forces unit that are regarded as the best in the world. Seriously dangerous and very effective.”

“Shit and he can’t remember … my god what should I do?”

The line was quite.

“I don’t know but I would be very careful about what I say until you are fully comfortable with who he is.”

Both ends of the line went silent again. Owenisque reading the security file a third time. Burrows watching a rain drop race down the office window.

Clearing his throat Burrows asked, “What’s his name?”

“I’m not completely sure but I think Ross. The file is quite evasive in its content but it mentions a Ross. Could be a first or last name.”

“Thanks Joe … I think,” as he disconnected the call.

Closing down his laptop, he grabbed his gear and raced for the door.

“Jack we need to get home, now,” he ordered into his mobile phone.

Fast pacing past his secretary he mentioned something about a sick wife and wouldn’t be in until tomorrow. In the elevator he Googled ‘SAS’ ignoring pleasantries and comments from his staff.

The limousine rumbled out of the underground carpark and was about to rise up the ramp when suddenly a blackened transit van appeared across their path. The passenger and sliding doors flew open. Three men wearing balaclava’s, brandishing small semi automatic weapons, leapt on to the road and stood locked on Jack and Burrows. An older, more distinguished, man slowly stepped out. Running his fingers around the brim of his hat, he placed it on his head as he smoothed down his expensive wool and cashmere, long length coat.

One of the gun wielding men ran over and tapped on Burrows window, gesturing him to get out. The vehicle still idling, Jack went to move only to see the remaining guns, aimed at him, straighten even tighter. Burrows climbed out.

“Mister Burrows,” came the highly accented Russian voice as the well dressed man, stepped up to the car door and gently pushed it closed.

“Yes,” replied Burrows nervously. “What do you want?”

“We have been doing business for over four years now and you are asking me what do I want?”

The Russian reached into his pocket and removed a cigarette. He twisted it around his fingers, all the while staring at Burrows. “Twenty percent, hey?” he said as he slowly lit the tip and sucked the smoke deep into his lungs.

“Grigory? Is that you?” questioned Burrows. Squinting in the carpark semi darkness aware he had never met his client, only heard his voice.

“One and the same.”

“Why did you not tell me you were coming? And why like this?” he said motioning to the guns and roadblock.

Stepping forward and nearly touching Burrows face he whispered, “I thought we had an arrangement and then I find you are double crossing me. In my country that is not wise business.”

“What,” screamed Burrows as the silenced automatic gunfire shattered his car killing Jack instantly.

Grigory turned back to the van. One of the men reefed Burrows arms behind his back and zip tied them. Another ripped out a length of duct tape and slashed it across his mouth. Burrows was carried to the van, thrown on the floor, feet zip tied, shoes and socks removed and a wet hessian bag thrown over his head.

The van pulled out into the bleak morning weather. Police sirens could be heard approaching.

“Burrows I know you can hear me so this is how this is going to work, if you ever wish to see your family again,” said Grigory. “Nod if you understand.”

Burrows shook his head.

“Good. You have picked up one hundred and twenty million dollars, of our money, while our little partnership has been going and now it is time to pay us back. I know from your bank accounts, including that so called secret account, that you have foolishly spent or given away nearly forty million of that one twenty. This afternoon you will organise a loan for sixty million and within forty eight hours you will transfer one hundred and twenty million into this account.” Burrows felt a hand slide into his pants pocket. “Failure to do so and something, not so pleasant, will happen to one of your family every two hours, until we see our money.”

The bare floor of the van was like a fridge. Burrows tried to wiggle his hands free, from the cold steel, every time he felt them start to stick. His face was numb. Small icicles started to form inside the hessian bag. His breathing was becoming constricted as the cold started to close over his nose.

The van screamed to a halt. The door slid open. Burrows felt himself dragged across the floor and thrown on the wet, muddy ground. His shoulder and arm screamed in agony. Rain drenched him in seconds. A boot slammed into his midsection and another into his back. The tie on his wrist was cut as another boot slammed into his abdomen again.

“Remember our arrangement. I would keep that in mind if you so stupidly decide to involve the police.”

Gasping he heard the van door close and the wheel’s spin on the wet ground. Curled up in the foetal position he struggled for air. Lying on his side he pulled the bag from his head and the tape from his mouth. A middle aged, white collar businessman whose biggest daily exercise was either getting out of bed or attending another function, his flabby unfit body strained to sit up.

Looking around he tried to decipher where he was. It appeared as an empty carpark of some type at a tourist location. A smashed neon sign stood at the carpark entry. Three sides of the parking area were bound by thick pine trees. A small worn track led off to one side. The signage long gone.

Rolling on to his knees he attempted to move but the leg tie and his lack of strength caused him to crash back down into the mud. Crawling from the mud pool he started to cry.

9.

“John, we need to go over this one more time,” said Owenisque. “Your bodyguard is dead. Your car is shot to shreds, in your carpark. You turn up battered and bruised and you want me to believe nothing is wrong.”

Burrows sat propped up by two pillows in his king sized Victorian style bed. His broken ribs bandaged. Scratched and torn hands, now covered. Knees and elbows; patched. Claire and Stacey watching on in wonderment.

Burrows nodded looking down. Owenisque turned. “Claire I’ll leave it to you to talk some sense into him,” he said heading for the door with a constable following. “But remember John this is now a murder investigation and I can’t help you if you don’t help me.”

Mitch pulled the door closed behind them.

“John, what the hell is going on?” pleaded his wife pacing around the bedroom and then standing over him fiddling with her mobile phone.

“Dad you could have got killed. They had guns. They murdered Jack.” Stacey tried desperately to fight back the tears but the emotion exploded. “Are they going to kill us next?” she sobbed.

“No one’s going to kill us,” he answered sternly, groaning with the pain of his ribs. “I have it all under control. You both have to believe me … I have never let this family down in the past and it won’t happen now.”

The words rekindled the entire event in his mind. What did Grigory mean by double crossing? Why did he now have to pay back all the money they had agreed on? How did he know about the hidden bank account? With frustration written across his face the others knew it was time to leave.

Claire bent down and kissed her husband. “John I do believe you but I’m scared.”

Returning the affection. “I know you are but it will all be fine. Now I have things I need to get done so can you get Ruth on the phone?”

Claire dialled his mobile. Burrows waited until the room was deserted.

“Ruth, can you arrange for Greenberg to call over and see me as soon as possible? Plus, I need you and Luke to work from my apartment for a few days and can you ask Luke to chase up details on the ship from Mexico? He will know what I am referring to.”

“Sir, Mister Greenberg can’t get here until Thursday. He wanted to know what was so important,” said Ruth his personal administrative assistant, for the last four years.

Ruth Barnaby had come highly recommended by the elite level recruitment agency out of New York. In her early fifties and having worked for many years, at similar levels, prior to joining Burrows, her efficiency and work ethic was indisputable. Burrows had gone to great lengths to ascertain why a high paid Wall Street executive assistant would suddenly decide to pack up and leave her life of thirty plus years to come and live in Nova Scotia. Her marriage breakdown could explain the change but that had occurred fourteen years earlier and with no children everything had ended amicably. Brilliantly efficient at her work the thoughts had started to wane, as the years ticked by, but the most recent occurrence had reignited the questions in his head.

Burrows knew she would have done everything possible to get Greenberg there earlier.

“What about if I go to him?”

“I will find out, sir. But what about your condition?” she asked with genuine concern. Watching as he grimaced with pain attempting to sit up.

“Please Ruth, just make the appointment.” He paused catching his breath. “Could you also ask my wife to get our visitor to come and see me?”

Burrows felt the pain of his ribs but the fear of the Russian threats burrowed in to his mind like a cancer eating him inside out. The apartment was at a perfect temperature setting but his body was caked in cold sweat. His hands shook and his extremities were numb. His private bedroom felt like the walls were closing in.

His only fear had been failure. He thought of the stories he had read about threatened and scared people and how they would handle things. The more he thought the more he realised he was weak and incapable of defending himself. He knew his luxurious life was collapsing about him but he also had the male instinct to protect the one’s he loved.

Son of a middle income public servant both his parents had worked hard to put he and his younger, disabled sister through private school. Not a sports minded person he focused his growing years on reading and learning. After completing his MBA an opportunity arose, with a close school friend, to start a shipping equipment procurement business. Six years passed, with limited success, and the friend wanted out. Burrows paid the minimal buyout. Two years later he happened upon a company looking for used containers. The specific requirements took time to procure but he came through. His company then prospered and wealth followed.

John Burrows had never been in a physical fight. He had never felt physical pain. The most confrontational events in his life were raised voices between two parties. He had watched his wheel chair bound, disabled sister, battle her whole life against the debilitating disease, Muscular Dystrophy. This had driven him to fund research into finding a cure. In turn, he, and his wife, were extremely generous philanthropic contributors to the MD Society of North America.

A one knock tap came on the door and the stranger entered. His hair cut short, face closely shaved. Artic blue piercing eyes gleamed from his olive skinned face. For the first time Burrows noticed his confident demeanour and aura of strength.

“Please have a seat,” motioned Burrows.

The stranger sat. No words. Back straight. Head back. Hands on his thighs. Face blank.

Burrows prided himself on being a good judge of character and being able to pick up traits very quickly. The more he watched the more he became nervous.

“I have a friend who has been looking in to your memory loss and it appears you are an ex soldier.” The stranger sat rock steady. “It also seems you were affiliated with a part of the military called the SAS. Special Air Service I was told.” Still no movement. Burrows paused and continued. “My friend also believes you might be British and your name is Ross. Not sure if that’s your first or last name.”

“Ross?” he questioned, staring at Burrows like he was in a trance. Eyes squinting as he fought with the news.

“Yes. Ross … Does that mean anything to you?” he asked watching the stranger absorb the information, while he sat with his mouth half opened.

“I’m not sure … but thanks.”

“Apparently if you are prepared to have your fingerprint taken they might be able to get a more accurate answer.”

The stranger sat transfixed, concentrating.

Burrows mobile phone rang as Barnaby opened the door. “Greenburg calling for you.”

Burrows wondered, should he take the call with the stranger in the room? How much did their visitor know? Was he really one of these super soldiers? Could he have been planted by Grigory?

Too many questions and they were multiplying. He needed to regain his composure and self confidence. Become the John Burrows everybody knew not this weak, floundering, questioning mess.

“Paul, how are you?” said Burrows pausing. “No all good. Just some scratches.” Pause. “Listen I need to arrange a loan. Short term, available immediately.” Pause. “Sixty mill.” Pause. “Yes sixty million.” Pause. “Against the business and I need it by tomorrow night.” Pause. “Thanks Paul. I owe you.”

The stranger had walked to the window and stood watching the weather turn to a snow storm.

“I guess we call you Ross now. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” he voiced as he nodded.

“One other thing. As you are no doubt aware I was attacked today and one of my guards was murdered. If it turns out, you are one of these special soldiers, I would like to employ you to protect my family.”

Ross dipped his head slightly as he turned back to the window.

10.

The large Russian vessel slowly edged to the dock guided by the two tugs. A white out had visibility down to thirty metres. The captain moved the controls ever so slightly as the two massive engines pushed and pulled to sidle up against the frozen dock. Four men rugged up and looking like the Michelin man stood waiting to tie off the mooring ropes. The captain had been clever and had stalled their arrival until 0200. Huge lights atop the large lifting cranes, unloading a container ship two berths over, cast a surreal image as the light tried to penetrate the heavy falling snow.

Petrov stood beside the captain always fascinated at how easily he seemed to be able to manoeuvre the massive vessel into area that seemed not big enough to accommodate the ships size.

“Another successful trip Nikolay?” asked the captain.

“I would say so. We came away with one hundred and ninety organs and at sixty thousand US each; that will be a fine pay day.”

“Good. Then I believe we need a drink.”

“Thank you Captain but I first need to be sure they are unloaded and on their way.”

When a fishing trawler arrived the wharf workers tended to work with more vigour when they knew there was fresh produce involved. Lines were locked off and the cranes swung in to action. Russian’s, all accustomed to working in below freezing conditions, skid and slid around and across the decks. Large, one tonne sealed vats of fresh fish rose out of the fridge storage areas. The ship’s second in command stood on the wharf directing traffic, like an orchestra conductor, as he carefully watched the custom officials. Two further men, acting as his assistants, patrolled around the nearby containers and behind the waiting trucks. The limited light aided in hiding their smuggled weapons. Two ex Spetsnaz watched to ensure nobody got any ideas about getting too close to their prized packages.

All the vats were on the loading area. The customs officials were satisfied and had gone. First rays of morning were trying to break through the now lighter falling snow. The crew were tired. An overhead lifting crane started to rise. Suddenly one of the ground crew realised the fourth hook was not hitched. Screaming into their radios the vat kept rising. Fifteen metres in the air the crane operator turned the boom and the hook swung free. The weight now unevenly distributed lurched to one side and the cables snapped. The vat hit the roof of the truck like a balloon filled with water busting on the ground. Water, fish, frozen organs and the temperature controllers scattered everywhere.

The first ex Spetsnaz swung his silenced weapon and shot out the light atop the crane. The second fired two rounds into the lights, flooding the deck of the ship. Truck drivers killed their engines and lights. Instantly the entire area was plunged into darkness.

Like crazed ants everybody charged for the smashed vat. Fish were thrown in the water. Smashed plastic remnants were scooped up. Two men raced down the gangplank carrying two standard size fishing crates. Now useless organs and the broken temperature controller were gathered and returned to the hidden surgery. A large container forklift carried the damaged truck to the furthest unseen area of the container storage precinct and hid the truck behind an old abandoned warehouse.

Men frantically repaired the lights on the ship and the trucks started their ignitions. The deck was again flooded in light as the security personnel arrived. Questions were asked. Lies were told and statements taken. Finally, convinced, as the first rays of sun breeched the horizon, the security team departed and the remaining vats were loaded.

As the last truck was passing through the security clearance, at the entry gate, Petrov raised his glass.

“To us Captain. May we have many more fruitful journeys.”

The two men sat watching the dock come to life as the early morning personnel arrived for work. Drinking the traditional Russian poor man potato vodka, they talked and told stories of past glories.

11.

“My dad tells me your name could be Ross. That’s great. How do you feel about learning that?” asked Stacey.

“Hmm … That is good news.”

“You don’t seem very excited,” she said moving the chair and sitting beside him at the breakfast counter. The waiter wheeled the breakfast trolley closer and started serving a large sumptuous meal on to each plate. Ross watched as the food piled up and the drinks were poured.

“Ross are you even listening?” asked Stacey. “Ross … Ross,” she said raising her voice, as she tapped him on the shoulder. He spun, like lightning, knocking her off the chair. Realising he leapt to her aid. Mitch, standing guard and having seen what had happened, raced from the door. The waiter turned and ran around the counter.

“I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry,” he said with his hand under her elbow.

Brushing his help aside. “It’s okay,” she said climbing back on the chair. “What happened. What was that all about?”

He watched as she glared at him, puzzled. Mitch and the waiter standing less than two metres away.

He stared into her eyes. The only sound was the coffee pot percolating.

“Can you yell the name again, please?”

“You mean Ross?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“I’m not sure but please?”

“Ross … Ross … Ross,” she yelled getting louder.

Ross stood and walked to the large full height glass that provided the magnificent view across the water.

“Well I’ll be,” he said. “Just like that, it returns.”

Stacey leapt from the chair and raced to his side. “What returns?” she asked watching as he ran his hands through his hair. “Do you remember things?”

“I do actually. My name’s Wade Ross. I’m Australian. I don’t remember how I got here and why I’m here but I do remember the two women. They were my friends. We worked together.”

Stacey stood glued to every word. She waited for him to continue. He didn’t move. “Do you remember anything else?”

“Yes, I do. I remember growing up as an Aboriginal in outback Australia. I had a mother and sister who were murdered by some radical terrorists … All my friends, gone … My wife and daughter,” he softly said, pausing. “They’re dead too.” His legs folded like a collapsing chair as he slid, against the glass, to the floor, the words coming out cold, lifeless, void of emotion.

Stacey felt the tears run down her cheeks. Mitch stood dumbfounded. The waiter walked over and tried to help Wade to his feet but his body was like a lead weight.

Claire entered the room. “My god, what’s happened?” she frantically asked struggling to come to terms with the recent changes to their normally sedate life.

“Wade knows who he is,” replied Stacey watching as he stood, with Mitch and the waiter helping him up.

“Wade? Whose Wade?”

Stacey explained his memory return and the details he had presented. Her mother stood aghast, mouth half open, watching Wade as each word was spoken. His head dropped on to his chin. His arms hanging limp by his side. His body flopped against the glass.

“Wade I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry,” said Claire. “I hope with this new found memory you will still agree to stay with us for a while?” she asked waiting for a response. None forthcoming she continued. “We would love for you to stay and tell us about yourself but we need to get to Jack’s funeral. We are already late,” she reminded them.

“Would you like to come?” softly asked Stacey.

Wade thought for a moment. “Yes I would, thank you.”

The church service was relatively simple and short. The congregation was small, as expected, with Jack having only been in Halifax for less than a year. Most attendees were acquaintances of John Burrows and showed up as a sign of respect to a man they treated in high regard or did business with.

Wade stood, listening to the priest give his eulogy, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. He tried to remember how many funerals he had attended but the memory was blurred as if the number was too big to fathom. He heard Stacey sobbing beside him but resisted the urge to look or say anything.

His mind drifted back to when his best friend, and former training partner, had advised, his wife Crystal, five months pregnant, with their daughter, had been murdered, in Tel Aviv, by a US presidential sanctioned CIA SOG hit squad. He remembered how earlier he had promised his wife, as she lay quietly sedated on a hospital bed, that he would always be there to protect her. And he had failed. He remembered the tears that never seemed to stop and the pain that ate at him like a school of hungry piranhas.

The aboriginals and their strong belief in the Dreaming, the day to day existence of all things spiritual, moral and physical; was the one solid and dependable component of his life that kept him going. He thought about the elders and the traditional stories that had been passed down from generation to generation. He remembered that people don’t die but enter another phase of our creation. This gave him strength.

The service concluded and only the Burrows family and Mitch went to the grave site.

The rain had stopped and the snow had changed to a sprinkle. Small flakes as soft as cotton floated in the breathless air. Stacey, Claire, Mitch and the wheel chair bound John, stood opposite the priest. Wade stood back unable to stop himself from continually scanning the area. The new found information had kicked in a gear that had reignited his military skills. With the last rites completed the teary family returned to their car.

Having already noticed the two men, walk from a parked SUV on the far side of the cemetery, Wade fell back. He saw the distinctive bulge of pistols under their jackets and their heads swivelling like clowns at a side show.

Mitch was helping Burrows into the back seat as they approached.

“Good morning Mister Burrows. Grigory would like to remind you of your agreement. You have forty minutes or we will pay you another visit and next time will not be so congenial,” came the strongly Russian accented broken English.

“How dare you speak to us like that. This is a funeral. Show some respect,” said Claire raising her voice.

“Burrows you might want to keep your little woman’s mouth shut or she will be first when we return,” he replied stepping closer to the door and bending down to eyeball him. At the same time the second Russian moved behind Mitch.

Mitch reached into his jacket to remove his gun from his shoulder holster.

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” said the second Russian with his gun pointed at Mitch’s head. “Don’t be a hero.”

Stacey screamed. Claire gasped. Mitch slid his hands out of his jacket and raised them above his shoulders.

“Alright, alright. Like you said I have forty minutes,” said Burrows trying to calm everything down.

“That’s right Burrows, forty minutes and counting,” said the first Russian as his buddy pistol whipped Mitch, dropping him like a potato sack.

Burrow’s words were all the distraction Wade needed. Using his Parkour skills he leapt the four metres separating himself from the gravestone, he was hiding behind, and the pistol whipping Russian. His foot crashed into the side of the attacker’s head. Landing he spun like a ballerina and smashed his elbow into the face of the second attacker. Both men lay unconscious. He reached down and removed their weapons, identification, keys, wallets and checked their arms for the tell tale tattoos of Russian mafia.

Lifting the still unconscious Mitch into the back seat he climbed in the front. Slammed the door, hit the ignition and floored the accelerator. The massive vehicle fought desperately to gain traction on the snow covered road.

“Where did you learn to do that?” yelled Stacey.

“Not important,” replied Wade racing through the cemetery front entrance only narrowly missing the gates on both sides. Spinning the steering wheel, he fought to keep the elongated vehicle on four wheels as they slid and rocked into the traffic. With the big bulky machine back on the correct path and all the occupants back in their correct seated positions he turned. “Where to and I would suggest not your home?”

The three Burrows, still stunned by the experience, sat frozen, holding each others hands.

“Where to?” yelled Wade again. “Talk to me people. I need an answer.”

“We have a holiday house at French Village,” mumbled John Burrows. “It’s only about forty minutes away.”

“Or what about Nan’s? That’s only Duncans,” said Stacey.

“Who were those men, John?” asked Claire. “And what did they mean by forty minutes? Why did they have guns? We could all have been killed. What about Martin? Is he safe?” she rattled like verbal diarrhoea.

“Honey, please. Calm down.”

“No, I will not calm down and don’t think by calling me honey you can pacify me. Do you not realise what just happened? If it hadn’t been for Wade, we would all be dead.”

“Would somebody like to give me directions,” shouted Wade interrupting the conversation.

“Just follow the 103 until you get to the 213 and head south,” replied Burrows glad to find an opportunity to change the subject.

The occupants sat in silence with the occasional groan coming from Mitch. The long, gentle, undulating roads led past typical two storey weatherboard North American homes engulfed by pine trees. Passing through the small village of Glen Haven they veered off. The now dirt road had become a rattle trap from the logging trucks. Potholes got wider and deeper, the snow cover thicker and the trees closer to the road the further they ventured up into the forest. Wade had slowed down to a crawl and was continually correcting the cars direction when the eighteen wheeler loomed from around the corner. A truck carrying thirty tons of logs, not expecting any oncoming traffic and needing the entire road for stability; remained on its path. Wade had no choice but to reef the steering wheel and accelerate the car off the road. Clear of the track, and the truck flashing past, he hit the brakes. Both women screamed.

The large V8 engine had been building speed, only to have the brakes slammed. Forces of gravity had taken over and the huge vehicle slid and crashed through the small saplings that lined the road. With no grip for the tyres it became like an out of control skater. A six foot wide tree trunk appear directly ahead.

Wade yelled, “Hang on.” Aware nobody except him was wearing a seat belt.

He tried to spin the steering wheel again but the engine had stalled and the power steering had ceased. He watched in what felt like slow motion as the front drivers side of the vehicle slammed into the gigantic wall of timber. Fender, hood, panels started to crush like paper. The steel engine came in contact with the barrier. Being enough off centre the momentum threw the two ton vehicle sideways and the rear of the car crashed into the adjacent tree. Brought to an instant halt the occupants were thrown like rag dolls. Air bags burst into their faces. The Burrows had all grabbed hold of something but Mitch flew through the rear window, decapitated as he hit the glass.

Wade kicked the front passenger door open, climbed out and tried to open the rear door. Jammed. He grabbed a fallen log.

“On the other side,” he yelled. “Move … and cover your faces.”

The Burrows curled up together fighting against the airbags. John groaned in pain holding his ribs. Stacey had tears flooding down her face. Wade banged and banged the log into the door. The noise was deafening. Bits of glass flew everywhere. Finally, the door lock gave way and he levered the smashed jumble of steel, glass and aluminium open.

“Out. Quick,” he yelled grabbing Claire’s hand and dragging her across the broken glass and shattered panels. She screamed as the glass cut her arms and legs. Free of the vehicle Wade quickly lowered her on the snow and transferred his attention to John and Stacey. With all three clear he grabbed John under the arm and with his free arm pulled Claire to her feet and started to move.

“We need to get away from here, now,” he screamed.

The strange looking quartet had covered one hundred metres, of the three hundred the car had ploughed into the forest, when the explosion ripped through the deathly quiet surroundings. The force threw them all face first into the snow. Wade raised his head and watched as two huge trees dislodged by the explosion collapsed on the burning debris. The volume of snow, on their branches, suffocated the fire as quickly as it had started.

Wade stood checking their injuries and he helped them to their feet. Stacey had glass cuts to her hands and knees. A large bruise, from banging her head on the door handle, was forming on her forehead. Her eyes were bloodshot, tears continued to flow and she started to shake. He knew she was developing the onset of shock.

John couldn’t stand as he doubled over in pain, from his battered ribs, and a small trickle of blood came from the side of his mouth.

Claire, who had been on the driver’s side of the rear seat, had taken the full brunt of the accident. A large gash above her left eye was flowing freely. Her face plant into the snow had smeared blood across her face. Her hair was matted and she struggled to move her neck. Small shards of glass protruded from her hands and knees. Her dress was ripped to the waist and a large cut could be seen all up her left thigh. The ground looked like a murder scene as she rose, blood slowly fading as it was diluted by the snow.

Stopping her from moving, Wade pushed her back on the ground. He reached over and started ripping her dress. Stacey watched in horror. Claire screamed and threw out her arms, swinging, trying to stop him. Wade ignored the punches and continue ripping.

“What are you doing?” screamed Stacey, by now shaking violently, as the dress flew from around her mother.

The two women then realised Wade was making bandages. He ripped small tight bandages to close up the wounds and then larger pieces of cloth to cover the entire area. With the blood flow stopped he was lifting Claire’s head and wrapping a bandage across her forehead and eyes as a large over weight gasping figure appeared.

“My god … are you folks alright?” the truck driver asked.

“I need to get the three of them to hospital,” said Wade. “Can you help?”

“Sure,” said the driver still struggling to get his breath back. “What the hell are you all doing out here? Don’t you know this is a closed road only available to logging trucks. You could have got yourselves killed.”

“Where’s your truck?” asked Wade not interested in ramblings.

“It’s a fair way down the hill. Took me a while to stop in this snow. I’m not sure if you realise but I can only take one at a time. No more room in the cabin and it will take me a good hour or so to get to Victoria General.”

“How far to your house?” asked Wade looking across to Claire.

“I’m not exactly sure where we are but I think about three to four miles further on.”

“You have a house out here?” asked the truck driver. “I don’t think so. This land is all owned by Starma Corp and there is no way they would let anyone build a house on their land.”

“My name is John Burrows and I own Starma Corp,” he replied coughing between words trying to lift his head.

“Mister Burrows,” said the driver stunned by the statement. “I’m sorry I didn’t know it was you. I guess as you are my boss I do whatever you want me to.”

“Do you know where the house is?” asked Wade.

“Sure,” he stammered. “At the top of the next rise,” as he pointed west.

“Alright. We walk. I need you to help Burrows and I’ll help Claire and Stacey,” said Wade removing his coat and wrapping it around Stacey. “Come on. Let’s move. I need these two women out of the cold. Do you have a cell phone?”

“Sure but it’s in my truck.”

“Forget it. Let’s go.”

12.

“Am I to assume Burrows did not get the message?” asked Grigory drawing on his cigarette as he glared across his desk.

“No sir. He got the message,” answered the smaller of the two battered henchmen.

Smiling Grigory looked across at the photographs, showing his family history, hanging on the furthest wall of his office. The three metre by three metre windowless room was strewn with folded, crumbled papers. Half filled coffee cups lined one edge of the desk. Two overflowing ashtrays straddled a stain scribble pad. Pencil drawn images of Russian mafia tattoos hung from every available space on the walls. A dull yellowing fluro the only form of light. Standing he walked around the desk. “Do either of you know who these people are?”

Both men dropped their heads ashamed.

“I thought not.”

He walked past the two men and stood in front of his most trusted 2IC. “Ramus, I think our men need an education in the ways of our business.”

Ramus nodded as he and the remaining guard left the room.

“You two, look at me,” Grigory ordered.

The two men spun and looked up expecting a pistol to be at their heads.

“These people are my father, and his father, and his father and so on. For eight generations my family has stood firm as custodians of the Bratva … are you aware of what the Bratva is?” he questioned, realising the two young American born Russian punks had probably never seen or heard of the Russian mafia.

Both men shook their heads, swallowing, expecting the worse.

“Amazing you do not even realise what the tattoos you have on your arms mean,” Grigory said smiling. He returned back behind his desk and sat. “Gentlemen, please have a seat.”

The two men obeyed not taking their eyes off him.

Grigory went on to explain how and why the Russian mafia, sometimes referred to as the Bratva, evolved. He detailed its rapid growth after the free market economy emerged within Russia and why southern Brooklyn was the home to so many Russians.

“So that is what we are about and you both have that tattoo because you chose to work with us. We have many legitimate businesses but we also have some very lucrative … what you might say not so legitimate businesses that we are particular defensive of. One of those businesses is collecting monies when owed to us … Am I making myself clear?” he asked, as Ramus entered the room leading a cowering beaten man.

“Yes sir.”

“Good.” He opened his drawer and slid a 9mm Ruger across the table. “We will leave this room now. You have one round in this pistol and when we return this man better be dead. You have sixty seconds.”

The two men looked down on the figure, curled in the foetal position, blood splattered face, crushed hands and wearing a torn, filthy suit. They watched as he tried to look up through blackened, ninety percent closed eyes; pleading.

They swung their heads towards the door as Grigory said over his shoulder, “He failed to collect our money.”

Grigory and Ramus closed the door. Fifteen seconds later a shot rang out. Ramus, leading with his Colt pistol, opened the door to see the taller of the two with the pistol in his hand. Ramus swung to his left and lodged two rounds in the head of the smaller man. Blood and gore splattered over the pencil drawn images.

Grigory stepped around Ramus and stood looking at the taller man who had dropped the pistol as his companion fell.

“Good. Now we all understand what is expected. Correct?” asked Grigory.

The man nodded lowering his head, watching as the two pools of blood meandered towards each other ever so slowly.

“Joseph, look at me. No more mistakes, right?”

Joseph nodded, fear etched across his face.

“I want a full detailed description of what happened at the cemetery.”

Joseph explained while Grigory repeatedly interrupted, asking for more detail. He questioned, twice, the details of Wade.

“Let’s go over this again. You’re saying you never saw or heard him until his foot slammed into Milsav’s head and then like a blur he spun and you can’t remember anything after that.”

“Yes sir.”

“What did he look like? Sounds to me to be Asian with some martial arts skills or something?”

“Sorry sir … no idea. It all happened so fast.”

Grigory sat focused on his laptop screen, tapping his fingers on the table.

“I am not sure what Burrows is playing at but this guy is definitely different to the other useless American bodyguards he has employed,” he said still not looking up and tapping louder and louder. “Ramus, take Joseph and two others and find this guy. I want him, and Burrow’s wife, dead; now,” he screamed slamming his open palm on the table.

Ramus grabbed Joseph by the upper arm and reefed him out the door.

The door closer slowly pulled the huge solid core oak door shut. Grigory hit the button under his desk and the electric lock engaged. At the same time, he tapped the bottom button on his encrypted desk phone. The number rang once as the electronic voice spoke.

“Grigory, good to hear from you,” came the deep guttural Russian sound.

“Sir, I thought I needed to give you an update.”

“Good … go on.”

He explained the latest development and what he had set in motion and was detailing the little facts they had on Burrow’s new protector when the speaker phone interrupted.

“Grigory … Grigory … Grigory. I do not pay you a ridiculous amount of money to tell me problems. As you are aware we have a ship that has just docked and the cargo unloaded. This is good. Our merchandise is on the road to the U.S. and Burrows has ordered another ship which arrives soon. With three ships and each bringing approximately ten to twelve million dollars per delivery I cannot avoid weak links. At the moment my weakest link is Burrows. So I want my money and I want him, and anybody who might have any knowledge of our operation, eliminated. Is this clear enough for you? If not, I will arrange for others to complete the task and we both know what that means.”

“Yes sir it is very clear. I will not bother you with trivial details and I will ensure it is all attended to immediately.”

“Good. Grigory that is what I expect to hear,” as the phone connection was cut.

Grigory felt the drops of fear induced sweat come over his eyes.

13.

Considering the Burrows family wealth, the holiday home was extremely basic. A three bedroom boxed shape log cabin with a kitchen, single bathroom and a small lounge. A large open fire place covered one wall and a three piece modular lounge suite occupied the majority of the room. All the walls were bare and no ornaments or artefacts were on display. Wade wrapped blankets around the two women and lay them on the lounge. The truck driver who had been lagging further and further behind, as they climbed the hill, opened the door and helped Burrows through as the flames, of the open fire, burst in to life. Bending over the arm of a chair the truck driver gasped and wheezed trying to force oxygen into his struggling lungs.

Wade had boiled water and was pouring drinks. “Place him next to the fire,” he ordered not turning.

The fire raged and the small cabin was heated very quickly. Wade made the Burrows comfortable, checked their wounds and cleaned them up as much as possible. Temporary bandages had been replaced. A small pair of tweezers had enabled the majority of glass fragments to be removed. His major concern was shock. With warmth seeping back into their bodies, he again checked their pulses, raised their legs and lay them on their sides.

“Do you have a phone?” asked Wade.

“No,” replied John Burrows.

“What about a car?”

“No.”

Checking the women, a second time he responded. “I think they should be okay. You will need to check your wife’s dressing in about an hour or so and you will need to keep checking Stacey’s eyes and pulse. She is in shock and could wake up anxious. Keep them warm and don’t move them. I’m going for help.”

“What about my son? They could go after him,” pleaded Burrows as scared as a school kid who had just been confronted by the school bully.

Wade thought for a moment. “Let me find help for you three first and then I’ll go check him out.”

Wade grabbed a coat, motioned to the truck driver and they stepped outside into the night. Snow was falling heavier. They walked thirty metres, stepped around a corner onto the dirt road and instantly the world was black.

“Hey man. How we gonna see. It’s blacker than space out here. I think we should wait for help,” said the truck driver, with panic in his voice.

Wade ignored him and increased his pace. The driver followed.

Ten minutes had passed when the huge dark form of the truck appeared. Wade jumped into the passenger’s seat as the driver grabbed his torch, stepped back down and headed toward the rear of his vehicle.

“What the hell are you doing?” said Wade coming around behind the truck driver who had his face inside the wheel well of the rear axle.

“Checking the brakes.”

“What the fuck,” yelled Wade grabbing the man by the collar of his shirt and reefing him out. “We leave now. Got it.”

“Hey buddy we leave when I’m ready,” he said turning to re-enter the wheel well.

Wade grabbed his jacket by the upper arm, swung him around and banged his head against a log. “We’re leaving now and either you’re driving or I am. Your choice?”

The driver felt the grip across his throat get tighter and tighter. “We can’t move without checking the brakes,” he gasped. “I had to lock the brakes after just missing you guys and now if they are not released properly they could fail when we need them at the bottom of this hill.”

Wade let the man go, walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in. Not a considered expert in trucks, he was capable. He turned the ignition, the beast fired up, he engaged the gear, released the handbrake and the hulk started to move forward. The man had run screaming towards the cabin as Wade had engaged the ignition but after failed attempts to access the driver’s door he crashed on to the road verge and watched as his truck disappeared slowly around the corner.

The road was slick with the ever increasing snow adding to the skating effect. The trailer was pushing the truck faster and faster and Wade could feel the brakes getting softer and softer. Quickly analysing his options, he gently touched the brakes, slightly turned the wheel and let the trailer slide into the trees on the far side of the corner. The rear wheels slowly sunk into the undulation, that acted as a natural drain, bringing the vehicle to a halt. Wade leapt from the cabin, lowered the jockey wheel, unhooked the fluid and electric lines and started winding up the trailer to release it from the turntable. The obscure angle of the trailer was resisting the release until suddenly it popped free.

Back behind the wheel, with the weight gone, the truck was far more stable. Using the drivers mobile phone, he dialled up the emergency services, gave the directions and drove as quickly as the ice covered dirt road would allow.

14.

Wade knew he had to ditch the truck as the outskirts of Halifax appeared. Entering the petrol station, he slowly manoeuvred the truck up to the bowser. Jumped out, taking the cell phone and a peak cap with him. Activated and locked the diesel handle in position and walked away. Keeping his head lowered, to avoid cameras, he passed behind the service centre, crossed the dividing barrier and entered the carpark. He stood at the payphone, pretending to be in conversation; waiting.

The old man, in the white hatchback, had filled his vehicle and parked adjacent to the truck parking area. Wade watched until the old man entered the food hall. Scanning the area, for surveillance, he pulled the cap lower on his face and wandered to the car. The door lock was basic and the ignition cover fell away. Pulling down the wires, he tapped them together. The engine sprung to life and he drove off, exiting the back entrance to the carpark.

He carefully avoided going over the speed limit or in anyway running foul with the authorities. The streets were empty with the traffic lights flashing on hazard as the snow covered everything like a dropped white blanket. He knew he didn’t have a complete return of his memory and he couldn’t figure out what was missing but something about the white terrain kept pulling at his memory strings.

He watched a dog, with its tail between its legs dig into a pile of rubbish that had fallen from the overflowing cart away bin. A man was shovelling snow and two kids were sitting at the bus stop, desperately trying to stop the wind from smashing into their faces. It all seemed normal but why had he arrived in Nova Scotia? Why would he be attracted to such a cold place when all he could remember was working in jungles or deserts. Hot places!

No matter what order he put his thoughts in it always came up blank like one small part of the puzzle was missing.

The hospital public carpark was deserted except for two vehicles both hard up against the footpath leading to the entrance door. Workers keen to get to their car and head home, as quickly as possible, at the end of their shift. Wade chose the opposite end of the carpark and reversed the vehicle into an area where the lights had blown out and strange shadows flicked and swept across the terrain. With his cap pulled down, hands deep into his coat pocket, head lowered he followed the tree line that bordered the carpark. Keeping in the shadows he crossed to a rear door with the sign ‘staff only’ etched into the framework and a keypad adjacent the handle. A red light flickered on the small camera, mounted above the door. The door had been propped open by a small box and the ground was littered in cigarette butts.

The door led into a long corridor. Fluorescent lights, activated by sensors, continually turned on as he passed along. Cooking smells abound as he passed the kitchen and then the smell changed to cleaning products. The noise of the washing machines and dryers was deafening in the confines of the corridor. A teenage boy, dripping in his wet dishwashing clothes, passed glued to the screen of his phone. Wade watched and waited until the service lift arrived. The middle aged lady was far more interested in getting the trolley from the lift and into the kitchen so she could head home, than wondering about a man, who didn’t appear to be a service worker, entering the lift.

The door eventually lumbered closed. The beaten and bashed stainless steel lined internals, clattered their way up. Martin, now located in a private room on the fourth floor and the closest to the fire stairs, provided the perfect unannounced arrival. Number five flashed on the LED screen and the lift door slid open.

The service area was empty. Voices could be heard from the rear of the preparation area. He waited until the voices drifted off. The ward corridors were deserted with television sounds emanating from most rooms. Lights had been dimmed and the smell of hospital disinfectant waft through the air. Wade kept to the walls and gently pushed the fire stair door ajar.

Peering through the rails he saw the guard leaning against the door, one level lower, watching the ward through the glass viewing panel. Slowly Wade inched down the concrete steps. At the upper landing he climbed on to the rail and launched himself through the air. His elbow smashed between the guard’s shoulder blades. The force crashed him, face first, into the concrete wall. Wade grabbed his arm, spun him round and open handed shattered his nose up into his brain, killing him instantly.

Dragging the body aside, he slowly opened the door. Martin could be seen asleep. His room in darkness with an LED emergency exit sign the only form of light. Wade heard the rustle before the face appeared at the opposite corner. Chewing on a snack bar the disinterested man gave a thumbs up, to his colleague, standing in the adjacent room.

Staring at the slightly ajar door, the man waited for his other colleague to acknowledge. No response.

“Markos,” said the guard. “Markos,” he said louder.

Still no response. Waiting the guard checked the corridor and walked to the stairwell. Opening the door, he entered.

“Answer me when I call you, you fucking dumb Greek.”

As the automatic closer shut the door, an arm locked around his neck and Wade’s other hand grabbed the opposite side of his head. The snap was loud. The body hit the floor. Wade removed the 9mm Makarov’s, Russian mafia pistol of choice, and extra magazines, from the dead Russians and slipped them in his rear waistband. Further searching and he discovered a silencer and an unmarked, untraceable cell phone. Pocketing both he slipped on the hitman’s baseball cap and jacket. Head dropped he slowly opened the door and walked across to Martin’s room.

He could see, from his peripheral vision, the remaining Russian was puzzled by this action. Inside the door he spun and waited. The minutes ticked by. Wade finally heard the whisper quiet sound of a jacket scrapping on the corridor wall. The remaining Russian, unsure what was happening, stopped at the doorway turned and looked down the corridor. Wade’s fist crashed down on the back of his neck. The Russian crumpled and tried to turn only to see a knee slam into his face.

Wade dragged the dead body into the room. Shut the door and slapped Martin awake.

“Come on I need to get you out of here,” he said whisking the covers aside and forcing him onto his feet.

“What … what is happening?” Martin stammered as his legs gave way and he hit the floor.

“Get up,” Wade growled reefing him up by the pyjama collar.

The bewildered Martin, hanging on to the bed, started to sob. Wade grabbed his face by the chin.

“Now listen to me. If you want to live you better pull yourself together, stop worrying about what hurts and get ready to move … There are people here with guns and they won’t think for one second about pulling the trigger … Now put on this coat, these boots and this cap,” he said as he stripped and searched the dead Russian.

The white hatchback was resembling a snow man with the snow piling up on its bonnet and roof.

“Who owns this?” asked Martin.

“Pull the snow off the window screen and get in,” ordered Wade.

Martin looked around trying to find something to clean away the snow.

“Your hands,” yelled Wade. “Move it.”

Martin responded and brushed the snow. Opened the door and climbed in. Blowing warm air and rubbing his red, cold hands together he nervously asked, “Why are you doing this? My family has been very appreciative and taken you in when you had nothing. I accept you helped save my sister, and I, but we have offered no ill feelings only gratitude.”

Wade ignored the comments as Martin rambled on.

Passing the truck depot, Wade saw the police car parked in the carpark.

“Down quick,” he ordered pushing Martin’s head into the dashboard and sinking himself lower. Checking the rear view mirror he watched until they cleared the next corner.

“I know you saved our lives but I demand you tell me what is going on?”

Ignoring the question, Wade starred straight ahead, focusing on driving.

“I mean it … Tell me now,” he screamed grabbing the steering wheel.

Wade immediately pulled in the opposite direction and hit the brakes. The car slid sideways. The wheels shuttered. Snow piled against the spinning tyres. Fighting the wheel, the car started to lift until the forces of gravity took over and the passenger side crashed back on to the pavement. Only long enough for the rear to spin around and crash into a parked car. The small vehicle crumbled like paper.

“You could’ve killed us,” screamed the terrified Martin. “We could have died,” he kept blabbering.

Wade’s open hand flew out and smashed into his face, knocking him unconscious. Dragging him from the vehicle he ripped part of his pyjama top and wrapped around his blood engorged nose.

With nobody arriving, to the sound of the crash, he carried the limp body to the next intersection. The streets were deserted. Everybody avoiding the ever increasing snow storm. Street lights cast decreasing amounts of light. Visibility down to four metres. The bite of the snow was like millions of bee stings. Finally, he found what he was looking for. A vehicle with wider tyres and predominately indistinguishable features. A white courier van was perfect. The key lock was simple, the hotwire straight forward and it started first go. Wade slid Martin in the rear, amongst the half full array of boxes. With the lights off, he pulled out on to the road and bee lined for the first corner.

A golf course appeared, off to his right, as the cell phone chimed.

“Ilya, is the package still secure?” came the crackling English highly Russian accented voice through the phone. Wade waited. “Ilya, answer me,” came the strongly worded order. “Ilya, what the fuck are you doing. This is an order. Answer … now!” the male voice screamed.

“I don’t think Ilya will be answering you for a while. In fact, I don’t think ever,” softly replied Wade.

“Who is this?”

Wade pulled under the overpass, killed the ignition and waited.

“Answer me you little punk,” screamed the voice on the phone. “If I find out who you are, I will track you down, slit your throat and shove your balls down your mouth.”

“Hmmm, interesting.”

“You’re dead. I’ll find you,” he screamed incoherently.

Wade disconnected the call.

The Burrow’s holiday home had an ambulance and a police cruiser in the drive. Wade backed up around the previous corner. Dragged Martin from the rear and fireman carried him to the front door. Propped him up and left.

15.

The large, windowless warehouse shuttered as the huge steel door slid closed. Ramus, Joseph and the two goons grabbed their respective weapons from the van. Circled the six metre stacks of boxes and climbed the rattling steel stair to Grigory’s office.

“Enter,” said Grigory, not looking up, after he heard Ramus knock.

The four men left their weapons outside the door, waited for the metal detector to acknowledge ‘all clear’ and entered. Standing before the desk Ramus spoke. “Burrow’s son is not at the hospital.”

Still not raising his head he replied, “Okay, so why are you telling me this and where did you take him?”

“We didn’t touch him. He has gone and Ilya, Marko and Ivan are dead.”

“Dead … what do you mean dead?”

“All three were taken out by a professional. No weapons. Snapped neck, crushed face. Very clean and quick.”

Grigory raised his head. Looked across to his men. Scratched his face, then his head.

“Well Ramus,” he paused. “It seems we might have a worthy adversary.” He paused again. “I was just talking to this man, he has Ilya’s phone and he has an accent. Not English but possibly Australian, New Zealand or even South African. I need you to start making some enquiries. We need this guy found and quick.”

He stood and walked to a safe. Dialled the combination and opened the door. Removed four unmarked Heckler and Koch 9mm pistols and a spare magazine for each.

“Clean pistols,” he said handing to each man. “What about Burrows? Where are we at with the money?”

“Gone as well. The entire family.”

“Gone,” yelled Grigory. “What the hell. Do we know where?”

“No sir. They vanished after the funeral.”

Grigory sat back down. So Burrows has a new protector. One who can kill, very efficiently, with his bare hands. Has some martial arts skills. Must be as quiet as a mouse if he was able to get the jump on Ilya. Seems very controlled in his speech and has taken Burrows to a secret hiding spot.

“Burrows has money, lots of it, and could be hiding anywhere. So I think our best avenue is to find this guy. He must have just arrived so can you get our people to check the airlines, buses, trains, boats? We need somebody watching Burrow’s office and apartment building? We also need to find out if he has another property, somewhere near by. Like a holiday home or another apartment. And don’t forget the ferry terminal, he might have driven.”

“Sir, if I may,” asked Ramus.

Grigory directed the others out the door. As it closed, “Go ahead.”

“I have only ever seen kills, like the ones I saw on Ilya and the others, once before.”

“Ramus. Continue,” beckoned Grigory.

“It was when I was with the PLO and it was a special group attached to Mossad.”

“Mossad,” he smiled. “What the hell are they doing here?”

“No sir, not Mossad. Kidon.”

“Kidon? The assassin squad?”

“Yes sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes sir. They kill in a very distinct manner and according to reports virtually impossible to trap.”

“What else do you know about these Kidon?”

“Very little other than they are reputed to blend into the surroundings they are working in and when they strike no one ever sees the attack.”

Standing again, he leant forward on his hands.

“This is madness. They are only human and can be defeated like any other. Am I clear?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Now do as I have instructed.”

16.

The desk phone beeped. “Yes,” replied Ben Harel, Director of Mossad, Israeli secret intelligence agency.

“Sir we have a protocol nine with confirmed code on line three,” came the female reply. “Will I punch them through?”

“Male or female?”

“Male, sir.”

“Okay punch them through.” The speaker crackled as the connection fought to stay on line. Sounds warbled. Ben listened, waiting for the scrambler to kick in. The noise finally abated. “Who have I got?” he asked expecting it to be one of his agents in trouble and needing advice.

“Hi Ben,” came the reply that stunned Harel and forced him back in his seat.

“By the love of god … Wade … it’s so good to hear your voice. I thought you were dead.”

“Dead! Why would I be dead?”

“It’s been over two years and no one has seen or heard from you. Agencies around the world have, at various times, reported your death. Kia spent three months scouring the north of the US without any sign of you. It was like you had vanished.”

Ben Harel, one of the busiest men in Israel, suddenly realised he had three televisions going, paperwork spread across his desk and had been dictating, into his Dictaphone. The large office instantly seemed small. He grabbed the handset and walked for the door.

“Wade, where are you?”

“I’m in Canada, Nova Scotia.”

“Why?”

“No idea … I was hoping you could help.”

“I’m getting the girls. Hang on.”

Ben walked out the door, his two heavily armed guards followed. He passed the IT area, conference rooms all occupied, a staging area with men preparing for a mission and down the corridor to the training room. Without slowing or knocking the lead guard thrust the door open, the twelve sweaty occupants, leapt to their feet, dropped their Krav Maga training weapons and stood at attention.

“Relax, please. Don’t stop on my account. Kia, Nirit can you come with me?”

The two highest trained females, within the Israeli military and intelligence sectors, followed their boss.

The trio entered a conference room that was attached to the training room. The two guards took up position. Harel closed the door and stood, placing the handset on the table. He signalled to the bathed in sweat females to sit and drink.

“I have someone, I want you to hear, that might surprise you,” said Harel.

The two females looked suspiciously at each other having never heard their normally very stern and officious boss talk so light heartedly. Seated, and with their breathing relaxing, a pool of sweat was forming under their chairs. They waited, watching Harel. He nodded for Kia to speak.

“Hello,” she said gingerly.

“Hi Kia, Nirit.”

Both women sat back aghast. Their mouths hung open and their eyes were as wide as plates. Kia swallowed as a tear slowly formed and started to trickle down her cheek. Her hand slowly shook.

“Wade! I can’t believe it. You’re alive,” she turned to Harel as the tears increased. “He’s alive. He’s not dead … this is a miracle.”

“Does seem like that Kia. I am as surprised as you and extremely relieved … Wade you are not going to believe this but we had a state funeral for you. That’s how convinced we were you were dead,” remarked Harel.

“Oh well, sorry guys, not dead.”

The room erupted into questions and explanations that seemed to deliver very few answers. Kia and Nirit struggled to keep their composure as they machine gunned questions. Harel watched on in fascination at his two prized operatives and their joy and relief. Finally, the conversation moved around to where Wade was and what was he doing in Nova Scotia. Wade explained the little he could piece together about the Burrows family and the Russian mafia, even though he had no idea how or why he was there.

Twenty minutes had passed and in true military style they reverted back to a structured, controlled discussion.

“What would you like from us?” asked Harel.

“Good question, Ben. Unfortunately, only answers.”

“Kia is finishing off a mission at the moment but Nirit can be on a flight in three hours?” he asked looking across to her.

“Two sir,” she replied, very excited at the thought of seeing her friend.

“Wade, two hours. She will arrive approximately mid day tomorrow, your time,” he said scrolling through the Ipad that never left his sight. “How do we contact you?”

“You can’t. So Nirit I’ll be at the airport.”

“Looking forward to it,” she replied smiling more than she had for a long time.

“Also you might want to bring with you whatever you think you will need as I have access to nothing.”

“Wade, don’t worry about that, we’ll organise things from our end. Nirit will have the contact ready when she arrives … It is so good to hear your voice. I’m looking forward to us catching up.”

“Thanks Ben.”

The line disconnected as Kia, the eternal organiser, and leader of the agents, started establishing a procurement list of equipment Nirit needed to take.

“Nirit, get yourself organised and I will have everything you and Wade need ready by the time you arrive,” she ordered.

“Ladies, I know you both know Wade, very well, but just keep in the back of your mind we have no idea what he might have been through and what could have happened to him. So even though it might be unusual we might have to lead him not him lead us. Clear?”

Nirit and Kia nodded in agreement both aware that statement was highly unlikely. They both knew nobody leads Wade Ross.

17.

The ambulance officer, who was heading to get supplies from her vehicle, pulled the door open and Martin fell toward her.

“James, James … we have another one here at the door,” she yelled lifting Martin’s blood covered head and trying to pull him inside. Snow blasted through the door. James and the male police officer arrived grabbing an arm each and lifting Martin down to the lounge.

“Martin,” screamed Claire upon seeing his blood covered face. She tried to sit up but the injection and intravenous drip administered her arms and legs too weak. “Is he alright?” she pleaded.

“Seems fine to me,” replied James, the more senior ambulance officer who had been searching over his body for any signs of injury. “His leg looks like it had been attended to at Victoria General and his face is more blood than damage. I would say maybe a fractured nose but otherwise seems pretty good.”

“Thank god,” replied John limping to his son.

The second police officer entered the room. “It looks like none of us are going anywhere. I have just received word the blizzard is down to visibility of about a metre. Hence no way we could ever drive down the mountain. James are you okay with them all?”

“Should be. Carol could you grab the remaining gear from the truck and we’ll set up a makeshift ward in case anything happens during the night? My only concern is Stacey but she is stable and appears to be coming back.”

“Will do,” replied Carol heading for the door.

“I’ll help,” said the second police officer.

“Why is he unconscious?” asked Claire.

“I would say the smack in the nose,” said James. “We could normally bring him around with smelling salts but with a broken nose I am a bit worried it might start the bleeding again. He’ll be fine. He’ll come around he due course.”

With that Martin opened his eyes and slowly shook his head.

“Hey buddy, how are you feeling?” asked James offering a drink from his water bottle.

“What happened?” he asked suddenly noticing his father. “Dad! What’s going on?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

James helped him get comfortable leaning against the side of the couch. Small droplets of blood could be seen as James prepared a new bandage.

“I was taken from the hospital by Ross after these guys tried to kill us. We were driving back toward here,” he stated realising he was in the holiday cabin. “When we had a crash and then Ross hit me.”

“Ross hit you?” questioned John.

“Yes Ross,” he said whimpering.

“Excuse me young man but what is this about somebody trying to kill you,” asked the police officer.

“I was in the hospital when Ross, the guy who saved mine and my sister’s life, came in and woke me. As we were leaving I saw one guy dead beside the door of the room, I was in, and two other guys inside the fire escape stairwell. It was dark and Ross was in a real hurry to get out of there.”

“Who were these guys?”

“No idea but Ross said they have guns and would not hesitate to use them.”

“This Ross guy, where is he now?”

“Don’t know. I don’t even know how I got here.”

“Sorry folks but I need to call this in. Excuse me,” he said exiting the room just as the other two arrived with arms full of medical equipment.

“A real bitch of a night,” said Carol.

18.

The drive back into central Halifax was extremely slow. Wade had met only two other vehicles and they were both police cars heading in the opposite direction. He swung on to Lower Water Street and was creeping past the rear of Burrow’s apartment block when he saw the vehicle backed into the lane. Steam rising from its exhaust.

Why would anybody sit in their car in this weather? Could they be homeless? Not in a new large black Lincoln with rental plates? Could they be waiting for someone? Not backed into an alley. Then most likely, because they are outside John Burrows apartment block, more Russian goons waiting in an ambush.

Wade drove around the next corner and parked. The streets were deserted. Snow depth was multiplying, rapidly. The wind whistled off the river, funnelled between the buildings, so intense a person needed to lean forty five degrees forward to compensate when walking into it.

A brutal night for a gangland goon to be waiting in an exposed doorway or hiding behind a rubbish filled dumpster. Visibility was gone and Ramus had lost sight of his two men.

Wade had seen the man behind the dumpster, who was guarding the rear entrance, as he rounded the corner. Dropping on his stomach he slid like a snake across the alley entrance and along the far wall. Any sound he made was drowned out by the wind. Arriving at the front of the dumpster he slowly inched on to his feet and grabbed a rotten apple as he stood. Aware the man was facing west, Wade lobbed the apple at the eastern end of the dumpster. The confine space behind the garbage bin meant the Russian stood, turned and squatted. Wade used this time to leap across the dumpster lid and smash the heel of his boot into the side of the man’s head. The man slammed against the concrete wall, his head bouncing like a football. Wade landed on the ground in front of him, thrust his knee up into the man’s face as he was falling forward.

Searching the body, he found a cell phone, set to silent, a H&K 9mm pistol, extra magazine, silencer, tattered Amex credit card and one hundred and sixty dollars’ cash. Pocketing the items, he screwed the silencer on to the end of the pistol, checked a round was chambered and commenced his search for any further guards.

He crawled back to the alley entrance and waited. The wind and snow blasted his eyes. They began to water. The tips of his fingers ached. Cold started to eat at his extremities. He knew he couldn’t stay outdoors much longer with his face, head and hands exposed or he risked hypothermia.

Ready to head back to his car; his peripheral vision suddenly picked up a red light flicker from across the road. He watched and waited. It flickered again. A cigarette glowing as the Russian took his drag. Wade slid along the footpath, using the parked cars as cover, even though he was aware nobody could see across the road. Eighty metres down he crossed the road and once again using the cars as cover came back on the opposite side. Ten metres from his prey, and shielded by a snow covered car that had become a dome of white, he slowly stuck his head around the corner. The man had his head down, buried in the hood of his Parka, and was only interested in his cigarette, trying desperately to get some warmth. Wade raised the silenced pistol and, with a perfectly aimed shot, hit him directly above his right ear. The man fell forward in slow motion. Wade waited to check on further watchers. Convinced all clear he raced across and pulled the man into the doorway. Searching he found the same items. He was pocketing it all when the phone vibrated. He hit the answered button.

“Ruslan, get over to Vlad and order him to answer his phone. I need you to take turns in coming back to the car to warm up. Okay?” ordered Ramus.

“Hmm,” replied Wade in as gruff a voice as he could do, immediately disconnecting the call.

The other phone rang again. Wade was aware his time was limited but at least he now knew there was only two guards plus the two in the car. He raced for the alley as the phones kept ringing alternatively. Hard against the alley wall he inched his way toward the still idling car. The passenger’s door opened and Joseph climbed out. Wade ducked, twenty metres from the rear of the car and with limited protection. Expecting the Russian to go forward he froze as Joseph turned and started rearward. Having taken three steps and with no choice, but to blow his cover, Wade pumped two rounds into the tall gangly figure. As the man fell against the rear of the car, the wheels squealed, desperately seeking traction. The last fragments of snow disappeared from below the rubber. Wade fired two rounds. The first shattering the rear window and the second missing Ramus’s left shoulder and disintegrating the dashboard. The lights suddenly disappeared. The vehicle plunged into darkness as it lunged forward and raced out of the alley, sliding across the road. Wade watched it slip and slide along Lower Water Street. He searched Joseph and again found the same items including an additional IPhone.

Wade was climbing back into his stolen vehicle as the police sirens raced along Lower Water Street coming to a stop at the front of the Burrow’s apartment building. With the lights off he slowly backed up the side street, around the corner and then went through a zig zag route of streets to ensure he was not being followed.

Using the IPhone he was able to find a twenty four hour hotel near the airport. Dumping the vehicle in the industrial estate, behind the hotel, he entered the deserted foyer.

The small reception area lit up as the light sensor activated. A worn timber desk was covered in pamphlets showing local tourist attractions. Wade had already seen the security surveillance camera as he entered. Pulling the cap lower he rang the small bell.

An old guy waddled out. He was tremendously overweight and reeked of alcohol. Small pieces of chips and other food fell from his filthy shirt as he walked.

“Yeah,” he said, hardly able to hold himself up.

“Room thanks.”

“How many?” he slurred.

“How many what?” asked Wade turning his head to avoid the camera.

“People.”

“Only me and only for one night.”

The man banged his fingers around the keyboard of the laptop with nothing happening.

“Fucking useless piece of shit,” he said to himself. Turning he looked at the keys hanging on the rack. Wade noticed only two keys missing.

“You can have room 16. That’ll be fifty for the room and a credit card for the deposit.”

“Here you go buddy,” said Wade handing over one hundred and twenty dollars. “Keep it. All yours. No questions. Okay?”

The man’s eyes lit up. “No questions. You got it.”

Wade entered the room, hit the heating to its highest temperature and stripped down, taking a shower. Gradually he increased the water temperature until it got to the point he thought he was going to scold himself. Letting the hot water crash over his head with closed eyes he lapped up the soothing motion as he fought to remember the last two years. Fragmented images of snow covered terrains, slashed dead bodies, well dressed men and women, people crying; all appeared randomly across his mind. How did this piece together? Who were the people? And why were they crying? What language were they speaking? The harder he tried to focus the worse the images became.

Stepping from the shower he dried himself off and stared into the steam covered mirror.

“I guess not tonight,” he told himself and then crashed on the bed.

19.

“Chief, Chief we’ve got a problem,” said the constable racing up to Owenisque as he entered the police headquarters.

“Slow down Billy … What problem?” asked Owenisque aware his constable had got extremely excited about something.

“Sir we have found three more dead in Lower Water Street. That makes six murders in the last forty eight hours.”

“Firstly Constable until we know better they are not murders. So what do we know about the latest deaths?”

The constable was about to answer as Halifax’s senior detective approached.

“Morning Chief,” said Brian McWaters.

McWaters, in his late fifties and a third generation Halifax senior detective was an exceptionally calm and collected individual. Nothing seemed to get under his skin and no amount of criminal activity ever roused him.

“Do you know anything about these deaths?” asked Owenisque.

“As Billy was probably explaining we have three dead Russian’s. Two shot at close range with, I believe, a small gauge weapon, probably a 9 mill. The third appears to have been either hit with something or the assailant killed him with a kick. The Russian’s are known to us as part of a gang that operates out of the docks. We haven’t been able to pin anything on them yet but we know they are either bringing in contraband or using the docks as a staging ground for possible protection rackets or people smuggling.”

“Why have I not heard of this?” questioned Owenisque.

“Sorry sir but there has not been much to report until yesterday and now we have five of the six deaths, we believe, related to this gang.”

Owenisque walked toward his office signalling McWaters to follow and shooing off the constable.

“What about the killer? What do we have on him?”

“Nothing sir. Could be military trained or a martial arts expert, otherwise nothing. It seems whoever is doing this is targeting the Russians?”

“A possibility but for what gain? They haven’t exactly established a foothold in our community and whatever they are up to, at the moment, it appears small fry.”

The two men entered his office. All the walls were lined with the heads of stuffed deer, moose and bears. Various hunting weapons were displayed in glass cabinets. Any available space was adorned with photos of hunting expeditions. A large bear rug took centre stage on the floor.

“Do we know exactly where the Russians operate from?”

“No sir, only that it appears to be the docks. They move around a lot. Plus, there has not been a need to extend our resources on them.”

“Until now,” added the chief.

Owenisque sat down at his desk and McWaters followed suit, sitting on one of the three chairs, across the large oak top.

Scratching his head Owenisque asked, “So where to from here?”

“I suggest we station some undercover men at the docks, airport, train station and I think we need to question, your friend, Burrows.”

Owenisque thought for a moment, looking out his window at the snow halfway up the pane. “I agree. Bring him in and I would also suggest you bring in his new found friend ‘Ross’.”

McWaters headed for the door eager to get things happening.

Owenisque sat there thinking about an SAS soldier in his town. Could this ‘Ross’ be the problem and if so why? If he is the problem how will he ever stop him.

He hit the google search engine on his laptop and typed SAS soldiers. He knew he needed to know everything he possibly could about these guys and what they were capable of.

20.

Wade woke, checked his watch and then checked flights from Tel Aviv, via Toronto. It was 9am and Nirit was due to land at 11.25am. He showered, ate the room supplied breakfast, checked his location and used the IPhone to read up on world events.

He was amazed at what he read. A billionaire property tycoon had become president of the United States. A North Korean ruler had placed the world on the brink of war. Global warming had increased so far that it was nearly at the point of no return. Multiple countries in Africa and South American were in the grip of civil war. A mass exodus of refugees was flooding Europe and his beloved Israel was being accused of multiple atrocities.

He tried not to read but he was dumbfounded by what the world appeared to be doing to itself. He scoured page after page of shootings, death, terrorism, abductions, bribery, treason, corruption and celebrities that had gone off the rails. The world of multi media was out of control and it felt like nobody cared.

He had been reading for nearly two hours as he closed the phone and decided he could only worry about his small piece of humanity. But why was he even involved in what was happening in Nova Scotia and how did he come to be here. He needed answers and he felt the Russians were the best place to start. Leaving the weapons, phones and credit card he left the room. Called a cab and headed to the airport.

Crossing the airport lounge he saw the undercover police; they stood out like they had a flashing neon sign above their heads. Wade watched as they scrutinized the crowds continually checking their handheld IPads, looking for matching faces. Using nervous or late passengers as cover he entered the arrivals hall. With his capped pulled lower he stood beside the rental car office. Shielded by cardboard signs and racks of tourist paraphernalia he watched. Two delayed flights had landed before Nirit’s and the hall was packed.

People arriving under the large welcome sign were emotional, excited, happy, confused, exhausted or eager to get away from the airport. The mass of mayhem with some hugging, others crying and still more wandering aimlessly was the perfect cover. Ross saw her as she scanned the room without moving her head.

Nirit a tall, beautiful woman with super model looks, she had gone to great lengths to make herself look ordinary and blend in. A turtle neck off-grey jumper and oversized jeans, with a large flannel jacket and a woollen cap hid her features perfectly. Ross did a slight tilt of the head to the exit and watched as she sauntered past out to the taxi rank. Nirit, fighting desperately the urge to grab Wade and hug him, nodded in acknowledgement. She got into the queue as Wade walked to the exit end.

Nirit told the taxi driver her partner was at the far end of the carpark and they needed to pick him up because he had hurt his leg. A common ploy Mossad had used many times around the world to enable operatives to meet. Wade limped into the vehicle and sat behind the driver. He gave him an address of a seedy one star hotel on the coastal outskirts of the city fringes.

They arrived at the single storey eight room complex that overlooked a shipping container area in one direction and a train line to the other. Wade had asked for the end room hoping for some privacy. The teenage receptionist showed no interest and handed over the key the moment the encrypted Mossad credit card was approved.

The room was small, with a double bed against one wall, a desk with a television on the other wall and only enough room to squeeze between the two. A single dull light hung precariously from the ceiling and a single element heater was going behind the entry door. Wallpaper was coming away where the walls meet the ceiling. The carpet had not been cleaned for years, if ever. A bathroom that was not large enough for two people at the same time.

“Nice,” said Nirit, smiling as she dropped her carry on luggage on the bed and threw off her cap and jacket.

“Yeah, I guess we have seen better … and worse.”

“It is so good to see you,” she said turning and wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him on the lips.

The emotion of being able to express how he felt to see somebody he knew overcame him as he kissed her back. The lingering kiss and his arms around her back then caused a different emotion to kick in. He had always liked Nirit and her beauty was gobsmacking but was he ready for this. The kiss continued. His arms slid over her back as her tongue entered his mouth.

He pulled his head back but didn’t let her go. “Are you sure of this?” he asked.

“Never been more sure,” she replied releasing her grip around his neck and lifting the large oversized jumper over her head. Her shoulder length blond hair seemed to accentuate her perfect olive skin. Her full breasts strained against the bra as she reached behind her back and undid the clip. Standing before him naked from the waist up Wade was lost for words. She helped him out of his jacket and then ripped the shirt over his head.

He gently clasped her head in his hands and pushed his lips against hers. Passion rose as their naked skins collided. The remaining clothes were reefed off. They touched, caressed, fondled and kissed until neither could resist. Wade lifted her off the bed and then slowly lowered her on to him. They bucked, rose and fell as the passion reached a crescendo. They exploded and then collapsed back on the bed.

Sweating profusely Wade smiled as he looked across her beautiful glistening face and body.

“Somebody must have turned the heat up,” she said.

They lay together listening to trains rattle past and ships being loaded with containers. The wind whistled under the door and snow starting falling again.

“I can’t believe you’re alive … What happened?” asked Nirit.

“I really don’t know. I was hoping you might be able to help.”

“What is the last thing you remember?” she asked quizzically.

Wade sat up with his back against the wall and scratched his head. Nirit looked on in awe at his muscular physique.

“Don’t do that,” she said.

“Do what?”

“Flex your muscles, it is such a turn on,” she replied burying her head under the blankets.

“Good,” he replied throwing the blankets back and climbing on top of her. Already erect he entered her again and they thrashed about until collapsing a second time.

Exhausted they lay under the blankets until Nirit asked him to continue with the last thing he remembered.

“I remember walking away from a jet as you and Kia stood on the stairs.”

Nirit waited.

“Is that all?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Do you not remember why we were there?”

Dropping his eyes, he replied. “I don’t even know where ‘there’ is.”

She saw the frustration written across his face and the anger with himself for not being able to control his thoughts.

“Two years ago we went to Washington to kill the President and four of his head administrators.”

Wade spun his head at this statement, “US President?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“What happened?”

“The three of us killed the President, Secretary of State, Director of National Intelligence, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Secretary of Defence.”

“Hell … why?”

Nirit went on to explain how the president, and his four most senior personnel, had concocted a plan to steal billions of dollars and blame it on innocent parties.

“Do you remember Crystal?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yes I remember,” he replied dropping his head.

“Do you remember what happened to her?”

“No … not exactly. I know she was pregnant with our child and died … Why what happened?” he asked sitting up straighter, eager to hear what Nirit knew while fighting the pain of loss.

“She was killed by an order issued by the President and that was the main reason you wanted him dead.”

“The US President issued a kill order on my wife?” He paused. “Why?”

“Possibly you got too close to exposing his plan. But we also believe he had it in for you and the Colonel and thus your team.”

Wade listened, the words digging in like a knife. He now remembered clearly what Nirit was referring to. The team, he had spent the last decade working with, all gone; dead. The anger rose. He clamped his fists shut. His eyes wide as plates, not blinking.

“Wade … Wade. Are you alright?” she asked. “Wade please.”

He glanced across to her. “I’m fine, thanks. The news hurts but I’m fine.” He replied leaning in and kissing her. “Might be time for us to do some work.”

Startled by his reply Nirit dialled up a coded message on her encrypted cell phone. Seconds later a text arrived. She typed in the address.

“We should have a visitor in about fifteen minutes, so I suggest we get dressed,” she casually remarked.

They had cleaned up the room, made the bed when the knock came.

“We never expected his return,” said Nirit through the door.

“But it is welcomed,” came the reply.

Nirit partially opened the door and the courier dressed agent entered. He nodded to Wade. “Shalom Mister Ross it is an honour to serve you.”

“Please, Wade, and I’m thankful you are helping us, Todah.”

The agent placed his box and the large black carryall on the bed. “Here are the keys for your vehicle. It is a black Dodge Journey parked out front. Clothes are in the box. Shalom,” he said leaving as quickly as he had arrived.

Wade ripped the box open and upended it on the bed. Boots, jeans, woollen jumpers, leather jackets, coats, gloves, hats and all necessary undergarments were scattered. A large envelope contained two forged passports, a black Amex credit card, twenty thousand dollars’ cash and two wedding rings.

He did the same with the bag and this time was greeted with two Glock 19 pistols, six additional magazines, and silencers to suit. A H&K MP7a1, suppressor and three magazines. A H&K G36K carbine rifle and a further three magazines. Two Flash-Bang stun grenades, two Ka-Bar knives and sheathes. Three blocks of C4 explosive. Body armour, NVG’s, ear pieces and a battle tablet completed the armament. A large coil of rope, with carabiner attached, and two tactical, faceless, wrist watches.

“What are these?” he asked holding up one of the wrist watch looking devices.

“Meshulam thought you might be interested. They are an all in one phone, GPS, two-way radio, infra red detector and HUD (Heads Up Display),” she answered moving to show him how it worked.

Meshulam Hammerstein was in charge of all Mossad IT but also considered himself an inventor, having previously devised various cloak and dagger devices for operatives to use in the field.

Nirit placed the black, rubber, one centimetre wide, completely bare, device around Wade’s left wrist and did the same with her own. “Push your index finger in the middle.”

Instantly a menu appeared, along his arm, from the device to his elbow. “Now it is exactly the same as any other device except you move your finger around on your forearm. To turn off, you push in the middle again or it will go off in fifteen seconds. If you need it to remain on push exactly the same but on the bottom of the band.”

“Clever. Very clever … and what’s with all the gear? We’re not taking on an army.”

Nirit looked up surprised. “It was Kia who organised all this.” Hesitating she watched his expression unsure what to say next. “You are the one who always said it is better to have more, than we need, then less.”

Wade grinned as he started the process of stripping all the weapons down, checking, cleaning and loading.

21.

The female detective sat hunched over her desktop computer scrolling through endless hours of street video. The coffee cups were piling up. Her eyes were stinging and dry. The empty take away food containers littered her desk. It had been an all nighter and she was exhausted. McWaters approached.

“Morning Kel, what have you got for me,” said McWaters.

“Morning sir,” she said trying to stifle a yawn. “Very little other than the Burrows family have just been admitted at the hospital. I have sent over a black and white to bring in John Burrows and have stationed two uniforms outside their ward.”

“Family? What do you mean by family at the hospital?”

“According to all reports the mother, father and daughter were involved in a car crash and due to last night’s snow had to remain at their holiday cabin. Two uniforms and two ambulance officers were with them all night. Apparently their body guard was killed in the accident but we are still to locate the body. During the evening the son was found lying at the cabin front door, claiming he had been abducted from the hospital by the Burrows new found friend, Ross. On the way to their cabin Ross apparently struck hit, breaking his nose.”

“Right, let me know when Burrows gets here and I need as many uniforms as possible looking for this Ross.”

“Yes sir … you do realise another storm is on its way.”

“Shit … alright get them to be ready to move as soon as the storm abates.”

McWaters walked in to the operations room. The clear Perspex boards had been updated with all the information they had available. Photos, names, any possible links, possible reasons, alibies and last known locations. There was a swirl of data but after thirty plus years on the force, McWaters knew the majority of what he was seeing was circumstantial and he was more than adept at sifting the unneeded stuff out very quickly.

Brian McWaters had proven himself, many times, over the years as the best man, in Halifax, to lead a major crime case. He was thorough in his approach, even to the point his subordinates would say behind his back; ‘Not again, how many times do we have to explain and review the same subject.’

Having started as a uniform, on patrol, it became apparent to his superiors, at a young age, that McWaters had that something special that was needed to dig, scrounge and persist until the result was achieved. At twenty three he was the youngest detective in Nova Scotia history. At thirty he studied criminal psychology, passing with honours and topping his class. He went on to gain his masters but his obsession with the criminal mind was the undoing of his two failed marriages.

Single, for approaching twenty years, he was married to the job. A non drinker and a non smoker he was also not very good at looking after himself. A terrible diet, addiction to coffee, and chronic insomniac. Extremely thin, looking twenty years older than he was.

After studying the boards, twice, he made an extra glance, to be sure, and then unlocked the door, picked up the folded newspaper and entered his office. Slamming the door, he crashed into his chair.

The small office had glass on three walls with closed venetian blinds covering all three. The remaining wall had his detective graduation certificate hanging, only because the chief insisted, with the remainder of any hanging space covered in past unsolved cases. Determined to never forget his failures McWaters would study the crinkled pages, with the curled up corners, every morning. A shelf covering one of the glass walls was choked with faded files and half opened boxes, all coated in a thick layer of dust. Two fluorescent lights were dull from the build up of dust and insects in the diffusers. Piles of paperwork rose above his desk like stalagmites. Paranoid about anybody being in his office when he was not there, the only item ever cleaned was the carpet.

He spread the early morning paper on his scribble pad, shuffling piles of A4 files and photos into newer, larger piles. The headline reading ‘Police no closer to deaths on Halifax streets.’

“Great,” he mumbled throwing the paper in to the overflowing waste basket.

‘Okay Ross what are you up to? I want to get rid of these Russians as much as you but why? And what’s Burrows tie in all this?’ he thought to himself.

22.

Special Agent Carol Viller had been questioning her promotion for weeks. Her previous employ as a field agent, operating out of the Nashville CIA office, had been a dream job. The people she worked with were pleasant. Her duties were varied and the flexibility of her work routine had offered a very nice work to life balance.

Her bosses had sold her on the idea that relocating to Fergus Falls, Minnesota, to head up a special taskforce on combating the Russian infiltration of illegal arms, was a step in the right direction to her ultimate aim of a management position at Langley.

Having obtained a Masters in Cognitive Psychology and majored in the relationship of PTSD to memory function, through the use of chemicals and drugs, her superiors felt she was perfect to try to mould highly combative individuals into somebody whose actions could be controlled and manipulated as required.

After Wade had left Nirit and Kia at the airport he had wandered aimlessly, albeit very secretively, for two to three weeks until he arrived at his old friend, Joe Carr’s home, Norfolk, Virginia. Having not forewarned of his arrival Carr was not present but the CIA lay in waiting.

The death of the president had augmented a world wide hunt for the perpetrators even though evidence of corruption and misconduct had been brought to light and proven. The intelligence community was divided as to whether those responsible were heroes or villains.

After hours, days and weeks of studying CCTV and millions of DNA samples, the major US investigative groups had sought out and interviewed all those present at the President’s function. Wade was one of only three still not interviewed.

He was captured and held in a secretive dark site known only to a handful of sanctioned CIA personnel.

Viller arrived at Fergus Falls with the responsibility of eradicating Wade’s knowledge of his past and forcing him to believe he was a CIA Russian spy. After months of drugs, experiments and sessions the CIA believed they had the perfect machine ready to infiltrate the Russians at the source. Beaten, and left for dead, he was dropped one evening in Nova Scotia. Expected to seek out the Russians the plan went AWOL when Wade accidently met the Burrows kids.

The second part of the CIA plan, that failed, was their inability to realise Wade’s belief in the Aboriginal Dreaming far out weighed any mental anguish they wished to impose on him.

Further to this Viller had logged a request, with the CIA databank, that she was to be notified if certain words were activated, through the internet, from Halifax or surrounding areas. The screen pinged as Owenisque typed Ross and SAS together.

23.

The early morning bleak, foggy conditions had deteriorated into an absolutely foul evening. The winds had picked up to gale force, blowing directly from the Atlantic Ocean, dropping the wind chill to minus fifteen degrees. Snow flakes, felt like tiny glass cuts, as they horizontally sliced through the air.

Ensuring they had left no evidence of their time in the hotel room, Wade and Nirit loaded all their gear into the Dodge, strategically locating weapons in case they were needed in a hurry. The fully blackened windows were another major advantage to prying eyes but with every advantage came a disadvantage. In this case a very conspicuous vehicle on the conservative streets of Halifax.

Visibility was horrendous as they both took one last look and leapt into the pre warmed vehicle, dusting snow from their arms and head.

“Where are we headed?” asked Nirit, looking across to her driver.

“Actually, five hundred metres that way,” he said pointing across the road to the container terminal. “I have already recced the area and I believe our man is holed up in one of the portable cabins at the far end of the carpark. Two hundred metres past the turnoff is a dirt track that appears to be used for inspecting the fences and I would imagine the guards would have no interest in going out in this weather. Also the forest is thicker in that area, which would provide extra cover and enable us to hide the vehicle. The weather is coming in from the west so we need to keep low and come in from either side, wind on our backs.”

Nirit looked out the window watching as the blackness of night shrouded the area like a blanket.

Canadians were well versed at driving on the thin but solid layer of ice, commonly referred to as ‘black ice’, that formed on the bitumen roads during their winters but no level of experience would help see the ice until you were on it and then it was too late.

Leaving the hotel’s gravel carpark Wade was thankful for the deserted roads. Having travelled one hundred metres, the road dropped into a small dip just as the front wheels started sliding towards the gulley that ran the full length on both sides of the road. Wade gently turned the wheel in the opposite direction and slightly increased his pressure on the accelerator. Aware that braking would only increase the slide he banked on the theory that the wider area of rubber and added power would have more chance of gaining traction. His theory failed and the back wheels dropped into the grass filled drain as the rear fender slowly buckled against a rock.

Reeving the engine Wade tried in vain to get the wheels to grab.

“I’ll try and push,” said Nirit leaping from the vehicle.

They had been trying for five minutes when the 4WD police patrol car approached from behind them. The two constables, returning to base, noticed the long legged woman in the tight black pants with her back into the vehicle. Thinking females in distress, and quite appealing, they parked and climbed out.

“Evening Madam. Need some help?” asked the driver.

“Thank you,” replied Nirit turning to avoid recognition.

“Bad night to be on the roads,” said the same constable.

“True,” she replied with her head towards the ground.

“Are you not from around here?” he asked.

No, she nodded keeping her eyes down as she tapped on the vehicle for Wade to try again.

“Thought not. That’s an unusual accent. Where you from?”

The added weight of the two constables gave the wheels the grip they needed and the vehicle shot out. Aware they were police Wade let the vehicle drift fifty metres down the road and out of visibility range.

“Thanks,” mumbled Nirit running after the car.

Climbing in, and dusting of the snow, she started to explain what the police officers had said as Wade accelerated.

They passed the portable sheds. Lights blazing and they counted six cars in the carpark. Wade saw the turnoff, killed the lights and spun onto the dirt track. Keen to put distance between themselves and the police, he flipped on his monocle NVG and raced down the single lane track, slapping branches and crashing over saplings. Two hundred metres on, he reefed the steering wheel right and braked hard, sliding off the road and burying the vehicle deep into the trees and snow.

As skilled operatives they had all their gear on and ready in under sixty seconds. Wade checked the throat mikes were operational, nodded and they darted into the trees. Snow was trapped in the thick tree canopy. The ground was covered in layers of pine ferns, dead leaves and thick spongy moss. The pronounced tread of army issue boots was of little benefit. Moving quickly, but quietly, they had to keep dropping on to one knee to stop their feet from skating off in different directions.

They had covered half the distance from the vehicle to the camp and had a swirling vision of green, through the NVG’s, but they never saw the pool of water that had become covered with leaves. Wade had leapt off a branch and unknowingly had cleared the water. Nirit’s foot came down, cracked the thin ice and she fell in. With her pistol in her right hand she grabbed for the tree branch, with her left, but missed and went under. The ice crack was like a whip and Wade spun dropping to his knees. Swivelling his head, he searched for Nirit when suddenly her arm and head burst out of the water. Realising he grabbed her arm and reefed her out. Helping her up she collapsed against a tree.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“Yes,” she said.

“Look … you’ll freeze out here wet. You go back to the car. I’ll finish this.”

The water was turning to ice as quickly as they spoke. Her teeth started chattering. Hands shaking. She struggled to get her breathe.

“No, I’m coming,” she whispered trying to sound convincing.

Wade put his face up against Nirit’s. “This is no time for heroics. I know how much you want to help but I will need your help far more tomorrow, or the next day, than I do now. If you catch pneumonia or something because you’re so wet, then you’re of no use to me … I would like you to go back to the car. If you won’t listen than I will order you to.”

“Alright,” she said begrudgingly. “But if you’re not back in twenty minutes I will come looking.”

“Thirty and it’s a deal.”

“Huh,” she muttered turning to the car.

Wade watched her leave. Waited five minutes to check that they had not been heard and moved.

The three portable cabins were set up in a line furthest from the entrance to the carpark. The first and closest to the trees was dark. Wade came up from behind, listened and with no movement evident, placed a C4 block, with a remote detonator, under the raised floor.

His ear against the thin walls he listened and counted five men in the middle cabin. They were speaking in various eastern bloc languages with the occasional broken English. Wade could tell they had been drinking heavily and arguments were brewing. Planting a further remote detonated C4, under the floor, he moved to the third.

Two men were talking. Wade immediately recognized the same voice as the one from the car that raced from the alley opposite Burrow’s apartment.

“You go back and tell your boss if he wants me to do his dirty work then the price has doubled. I want half in my account before I start and the other half as soon as I call it’s done. No questions. No how’s. No what’s. No nothing, just payment. Is that clear? And another thing I’m having nothing to do with collateral damage. Alright?” said the voice in French accented English.

“Grigory will not agree to these terms. We have negotiated and you have already agreed,” said Ramus raising his voice.

“Get that fucking rusky on the phone and I’ll soon tell him what is what if you don’t have the balls to do it.”

“You will regret this Dome. Grigory will be really pissed and I’ll say I told you so.”

“Just shut up and dial.”

Wade listened on as the speaker phone rang. He crawled to the door, planted the C4, screwed on the silencer to his Glock 19 and waited.

“Grigory it is me Ramus and I am here with Dome. He has something he wants to say.”

“Dome what is it. I am a busy man.”

“If you want me to do your dirty work the price has doubled and half up front,” said Dome.

The line was quiet as crackle came and went.

“Grigory did you here me?” asked Dome.

“I heard you. You piece of shit little French man. Why would I agree to such ridiculous terms?” screamed the voice from the phone.

“Well obviously this guy, whoever he is, has you guys rattled enough to call me and he has already taken out a few of your men so why would I agree to the same terms that were set to scare people off, not kill them?”

“Dome this is fucking good money we are offering so I’ll split it half way and that’s it. But he is to die along with the Burrows women. Are we clear.”

“Agreed but what about my money? I don’t want to have to come down to that stinking ‘Peka Opt’ shipyard to get it,” said Dome as the door flew open and the first round went between his eyes. Ramus dived for his gun. The second round sliced through his neck, throwing him back against the table.

“Ramus what was that?” asked Grigory. “Ramus,” he yelled louder.

“Ramus is having a holiday in hell,” said Wade slamming the door and racing to the trees. He could here the fading screaming voice of Grigory as he entered the dense forest and hit the remote detonator. The explosion ripped through the paper thin cabin walls. Gas cooking bottles adding to the inferno.

The explosions were enough to destroy the buildings and all evidence of the men but Wade had not predicted they would cause the snow trapped above the tree canopy to break loose. A master tracker he charged along the same path he had arrived, using his NVG to spot obstacles, when suddenly huge volumes of snow crashed behind and ahead of him. Realising his mistake, he dived under the large tree. Clumps the size of cars were crashing everywhere. The NVG was useless to detect snow falling. He needed to depend on his hearing. He waited knowing the explosions would alert the authorities and they needed to be gone. It seemed quiet. He took a breath, planted his feet and raced from the protection of the tree. Like a freight train the sound grew and grew. Unsure where it was other than it was coming down from above he kept running. The slippery ground forced him to grab at trees and branches to keep his footing. A small sapling took his weight as he changed direction and went to push off. He knew the sound was near but had no idea where. The force of the weight of snow as it crashed on his legs was unfathomable. He rolled with the blow but the snow trapped him like a caged animal.

Coming to his senses he opened his eyes to a world of darkness. Snow was squashing him. Using his arms and legs he started to push. The snow compacted and his area of movement increased with each push. Wade pushed and pushed as his energy and oxygen started to fade. His head felt weak. He knew the exertion was what he needed to do to save himself but the carbon dioxide he was generating was also killing him. He tried to stay focused but each push got slower and weaker. About to succumb to the lack of oxygen he pushed one last time when the snow peeled away. Cold fresh air was a saviour and he sucked it in. Pulling himself out of the snow cocoon, he gathered his gear and ran off.

Nirit had the vehicle turned about and ready to leave with the engine and heater running.

“What happened,” she asked as he closed the door.

“Let’s go. I’ll explain on the way.”

“Where to?”

“The opposite side of town. We need to find somewhere for the night.”

24.

The phone answered on the first ring. “McWaters, what have you got?” he said swapping the phone to the opposite ear as he grabbed a slice of cold pizza. It was late into the evening and with no life outside of his work it was normal for him to work fourteen to sixteen hour days.

“Sir we received a report of an explosion off Africville Road up behind the Fairview container terminal. A squad car has arrived and it appears and explosion has ripped through the temporary cabins that are behind the carpark,” replied the station desk sergeant.

“Thanks Jack,” said McWaters. “Do we know of any casualties?”

“Nothing yet. The storm is ferocious and so I needed to call the boys back in. Will have to wait until morning.”

“Sure. That’s not the area where those Russians are suppose to be holing out?”

“I believe so.”

“Thanks,” he replied disconnecting the call.

He leant back in his chair deciding whether to make the call he promised he would never make again. His hand started to shake. Mildly at first but slowly increasing the longer he waited and contemplated the call. He looked around the room. Memories of unsolved cases covering the walls. Reminding him of the situation he was in and where he had arrived in his life. He wanted fulfilment. He wanted to solve this case. He needed to solve this case. He hit the digits and held his finger above the send button.

“I can’t believe this is happening again,” he mumbled to himself.

The number dialled. “Hello,” came the reply.

“Hello Bill. Brian McWaters.”

“Brian McWaters … uhh … I never thought I’d hear that voice or name again. Well something must be pretty bad for you to call me.”

“Bill I know I promised but it seems like it’s all happening again.”

McWaters went on to explain everything he knew. Bill Dyer was the former CIA station chief, eastern Canada, when the infamous spate of Russian murders and weapons trafficking hit Argentia, Newfoundland. McWaters, a young detective on his first solo case, became involved and if not for Dyer, saving his skin, McWaters could have found himself on an espionage charge.

Russian warlord Pavel Bugakov had become infuriated with his shipments of illegal weapons, to and from the United States, being confiscated. Convinced his organisation had been infiltrated he devised a plan to test the waters and send one of his ships disguised as a high wealth luxury cruise ship. Many of the travellers had diplomatic immunity and thriving businesses in the US. Whilst at sea Bugakov’s men relabelled the shipping containers to the names of the diplomats. The containers were predominately loaded with black market bound weapons. A false wall close to the entrance hid the goods. On arrival, at the now defunct US Naval Base, customs officials opened the container and because of diplomatic immunity made only a visual inspection. The containers were loaded and shipped to various locations throughout North America eventually bound for war ravaged and drug cartel held areas of South America.

Bugakov’s plan worked and he was able to continue shipments for twelve months. One evening a young shipping intern noticed that a diplomatic container was arriving with the name of a diplomat she remembered had been expelled from the country six months earlier. Checking her paperwork, she noticed a container had been arriving every three weeks, under the same name, for nearly a year. Alerting her superiors more checks were made and a possible scam had been unveiled. Deciding to set up a sting the port authorities were unaware the shipments were going both ways with the outward bound route under the guise of aid authorities.

The six containers arrived all marked as radioactive medicines with various foreign aid bureau logos. The twelve Russians, disguised as drivers and co-drivers, never saw the heavily armed Canadian and US Customs and US DEA officers until the ship was rounding the headland. The officials, believing they were only waiting for an inbound ship, were mown down by automatic gunfire. Eleven officials and two Russians were killed. The remaining Russians escaped. The CIA was brought in headed up by Bill Dyer and McWaters was the civilian representative.

Bugakov ceased operations of outbound product and believing his inbound scam was still undetected he decided to wait three months and then recommenced. During this time the authorities had no leads and progress had stagnated. Senators and politicians were wanting answers and blame was starting to be applied to Dyer and McWaters. Determined not to let his first solo case become his last McWaters gained knowledge of a rival Russian gang operating out of Halifax. He approached the gang and offered to turn a blind eye in exchange for information on who they were up against. The gang not willing to offer up any names agreed to advise when the next shipment was expected in exchange for names of high ranking US military officials. McWaters found what they wanted, passed across the information and the sting was organised.

Bugakov’s men were captured and his shipment confiscated but an elaborate spider web of paper and computer trails made detection of the kingpin impossible. Bugakov learnt of the list of US military officials. Determined to gain revenge he passed the information on to senior CIA personnel. The CIA was infuriated and after searching, McWaters name was discovered. Dyer realised if it hadn’t been for the young detective they would never have busted the racket and got the powers to be off their backs; so he protected him. Dyer took a promotion and McWaters agreed never to mention it again.

“You do realise we are talking twenty seven years ago and I’m now retired,” said Dyer.

“Bill I completely understand all that but I was hoping you might be able to get names or at least a name for me?”

The phone sat quiet as Dyer scratched is now balding head.

“Alright I’ll see what I can do but I promise nothing. Got it?” as the phone was disconnected.

“Great thanks,” said McWaters to himself. “If it wasn’t for me you would never have got that cushy job at Langley. But what the hell, hey.”

25.

The storm had intensified and was at hurricane capacity. They had crossed the city, rounded the top end of Northwest Arm and followed it southeast. Nirit fought to keep the Dodge on the road as they headed directly into the storm. They rounded corners at walking speed. Wipers had become useless against the sheer force of the water being driven off the North Atlantic.

“We need to get out of this storm,” said Nirit.

“Thank you for stating the obvious,” calmly replied Wade.

A sudden gust and the steering wheel flew from Nirit’s grasp. The vehicle spun sideways and slid across the road. “Hang on,” she screamed as they slammed into the fence that served as an entry to a property.

“Okay I guess this is as far as we’re going. Grab all the gear I want nothing left behind,” said Wade.

They bundled everything into four large black bags. Donned their jackets, gloves, hats and tried to open the door. The passengers side was hard up against the fence and the drivers side had the wind slamming into it. They pushed and pushed and just as they thought they could open it another gust would slam it shut.

“We definitely can’t go out that way. We’ll get sliced in half if we catch a gust. Come on we’ll smash the back window,” said Ross.

He climbed across the seats and using the butt of his rifle smashed the glass. The wind blasted through the hole taking the complete broken panel of glass with it.

“Duck,” yelled Wade as they both dived for the floor.

The glass fragments swirled and smashed around inside the vehicle like fragments of a grenade. With their heads buried under their arms they waited until the glass settled.

“Let’s go,” ordered Wade.

“Wade your neck. It’s cut.”

“No time we need to get out of here,” as he scrambled through the smashed opening. Nirit passed the bags. Wade could not believe how difficult it was to even keep his footing.

“Let’s try this place? See the sign. B&B. Bed and breakfast,” he yelled trying to be heard over the screaming wind.

The small house sat sheltered behind the huge American Chestnut trees. A single light could be seen from the lounge. The old model Toyota sat alone in the drive. A sheltered porch surrounded the front door that blanketed the entry from the wild storm. Wade dropped his bags and banged on the door. The overhead light came on as an old lady haltingly pulled open the door.

“Yes,” she said, eyeing the strange couple dressed all in black carrying large black bags.

“Hello,” said Wade in his best Canadian accent. “I know it’s late but you don’t happen to have a room for my wife and I.”

“My god young man how did you come to get here?” she quizzed.

“Unfortunately our car has slid into the fence beside your front gate.”

“Oh … yes, please come in,” she said opening the security door.

The front door opened in to the lounge. A fire roared on the opposite wall. Crocheted items cover the lounge, table, side board, hung from the walls and balls of wool were laid out in front of the fire. The room was exceptionally clean and pride in her home was evident. They gently placed the bags, beside the door, ensuring the sound of the weapons was not evident.

“Don’t mind the wool, just a bit of knitting,” she said motioning them to sit as she stepped into the adjoining room.

“Please sit,” she said on her return offering up a towel each.

“Thank you but we don’t want to wet your furniture,” said Wade.

“Young man that is a pretty nasty cut you have on your neck. Let me get something for it,” she said ignoring Wade’s statement.

“Please the names James and this is my wife Jacky. We have a first aid kit in our luggage so I will be able to fix it up. Thanks anyway.”

“Lovely to meet you both,” she said looking across to Nirit expecting a response. “My name’s Grace and welcome to my home.”

They agreed on a price for the night and departed to their room.

“James and Jacky, very original. And married, gets better. And what about that lousy accent,” said Nirit when they were alone in the room.

“Alright, alright,” replied Wade with a large smirk on his face.

Nirit cleaned the cut under his ear, applied five absorbable sutures, covered and applied a layer of artificial waterproof skin.

They checked their gear, cleaned their weapons, showered and collapsed on to the smallish double bed.

They both sprang up to the sound of knocking on the door. “Good morning, not sure if you are awake but breakfast is ready,” said Grace through the door. “It’s in the kitchen, ready, when you are.”

Grace had prepared a superb meal. The wind had subsided but the rain had intensified.

“Can’t see the rain easing for a while,” she said trying to entice conversation. “Normally after a storm like that we have a deluge of rain for about two or three days. Not much to look forward to if your holidaying.” Still hoping for a response.

They ate in silence as Grace looked around feeling very uncomfortable with the lack of conversation coming from her guests.

“We’re not holidaying,” finally said Wade downing his coffee. “Looking at the option of moving here and came to check out what’s available,” he said getting to his feet. Nirit following. “Thanks for breakfast but we need to get our car back on the road. Busy day. Thanks again for the hospitality.” As they quickly walked from the room, gathered their gear at the front door and departed.

The rain was heavier than standing under a waterfall. Nirit had earlier sent a text to the local Mossad people who had advised they needed to get the car to a location in an industrial estate, north of the city.

The inside of the Dodge was like a mini swimming pool. Water sloshed about over their boots. Glass covered all the seats. They shoved the glass on to the floor. Rocked the vehicle back and forth until it cleared the fence and drove off.

26.

“Any updates?” asked McWaters as he passed the Sergeant’s reception desk shaking the water off his drenched coat.

“Nothing yet, Brian,” came the reply from the duty sergeant who didn’t even raise his head, engrossed in his newspaper.

McWaters hobbled down the hall checking nobody was watching. He felt the arthritis in his knees and hips. His doctor told him he needed to correct his diet and take some time off to give the joints a chance to recuperate. McWaters could not think of anything worse than sitting at home wasting away the hours. He ignored the doctor’s advice and had been frantically searching the internet trying to find a self help miracle cure.

Collapsing in his chair he punched through to his 2IC, Frank Strong. “Frank. Everybody in Conference Room 2, in ten.”

He swallowed a couple of pills for the pain and a few more for the inflammation and still more for what the doctor had prescribed as depression. He knew he was becoming a pill junkie but he didn’t feel he had the strength to fight it. He sat back with his eyes closed and head against the head rest, waiting for the pills to kick in.

“Boss, you okay?” asked Strong, entering the room without his commander hearing him. McWaters nodded, startled. “Team’s ready in 2,” Strong said watching his leader struggle from his chair.

McWaters entered the room. His head throbbing like he had been hit with a lump of wood. His eyes stung and temples pulsed. He knew he was getting worse but he had to ensure he didn’t display any of the symptoms. A female detective handed him a coffee.

The bad weather had all personnel, who would normally be on patrol or working outdoors, in the building. It was standing room only. The chatter was intense, everybody had an opinion. Was it a gang turf war or was somebody on a vendetta?

“Thanks Cheryl. Now listen up,” said McWaters waiting for the racket to die down.

“Quiet,” yelled Strong. The room instantly went deathly quiet.

“As you all know we have had a spate of killings the last few days. Frank can you list the details?”

A young constable handed out a briefing report and duties as Strong started his summary.

“First night a male, mid twenties, and his gang, attacks the young Burrows girl and this guy, Ross, kills him barehanded. Possibly self defence. The next day Burrow’s body guard is gunned down by, we believe, Russians. Day four two Russian thugs are beaten by Ross at the cemetery. That evening Burrows second bodyguard is killed in a car accident, with Ross driving and the Burrows family in the back. Ross then goes to the hospital to rescue Burrow’s son and kills three more Russians. Day five two more Russians are found dead outside Burrows apartment. This morning we find three exploded portable cabins and seven more bodies. Appears six Russians and early reports suggesting a Frenchmen.”

“French?” questioned McWaters.

“That’s what the initial deduction is. We are still awaiting the crime lab in Toronto to confirm,” replied his 2IC.

McWaters looked around the room, at the stunned faces, as the group absorbed the impact of the numbers involved. “Anybody add anything to this?” he asked.

“Sir,” replied the young constable at the rear. “I’m not sure this is relevant but we helped a lady, last night, whose car had slid off the road only two hundred or so metres from where the explosion was. We helped her get out of the ditch and whoever was driving accelerated down the road and she took off after them. She got in and they very quickly accelerated away. We followed but never came upon them again.”

“Constable why would this have any bearing?” asked McWaters.

“Sir, only that she spoke with an accent. Middle Eastern we think.”

“Middle Eastern … as in Arabic?”

“No sir. We thought Israeli.”

Owenisque entered the room and heard the mention of Israeli.

“Can you both get over to facial recognition and see what you come up with,” ordered McWaters watching the two men leave the room. “Anything else?” he asked of the group, looking around. “We have fourteen deaths in the last five days so this is priority number one. You have your duties and I want to know every little thing you hear, see or read. Am I clear?” he yelled.

The room emptied. Owenisque was staring at the white board as McWaters approached. “No closer than?” he asked.

“No sir but I need to get Burrows in here. He is definitely the common denominator in this whole affair,” said McWaters rubbing notes off the board and updating figures.

“Brian any more deaths and CSIS will be all over this case.”

“I know sir but unfortunately we have no shred of evidence. Everything is circumstantial or hearsay,” replied McWaters grimacing in pain.

“Are you alright?”

“Just a pinched nerve, sir. I’ll be fine.”

“I want to be there when Burrows is interviewed.”

“Yes sir,” replied McWaters hiding his discomfort by pretending to read the report.

27.

The drive had been uneventful. Traffic was light but the rain was a deluge. Water sloshed and swirled in the wind as they crossed the four lane bridge. A patrol car noticed the rear broken window and dropped in behind them.

“We’ve got company,” said Wade. “Hard to tell but I think two in a police car.”

“How do you want to handle this?” asked Nirit as they both pulled their peak caps lower.

“I’ll turn off at the first exit. I don’t really want to hurt them so if they follow we play dumb and say we had an accident on the way into town.”

No other cars came into view as they crossed the second half of the bridge and made the first exit. The police car followed. Four hundred metres further and a McDonalds drive through appear. Wade entered. Ordered a non descript meal, paid and exited. Rounding the building the police lights flashed and the siren gave its distinctive short burst. Wade parked and the constable from the passenger’s seat approached.

“Morning sir. Do you have your licence?”

Wade feigned reaching into the glove box and handed across the forged document without making eye contact.

“Please wait here while I do a check.”

Wade watched in the rear view mirror as the two officers scanned information and typed away on their laptops. The driver then reached for his two way and talked, listened, talked and listened. All the while getting more agitated. The second officer’s head started to swivel frantically. They both leapt from the vehicle drawing their holstered weapons.

“Hang on,” shouted Wade as he hit the gear stick in reverse and slammed the accelerator. The wheels screamed as they gained traction on the water covered road. Pounding wind and slashing rain aided Wade in the confusion. The officers realised, at the last moment, and dived to either side as the Dodge crashed into the driver’s door of the Ford Crown Victoria. The police car spun hitting the driver and sending him into the wall of the fast food outlet. His partner rolled hurtling into the kerb.

Wade snapped the gear lever into drive and they raced from the carpark. Nirit with her pistol aimed at the two officers. They screamed around the first corner, the passenger wheels lifting from the ground and then just as quickly they dropped. Water waved out behind their vehicle like a rooster tail. Wade struggled to keep control. The rear end fishtailed and slid trying to maintain traction on the water covered roads. Nirit dialled the local agents and advised they were coming in hot. Wade not wanting to be on the streets any longer than need be, avoided the typical double back manoeuvres and made a beeline for the rendezvous point.

The rain was a sheet. They crossed the kerb and drove through the small factories that lined either side of the access road. All the doors, gates and windows were locked up tight. Surroundings deserted. The rapid descent roller door closed as they shot into a wholesale distribution warehouse.

Located at the end of the factory precinct, the Mossad agents had used an established business as a disguise for their operation. Either side of the warehouse was lined with full height racking and all the shelves stacked with paper filled boxes. To an external observer it appeared as a warehouse that traded in printed stationary. A small printing machine was located against the rear wall. The agents had devised an ingenious scheme of packing boxes into the four vans each morning and driving out. Early afternoon they would return and unpack the same boxes. Each week they would change the boxes. The printing machine was started each day and would turn over and over but never print anything.

The two end factories were linked. After shoring the walls and doors the second unit was established as the operation post. Fold out tables and chairs covered the floor.

Agents sat at the tables; listening on headphones to encrypted messages, analysing data, sending and receiving an endless stream of messages, planning and replanning missions. The entire second factory had been made blast proof. Two inch thick steel lined the walls and ceiling. A generator, plus an additional back up generator, ensured a continuous electricity supply and air conditioning. The building was fully self sustainable enabling agents to sleep, work and eat without leaving the building. If required to leave they would exit under the guise of darkness and always alone. A direct satellite link to Tel Aviv was available and a fully stocked armoury sat in the far corner.

The facility served as Israel’s major link to the US eastern sea board, trans Atlantic crossings and Torshavn, capital city of the Faroe Islands, located midway between Iceland and Norway. A strategic location that Israel intelligence had utilised as an existing British World War II supply depot. What appeared as a single fronted warehouse, along the city’s docks, had developed into a hidden underground spy station. Agents would watch screens tracking shipping, flights, international passport controls, financial movements, company servers and various other intelligence agencies.

The Dodge squealed to a halt on the glossed epoxy covered floor. Two agents were removing their bags and another was waiting to remove the vehicle as Wade climbed out.

“Shalom,” said the agent leaping into the driver’s seat and heading for the rear door.

The same courier agent, as at the hotel, approached. “Wade, Nirit please come with me. We have a lot of information for you.”

The man led them through an electronically controlled, identification protected, fire blast door. All sound of the wind and rain disappeared as they entered the sound proof facility. Staff lifted their heads hoping to get a glimpse of the legendary Wade Ross. The agent led them past all the tables and computer screens into a small office. A round table sat centre stage and six chairs surrounded it. A wall mounted LED screen hung opposite the door and a conference call capable phone atop the table.

“Sir, Mister Ross has arrived,” said the agent into the speaker phone.

“Thank you Benayah. Hello Wade and I assume Nirit you are there to?”

“Hi Meshulam,” replied Nirit.

Meshulam Hammerstein, Mossad’s IT guru and in charge of all electronic, deciphering, decoding, encryption, programming and inventions. Part of Ben Harel’s inner sanctum, Meshulam and his inventions would sometimes make Wade feel like James Bond.

“Hello Meshulam,” said Wade. “For what do we owe the pleasure?” he asked smiling as the large screen sprang to life and Meshulam’s dishevelled face covered the entire surface.

“Wade, it is so good to see you,” he said.

“Thanks but what is it we need to know?”

Nine faces appeared on half the screen. “Recognize any of these?” asked Meshulam.

“Should I?” questioned Wade not looking at the faces.

“Well yes you should,” stammered Meshulam. “Are you sure you don’t recognize any of those faces?”

“Meshulam if I said I don’t, I don’t,” yelled Wade. “What is wrong with you?”

“Wade I don’t know how to say this but apparently since word of your reappearance has occurred we have received reports of you acting in collusion with these men.”

“Who are they? They look northern European?” he said now studying each face.

“That is correct. They are northern European, in fact Russian.”

“Russian … why would I be with Russians?” he asked bewildered by the statement.

“We have no idea but we have agents who can now verify, through reliable sources, that you have been seen talking and travelling with these men up and down the north east coast of North America.”

Wade stood transfixed on the photos. “Do we know anything about any of them?” he asked.

“We believe the first four were killed in the explosion you and Nirit instigated at the docks. The fifth, Ramus, is the 2IC of the sixth, Grigory, who is,”

“Was,” said Wade cutting him off.

“What do you mean was?”

“The fifth photo, Ramus? I shot him last night … The seventh photo, he called himself ‘Dome’ and he was French, definitely not Russian, and I shot him too.”

“Right … Well the eighth and ninth are two smugglers who have been ID’d in Riga, Latvia less than forty eight hours ago.”

“Smugglers? What type of smugglers?”

“Records we have been able to obtain from the FSB (Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation) indicate they specialise in weapons and human trafficking.”

“And what about Grigory? What do we know about him?”

“We believe he is the ring leader in the US but keeps himself well under wraps. I think it important you know we suspect they are part of the Bratva.”

Benayah, Nirit and Meshulam waited for Wade to respond as he glared at the photos. Nirit stepped up behind him and placed her hand on his arm. “You okay?” she asked.

“Meshulam, do we have anything on where we can find Grigory?” replied Wade not responding to Nirit.

“We have very limited intel but word has it he is either in New York, Halifax or Boston.”

“Would be handy if we could narrow that down a bit,” said Wade. “Thanks Meshulam. Tell Ben I’ll get back to you guys as soon as I have something.”

The screen went black as Wade turned to Benayah. “We need another vehicle and US Passports.”

“All ready,” he replied leading them out to a cream coloured Toyota Camry.

“Where to first?” asked Benayah.

“While the weather is this bad and offering some cover we need to check out along the docks. If we find nothing we head for Boston,” replied Wade.

“Why only the docks,” said Benayah.

“Russians have a propensity to want to be near ships, i.e. docks and if he is noted as being in Boston, New York and especially Halifax my guess is trafficking by sea,” he explained checking through the black bags.

Completing his inspection Wade asked, “Do you have any encrypted cell phones?”

“No,” replied Benayah. “But these two unmarked could help.” He reached under the counter and removed two small boxes, tossing one each to Nirit and Wade. “We have a tracker on the car and there is a detonation switch, in the glove box, if you need to get rid of it in a hurry. Shalom my friends.”

28.

“61 to control, 61 to control,” yelled the Constable into his radio.

“Go ahead Car 61, over,” said the female police radio operator.

“We had them. We had them,” he screamed again.

“Car 61, slow down and adopt proper radio procedure, over,” calmly replied the operator.

“I repeat we had them and they rammed us.”

“Car 61, I say again. You are to lower your voice and adopt radio protocol, over.”

Fast breaths could be heard as the Constable held is finger on the transmit button. The second Constable could be heard yelling, just as agitated, in the background. “Tell them. Tell them it was that Ross character,” he screamed. “Tell them now,” he yelled as the voice got louder and louder.

“Constable Johnson, Constable Smithers. You are both ordered to control yourselves and explain slowly and clearly what has happened, over,” said the radio operator watching the Duty Sergeant step up behind her.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

The operator explained as she handed the microphone headset to her boss.

“Johnson, Smithers slow the hell down, take some breaths and explain what you are jabbering on about,” ordered their boss.

“Sir, sorry sir,” said Johnson. He proceeded to explain their confrontation with Ross and their current location.

The Duty Sergeant hit the mute button as he instructed the female operator to get squad cars to the Johnson and Smithers location and to immediately relay all the information to Owenisque and McWaters.

29.

“Where are we?” asked Nirit who had spent the ten minute drive checking her weapons. “Looks like some sort of refinery.”

“It is, or was,” said Wade. “Came across this place the day before you arrived. I noticed how it seemed odd that the building looked deserted, like nobody had been in there for ten years, but that side track,” he said pointing toward a locked gate. “Had fresh tyre tracks.”

“Not really a typical Russian hang out,” she said. “I mean the access and egress don’t look too secure and where would they post their sentries?”

“I agree but I think worth checking out.”

“Why are you going to so much trouble with this?” Nirit asked. “I mean it’s not your beef and yet you seem determined to solve something that we’re not even sure has any significance other than Meshulam’s theories.”

Wade looked across to his friend and now lover. “Remember when you took me to that place, you and your family hid in for twelve months, after I found out about Crystal’s death.”

Nirit nodded unsure where this was heading.

“I had always thought of you as a friend but that day was something I can’t put words to. It was like you were telling me about a surreal time, place, space that I could only compare to my beliefs in the ‘Dreaming’. I was hearing your words but the true worth was what I was feeling.”

Nirit sat watching Wade as his eyes glazed over and he appeared to be in a trance like state.

“It was beautiful and sincere. I felt at peace even though I had just learnt of the death of the woman I loved. The spirits spoke to me and I knew what I had to do even though I didn’t know how, where or when.”

He snapped out of his trance state. “The thing is I felt the same when I met and spoke with Stacey Burrows, the night I helped her and her brother. She didn’t say or do anything particular it was the way I felt.”

“And now you feel you need to help them?”

“No. Not them. Her … but something is not right about all this. In fact, I feel as if her father, John Burrows, has some major involvement.”

He parked the vehicle at the far end of the deserted carpark across from the entry gate. A decrepit storage shed, that had withstood years of the vicious Atlantic storms, hid the vehicle from the road.

Dressed in jeans, boots, leather jackets, long coats, beanies and carrying a silenced Glock they were drenched before they had reached the back of the car. They skirted through the trees, crossed the road and climbed the eight foot gate. A track swung in a large arc avoiding liquid storage silos that had been scattered away from the main facility after they had served their life expectancy. Lengths of pipe, fittings and steel, that were used for building and supporting the overhead pipes, were also scattered across the abandoned terrain.

The puddle littered mud track stopped against a brick wall and beyond was a large pocked concrete hardstand. The concrete went from the rear doors of the building to a rotting timber wharf. Two steel gantries, that were once used for loading the liquid onto ships, hung precariously out over the water. Metre high weeds covered the landscape appearing to be winning the fight, against concrete, for space. Four containers abutted each other at the left most of the three large rear roller doors.

Wade signalled and they darted across to the first container. All four containers were locked with hardened steel combination locks. Rain, smashing from the roof, highlighted the grease marked boot prints in front of each container. Wade pointed and Nirit acknowledged.

The enormous shed had no windows or doors on three sides. The three rear doors were the only access at ground level. The opposite end of the rear wall a set of stairs led to a first level office. Pipes and steel protruded on the rear and two side walls like octopus’ tentacles. A rusted train track crossed from the wharf and entered through the middle door.

Wade led Nirit up the rusted open weave stairs. The landing creaked and groaned under their weight. Rain was coming in horizontal as they gripped the slippery handrail. The door was locked. Using his Ka-Bar knife he jemmied the jamb and gently slid the door open. Donning their monocle NVG’s they moved like mice across the floor. Continually covering each others arc of fire they searched all the offices. Papers, upturned tables and chairs, rat droppings, broken glass, smashed walls and spider webs. Nothing had been touched for years. The last door opened on to an internal suspended steel mesh walkway. Hanging eight feet from the roof the walkway weaved and twisted over the entire facility.

Removing their coats and beanies they split up and moved across the walkway. Pigeons fluttered and sprung from their hiding places as the two cat like figures silently approached. Steel creaked. The walkway strained against rusted bolts as it felt weight for the first time in years. Wind roared and rain splashed and flowed through the broken glass of the wire lined skylights. Nirit approached the stairs that led four steps down to the lower level walkway. Built to avoid the six large pipes crossing she grabbed at the steel handrail as she ducked. The rusted steel broke at the seams and the pipe fell. The noise was deafening as the two metre length of two inch pipe hit everything possible on the way down. Bouncing and clanging it finally came to rest inside an empty drum.

Wade hit the deck and waited. Finally, only the sound of wind could be heard. “Nirit, you okay?” he asked whispering into his throat mike.

“Roger that,” she replied. “A section of the handrail broke off as I grabbed it. All good, over”

“See that white wall at your ten. Head to that, over,” he ordered.

Nirit replied with two taps of her throat mike.

Wade crossed a large tank that had once served as a separator. The huge one hundred thousand litre steel vessel was covered in a spider web of cracks and stains. Four one metre wide lids had been removed and Wade heard the rain drops hitting the liquid that was trapped in the bottom. Approaching the fourth opening he saw the ladder that disappeared inside. Steeping around the handrail he peered in. He never saw the hand that flew out and grabbed his jacket and pulled him into the tank. Loosing his balance, he lunged for the side of the opening only to feel the pistol smack into the back of his head.

30.

The call was answered on the first ring.

“Timur it is Grigory,” came the voice through the handpiece.

“Grigory, you lazy fat pig. What do you want calling me?”

The line was quite as Grigory fought with his desire to lash out at his fellow Bratva leader. Under the guidelines of the Bratva leadership Grigory would be, theoretically, Timur’s boss but Timur had gained considerable praise from the Russian hierarchy due to his success and profitability in New York.

“I need your help?” said Grigory through gritted teeth.

“Ha ha. So you finally realise you are incapable of running an operation and you want me to bail you out, you useless fucking sloth.”

Grigory fumed but knew his position was threatened and tried diplomacy. “We all know New York is going well for you but your success is dependant on us getting the product to you. Agreed.”

“What is your point and what do you want at this hour?” roared Timur.

“I have just been informed Ramus was killed and we have lost a further twelve men in the last three days. Before Ramus died he told me he thought the attacks are coming from Kidon assassins.” He waited for a response.

“Kidon? Are you insane. Grigory why would the Kidon be after us?”

“I have no idea but Ramus was adamant they were Kidon.”

The line was quite as both men waited.

“Ramus was a good man,” replied Timur. “I served with him in Ukraine and he definitely would know what he was talking about.”

“So you believe him?”

“It seems idiotic that the Israeli’s would be after us but I believe him if that is what he said. What I don’t trust, is you,” yelled Timur.

The line went quite again as Grigory waited. He could hear Timur’s distant voice in discussion with somebody else.

“I will send Sergei and the team. They will be there before sunrise,” said Timur sternly. “But if I find you have fucked me over I will come over there and rip your eyes out,” he yelled slamming the phone.

31.

Nirit heard the noise and then the splash. She scanned the network of pipes, ladders and walkways. The green world that appeared before her showed no movement.

“Wade, copy over.”

Lying on the steel checker plated deck she called again. “Wade, can you hear me, over?” she whispered.

Scanning three sixty degrees she stood and doubled back. Arriving at the intersection, where they had split, she ducked, scanned and called again. With still no response she crept forward on the path Wade had taken. A large separator tank came into view. Still scanning, as she walked, she caught a glimpse of a gun wedged into the rim of the opening of the tank. Leaning across the rail she felt the dart that plunged into her right calf. Diving for the deck she reached over and pulled the dart free. Jumped to her feet and raced along the walkway. The sudden added weight, of her jump, broke the roof supporting brackets and the deck pulled away from the roof. A forty metre section fell, striking the tank. Thrust sideways it threw Nirit against the adjoining lower stairs. Her back crashed into the steel handrail and her head bounced off the steel treads. The force of the impact pulled her left shoulder from its socket and she landed hanging from the twisted structure.

The force of the freezing water jolted her awake. Her vision was blurry. The pain in her left shoulder was immense as she focused on what was happening. Nirit slowly moved her head. A silhouette of three men came into view.

“Aah, awake. Good,” said the middle man still clasping the empty bucket.

The man to his left walked across, the three metres separating them, and prodded his rifle into her ribs. “No monkey business, bitch. We know all about your Israeli killing skills and if I see you so much as flinch I’ll put a bullet in that pretty little head,” he said in Russian accented broken English. He flipped the rifle over and smashed the butt into her ribs.

Aware it was coming Nirit flexed every muscle in her body but the pain was still intense. It forced the wind from her lungs and she felt the rib crack. She closed her eyes and grimaced trying desperately to not make a sound.

“This one could be fun,” said her attacker stepping off to the side.

Her hands were tied above her head and she hung from a pipe that ran the full length of the refinery. Her feet were bound by shackles to the floor. She had been stripped down to her underwear.

The third and larger overweight man stepped forward bringing his hand from behind his back. Her Ka-Bar glistening under the light.

“This can go easy or hard, your choice,” said Grigory. “I have no beef with you people but I want to know why you are killing all my men?”

He stood face to face two inches separating them. She could smell his putrid breath. “Just like you I have no hesitation in cutting you up. So either talk or I start to cut off one limb at a time.”

Nirit locked eyes on the flabby faced Russian as he put the knife under her chin.

“It seems such a waste for such a good looking specimen to be cut,” said Grigory. “Do you agree Sergei?”

The Russian still holding the bucket nodded.

“Why don’t we have some fun?” suggested Grigory. “Her boyfriend is not going to be back any time soon. No. No. No. I should say never,” he bellowed and then laughed.

The first of the rifle carrying Russians reached across and sprayed an aerosol can at Nirit’s face. She coughed as the sedative kicked in and everything went black.

The freezing water snapped her focus again but this time she was lying on her back, spread-eagled, naked. Her wrists, ankles and neck had a thin rubber tube around them. She pulled against her arm but the rubber dug in harder and harder. She realised is was a torture technique where the tube was ninety percent full of water and when pressure was applied to the tube the area available for the water to move in was restricted, thus becoming tighter and tighter.

Sergei stood above her. She heard a small drill operating. Another man was tattooing a Bratva symbol on her left shoulder.

“How much longer? I need to get back New York,” asked Sergei in his native Russian tongue unaware that Nirit spoke Russian.

“Ten minutes,” came the reply.

“What happened with the guy?” asked Sergei impatiently.

“He’s in the tank. Drowned I’d say.”

“Has anyone checked?”

“No,” said the man looking up. “Who the hell is going into a tank half full of years of old chemicals and don’t forget we slugged him as he fell.”

Sergei nodded aware the man was probably right but it was not Spetsnaz style to not be one hundred percent certain.

“What happens to her now?” asked the tattooist still speaking Russian.

“Grigory thinks he’s going to have some fun with her. Not our problem. We leave in fifteen. Hurry up.”

Nirit felt the drill stop, the fine trickle of blood down her arm and heard the two men leave. Her body was shaking from the cold. She knew hypothermia was not far off. Her fingers and toes were slowly loosing their sense of feel. She moved her hands around hoping to find something. The wire mesh table she lay on had been used to separate products. Her fingers pulled against a strand as one end came free. Using her fore and middle finger she twisted back and forth. The tube pulled tighter and tighter. Her blood was slowing as the tourniquet effect tube dug in. It felt like her wrist was about to be sliced off when suddenly the small length of wire broke free. Regaining her composure and desperately trying to limit her shaking she turned the wire in her hand and pushed against the tube.

She pushed and pushed but the tube would not break. The tourniquet effect was at a crescendo. The wire slipped and dug into her middle finger. She went to scream as she clamped her teeth together. Using her thumb and forefinger she pulled the wire free. The pain excruciating, she drew on her training and focused. Once again she pushed into the tube. The plastic wall gave way and the water spurted out. The tube lost all its force and drooped over her wrist. Freeing her hand, she stabbed the remaining tubes as she heard voices approaching.

Assuming the spread-eagled position, she waited.

Grigory entered, still carrying the Ka-Bar, followed by two men laughing and joking and a third, younger man, carrying a rifle. She glanced across determining her plan and escape.

“Wait outside,” commanded Grigory. “I’m going first.”

The three men exited closing the door behind them. Grigory approach the table and dropped the knife as he started to undo his pants. “Nice tattoo bitch but nothing compared to what I’m gonna give you.” He chuckled as his pants fell to the floor.

Nirit waited as he started to climb on the table. Grigory unaware she had already removed the ankle straps. With his arms, either side of her legs, supporting his weight and his focus on her groin, he never saw her hands lock either side of his head and her legs slide under his chest. In a smooth controlled motion, she snapped his head sideways. Pulling the tube from around her neck she lifted and heaved at the rotund body until she was able to slide out from under him. She retrieved the knife and went to the door. Using the handle of the knife she banged and stepped behind it. The three men, eager to be next, burst through laughing and joking how quick Grigory had been.

Seeing Grigory, face down on the table, the three men had not computed what was happening when the third in line gurgled from the slit across his throat. The second turned as the knife entered the side of his neck. The remaining, younger, man stumbled back trying to find his rifle. Aware he had left it outside he raised his fists to fight. Nirit took one step and launched through the air, smashing her foot in to the side of his head and nose killing him instantly.

Landing back on her feet she clasped her head in her hands and dropped to her haunches. Her body was convulsing, her shoulder throbbed, her circulation felt like it was about to stop. Still shaking she gained her composure. She stood at the door as she grabbed the handle and willed herself to pull. Finally, with all her might she slammed the door into her shoulder knocking the joint back into the socket. She fell to the floor, the pain unbearable, tears streamed down her cheeks.

She waited, what seemed an eternity, but only until the cold of the concrete floor started to eat into her back. Finding her clothes and weapons she dressed as quickly as was able with a useless, hanging limp, arm. Still shaking she got her bearings and headed for the tank.

The building was deserted. Rain was still falling and birds could be heard in the rafters. Shuffling like an old woman she eventually found the tank. Using the fallen steel frame as a ladder she climbed to the opening. Aware of what the Russians had said she looked in. It was like looking into a black hole of nothing. Grabbing the ladder, she climbed down. The stench was horrific, overpowering.

“Wade,” she called. “Wade, you in here?”

A groan came off to her left.

“Wade say something. I can’t see a thing.”

“Here,” he mumbled. “About five feet below you and off to your right.”

“Can you see me?” she asked.

“Yes. Keep coming down … Okay stop there. If you reach over to your right, I can grab your hand.”

Nirit did as he said. “Why can’t you get out?” She felt the monocle NVG in her hand.

“Put that on and you will realise.”

With the goggles she saw him hanging upside down. His leg hooked on a pipe that ran around the inside of the tank.

“How can we get you out of here?” she asked.

“Grab a rope, or something, tie it off above and drop it down. Have you still got your goggles?”

“No, I must have lost them when the gangway collapsed.”

“Well take these but you will have to bring the rope back. I won’t see a thing down here.”

Nirit pulled herself gingerly up the ladder and then down the mangled frame. Five minutes later she found an old rope rolled up against one of the roller doors. She had spent years being trained to be able to resist pain. She desperately called on that training. Her left arm had become useless. No matter how hard she tried she could not raise her hand above her elbow. Her shoulder socket had started to swell. The broken rib was constricting her breathing. Each breath felt shorter and shorter. Wheezing intensified as she climbed the stairs. Tying the rope off to the handrail that circled the cylinder lid she turned and lowered herself back into the tank.

“Here,” she said handing the rope and NVG to him. “Can you tie it off to yourself?”

“Sure. Are you okay? Your breathing sounds terrible.”

“Fine,” she replied turning away.

“You go back up and I should be able to pull myself up.”

Nirit slowly, one step at a time, one handed, pulled herself back up the rusty ladder. She stood on the tank top, watching the rope as it swayed and rocked. Finally, Wade’s head appeared. She one handed helped him out and they climbed down the frame.

“We need to keep searching,” he ordered as he collapsed on the floor against the tank, moving his arms and legs, trying to get blood circulation.

Nirit got him to sit as she explained what had happened.

“Where are they now and are you alright?” he asked.

“They’re all in the end room near the furthest door. I’m fine just cold and a sore shoulder and rib.”

Wade helped her to the room. They took photos for Meshulam to trace. Removed any weapons and planted delay explosives. Set the timer for three hours and slowly staggered out.

32.

It was approaching mid afternoon when the rain started to abate. McWaters ordered Burrows to be brought in for questioning. He was scanning reports and witness statements when his phone rang.

“McWaters,” he replied.

“Brian, it’s Bill Dyer. I have a name for you but before I tell you I need to be sure this will never come back to me. Alright?”

“Sure Bill. Guaranteed this is only between you and me.”

“In five seconds it’s not even me … The man you are looking for is a Grigory. Don’t have a surname and he is apparently operating out of one of your docks. Brian that’s all I’ve got and don’t call again,” said Dyer disconnecting the call.

McWaters instantly hit the search button on the police data search network. He watched as names, numbers, reports and classified information flashed across the screen. He was reading an endless stream of facts, opinions and data when he dialled the internal phone system.

“Frank can you come in here I think we might have a break through,” he said to his 2IC.

Strong entered and the two men got into a discussion as they waited for the data search to complete. McWaters explained that Burrows was on his way in and the chief was to be present for the interview. They discussed the pros and cons of the meeting and determined some of the questions they needed to ask.

“What’s your thoughts on Burrows?” asked Strong.

“If I was a gambling man I’d put money on that Burrows has some financial deal going with the Russians and something has gone pear shaped between them. And now they’re after him wanting their money.”

“Why would Burrows do that? He’s worth millions and wouldn’t need the Russian’s money.”

“Agreed but two witnesses clearly identify Russians as those that shot up Burrow’s car and killed his bodyguard.”

In typical detective style the conversation flowed back and forth with both men raising alternative points of view. They were discussing how they would take down a Russian gang when the screen beeped and a photo flashed up.

“So that’s our man, apparently,” said McWaters turning the screen for Strong to see.

Strong studied the photo as he said, “That photo is a dead set match to the description we got of the guy who held up Burrows in his driveway.”

“Really,” said McWaters spinning the screen back. “Might be our lucky day. Can you get an APB on this Grigory and let me know when Burrows arrives?”

John Burrows sat very dismissive, in the interview room. Strong and McWaters stood watching him through the one-way glass, waiting for Owenisque to arrive.

“Brian, Frank,” said Owenisque entering the watch room. “So how are you intending to play this out?” he asked.

“Sir, I appreciate he is your friend but we have reason to believe he has some dealing with the Russians and I really need to push that point,” replied McWaters.

The two men explained to their boss their reasoning. Owenisque listened on attentively, not responding or making any facial responses until they were finished.

“That makes sense … In that case I will wait in here.”

The two men entered the interview room and commenced proceedings by explaining what they needed and what was to happen. Formalities and reasoning’s completed McWaters commenced.

“Mister Burrows we have reason to believe you have some deal in place with Russians and it is because of this, deaths are occurring on the streets of Halifax.”

“That is preposterous. Are you accusing me of involvement in the deaths that you people can’t seem to control?” he yelled.

“Calm down Mister Burrows. We are not accusing you of the murders but we do believe your relationship with the Russians will uncover answers for us to stop the killings and bring those responsible to justice.”

“This is ridiculous. I want a lawyer. Even if I was having dealings with Russians, and which I’m not, I am not obligated to have to tell you,” he screamed standing up from his chair. “I’m leaving.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” said McWaters as Strong forced Burrows back into his chair. “You can either cooperate or I will order a subpoena.”

Burrows collapsed back in the chair as a knock came at the door and a female constable leant in. “You might want to see this sir.”

The two detectives exited the room. The constable handed across the two pages and walked away.

“What is it?” asked Strong as McWaters handed across the pages.

“It appears our man Grigory has been found dead at the old refinery, along with another three Russians, and somebody has blown half the building sky high.”

“What do we do now?” asked Strong as Owenisque approached.

McWaters explained what had happened and how they would need to let Burrows go. Even if they did get him to talk they had no second party to substantiate or bring to court.

“What about this SAS guy, Burrows new found acquaintance. Could he be involved?” asked the chief.

“Definitely sir but it does seem a lot for one guy, and in this storm,” replied Strong.

33.

Viller sat frantically tapping away at her laptop trying to finish her report. Snow had crossed the three metre depth as she looked out the window of her new dwellings. Fergus Falls was cut off from the rest of the world. Snow had been falling for four days straight and showed no sign of abating. Weather bureau had the storms increasing in intensity.

The report had flipped from page twenty one as her mobile phone chimed.

“Special Agent Viller,” she hastily replied not wanting to loose her concentration.

“Viller it’s Rosco,” came the reply.

Rosco Chamber, her boss and the person responsible for her being stuck in this hell hole with no sign of getting out.

“Rosco,” she hesitantly replied. “Just finishing the report.”

“Excellent but we have a problem.” He paused waiting for a response. “We’ve lost track of Ross and things are getting out of control in Halifax. I need you to get there ASAP, find Ross and bring him back in line.”

“I understand but unfortunately it is a white out here and apparently won’t be abating to at least the end of the week.”

“Shit,” yelled Chamber.

The phone was quiet as both parties thought of an alternative.

“You’re sure he is under our control?” asked Chamber.

“As sure as I can tell. All the results point to his cognitive state now able to be manipulated.”

“Okay. We have three agents on the ground in Nova Scotia so I’ll send you a secure email address. Can you write down how they should handle and/or approach Ross until you can get there?”

Viller agreed, explained her report and hung up.

34.

The rain had abated the further north they drove. Traffic had returned to normal driving speeds. Wade and Nirit sat in silence both dissecting their respective thoughts. Approaching the outskirts of Truro, a flat plains town that served as the connection to the Trans Canada highway, one of their cell phones buzzed.

“Wade those photos you sent through show that the Russians could have a connection with a town called Bridgewater, Nova Scotia and a place called Eagle Cove. We’ve done a satellite flyover, searched data banks and Googled everything we can about the place. Nothing has come up,” said Meshulam.

Wade pulled the car on to the verge. “Thoughts Meshulam! … Better there than Boston?” he questioned.

“I’m sorry Wade I have no idea. The photos are very nondescript. Nothing that gives any definitive clues or leads. Just a bunch of names mentioning Bridgewater and Eagle Cove … Maybe you need to go there and do your own recon,” he suggested.

Wade disconnected the call.

“What are you thinking?” asked Nirit as Wade spun the car one hundred and eighty degrees heading back in the direction they had just come.

“Can you bring Bridgewater up on the maps? I’ll bet we find it was an old fishing or trading port,” he said.

“Why do you say that?”

Wade kept his eyes glued ahead as he contemplated the question. He turned off the radio to kill the annoying background music. Lowered the window, a fraction, to allow some of the cold air to jolt his memory.

“When I was listening to those Russian thugs arguing over money, before I blew it sky high. The French one mentioned Peta Opt. Doesn’t that have something to do with a trading port?”

Nirit thought for a moment. “Peta Opt, not sure … No you mean Peka. That means river. I think what you are saying is river port.”

“River port?” questioned Wade. “Doesn’t really help much. Could be anywhere along a river and if the town is called Bridgewater than there is a fair chance it has a bridge.”

Nirit flicked her fingers across the screen of the laptop as she scanned in and out of areas around the small colonial town. “Here we are. Twenty-two kilometres south west of Bridgewater is a small, or should I say very small, place called Riverport.”

Nirit went on to explain that it was a modest community that had become well known as a safe haven for boats from the North Atlantic storms. Situated on Ritcey Cove, an inlet off the Lahave River, it had a pocket-sized but thriving boat building industry and was popular in the summer months for boating activities. Close to the ocean, and the deep waters, it was popular with both fishermen and ocean sailors.

Four hours later, early evening, after skirting Halifax and avoiding police patrol cars, they arrived. Having crossed back to the eastern seaboard, of Nova Scotia, they re-entered the rain.

White, double storey, Cape Cod style houses littered along the foreshore. Canadian flags hanging limp on every roof. Boats, of varying descriptions, in driveways or parked under purpose built shelters. Every second vehicle a pickup. Scattered street lights casting minimal luminosity. The two roads that rimmed each side of Ritcey Cove were deserted. Riverport looked anything but a location for Russians to hang out.

They looped Ritcey Cove twice, crossing through what they imagined was the central area of Riverport. Approaching a fork in the road, suddenly the treetops were lit up. The first mobile vehicle they had met since arriving. Wade pulled to the side. A pickup, dragging a large fishing boat on a trailer, had stopped halfway up the boat ramp. They watched as a lone figure raced around in the rain tying down straps and opening the water release bungs at the rear of the boat. The man stood with a torch shining on the never ending flow of water from his boat.

Careful not to startle the man Wade approached. Wearing a full length coat, peak cap pulled low and hood tightened around his chin. “Evening,” said Wade. “Not a good night to be out?”

“Shit,” said the stunned man. “Wasn’t expecting anybody to be as stupid as me out in this,” he said lifting his hooded head to the sky.

“Know what you mean. Was hoping you could help with directions.”

“Sure. Where you looking for?” he asked.

“Not so much where but who.”

“Okay, it’s a pretty small community around here so I’m sure if they live here I’ll know them,” he replied focusing his attention on closing up the bungs of his boat, now they had stopped flowing.

“I only know him as Grigory. He’s Russian and I met a friend of his in Truro. I spoke to him on the phone and he said come to Riverport and we can settle the deal. I want to sell my boat because I’m heading back to the states.”

The man raised his head. “That’s a hell of a long way to come to sell a boat.”

“True but it’s quite a unique type of fishing boat. Hand built. Limited market of buyers so I wanted to capitalise while I could.”

“Makes sense. Can’t say I know this Grigory but I do know of Russians leasing out facilities along the foreshore. One at the Harbour Authority,” he said pointing to his right. “And another just before the bridge,” pointing to his left.

“Thanks for your help,” replied Wade turning to leave.

“Hey buddy. Piece of advice. Watch those Russians they’re scammers.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They bring massive volumes of fish, in to Halifax, and then try to dictate the market.”

“If they bring the fish into Halifax how does that affect here?”

“They come here as a haven in storms and we have a strong community of boat repairers. Every time one of us does some work for them they want to bargain or negotiate or offer some stupid deal. We’ve got use to their antics and we now just stand our ground.”

“Good advice. Thanks”

“No problem. Where you from with that unusual accent?”

“Live in Long Beach, Washington State but originally from South Africa.”

The man nodded and turned back to his boat. Wade darted from the ramp.

Throwing the drenched coat on the rear seat he explained to Nirit what he had learnt as the large beamed lights drifted past their car. The pickup labouring with the massive load. With their heads ducked down they waited until the only sound was rain on the roof.

Wade watched, from his peripheral, as Nirit struggled to sit upright. Her teeth clenched she looked straight ahead and slowly took a large breath determined not to show any sign to Wade. He saw a slight shudder and then she eased her shoulder back.

“You can tell me,” he said.

“Tell you what?” she replied far to quickly to hide that she had a problem.

“Your shoulder and your rib.”

“All good. Let’s go.” Turning her attention to the road ahead.

Wade turned off the engine. “We’re not going anywhere until we’ve had this discussion,” he commanded.

Slowly she turned back looking at the man she was falling in love with. “Wade please. I’m okay. I can beat it … please.”

Wade clamped his hands on the steering wheel. “Nirit, I know you can but that is not what this all about. You have a probable broken rib, if not two and a dislocated shoulder that you forced back in yourself. Which more than likely means torn ligaments, muscles or god knows what.” He watched on waiting for a response. None forthcoming. “You don’t have to prove yourself to me. You are one of, if not, the best female soldier I have ever met or known. You stand head and shoulders above males I’ve served with … I am not going to let you hurt yourself anymore just because of your determination to prove something to me.”

Nirit opened her mouth to speak as Wade cut her off. “No discussion. That’s final. Now, take off you top and lay your seat back.”

“Well isn’t this a change of tune,” she responded.

“Sorry to disappoint but I wasn’t thinking of us going for it here in the car. I was intending to strap your ribs and shoulder.”

“A girl can only hope,” she said smiling.

35.

“Timur. To what reason do I have for the pleasure of your call?” asked the Russian voice emanating from the handsfree desk phone.

Seated alone in his large office Timur sat sternly focused on the pyramid shaped machine. His mind racing at a million miles an hour as to whether he should have even made this call. Aware that the next thirty seconds could show weakness from his side; he juggled with the idea of telling his boss that he had lost his 2IC and his two most valuable deputies or should he blame Grigory and therefore keep in good with the Bratva leaders.

“Sir, I am not sure if you have heard but we have had a major problem arise in Nova Scotia. The entire Halifax team has been eliminated and I have lost Sergei and two of my men,” he said sweat building on his forehead and running down beside his ears.

“No Timur I have not heard of this. I am putting you on speaker phone. We are all here. So explain,” ordered the boss.

“Taras, I thank,” came Timur’s reply as he was suddenly cut off.

“Timur,” screamed Taras. “You are not to use our names on the airwaves. How many times must we tell you? Even if you think it’s secure, it’s not. The Americans have the technology and can listen to anything.”

“Sir. I’m sorry sir,” mumbled Timur. Sweat of fear cascading down his face. He thought of his friends, from the motherland, who had caught the wraith of Bratva leadership. Now gone. Disappeared. Not a trace.

“Go ahead,” ordered Taras.

Timur explained events, detailing all they had been able to uncover.

“Are you sure of this?” questioned another of the Bratva leaders.

“Yes sir. We sent one of our men from Riverport and he confirmed. Plus, we have been monitoring the local police network.”

“And who is responsible for all this?” asked the same man.

“We do not know, sir. One thing I can say is that when Grigory called, about his men, he stated that Ramus had mentioned the attacks were most likely by Kidon and local police radio has mentioned the name Ross.”

“Kidon, as in Mossad Kidon. Israelis. That is ridiculous,” yelled Taras through the phone.

“I’m sorry sir but that is what Grigory told me.”

The line went quite. The mute button hit at the Russian end.

Timur sat rock still with an endless stream of possibilities flashing through his mind. Would they come back and order he and is men to get to Nova Scotia, find whoever is responsible and kill them. Would they play coy and tell him to only worry about his own work. Then when he was comfortable and unsuspecting they send in a hit squad. Or would they order him back to Russia to face punishment there. The waiting was unbearable. His cell phone vibrated, which he ignored. The room felt like the inside of a freezer. He was shaking in anticipation of what was likely to be his death knell.

“Timur. We have talked about it and we want you to organise a team. Take those you need from Boston and Chicago plus your own men. Bring up the remainder of those at Riverport to offer local intel. We will have a team on the next available flight and they will meet you in Halifax … I want to make one thing perfectly clear … are you listening?”

“Yes sir.”

“This cannot fail. Do whatever you have to do but don’t fail,” he yelled as the line went dead.

Timur collapsed back in his chair.

36.

Wade pulled the car beside the yacht sitting on the hardstand frames. Its mast, fittings, windows and rudder removed the sand blasted timber hull looked like a weather beaten log stranded on the shore. Peelings of paint littered the pocked bitumen ground that would have, in days gone by, served as a boat ramp. A second, smaller vessel sat on a trailer behind the first. A large blue tarp strained against its ropes as it flapped in the wind.

Three small sheds clustered at the waters edge. Fifty metres closer to the bridge a large warehouse style, rusty corrugated, shed hung over the water. Two heavy duty, paint peeling, attic level, timber doors, sat above a larger steel door at entry level. A small frosted glass window, at attic level, could be seen on either end. All windows and doors were covered with security bars strong enough to survive San Quentin. Spanning the rear was a small rotted timber jetty. Centre stage of the jetty was a severely rusted steel door, welded closed.

Having convinced Nirit to remain in the vehicle Wade checked the three small sheds, under the tarp and circled the larger shed, twice. Returning to the vehicle the pair sat in the dark discussing options. The rain was easing but the wind had picked up.

“There must be some way they get into the building,” stated Nirit.

“Agreed. But the bars are all fixed, the rear door is welded shut and the front door lock looks like it hasn’t been opened for years … I can’t imagine they come in from under water so unless they have a tunnel or something I have no idea.”

“A tunnel from one of those little shacks!” suggested Nirit.

“Not really Bratva normal MO but I’ll check again,” replied Wade climbing from the car fighting against the wind and the door.

The first two huts had not seen human occupation for years. The single door, of the third, opened onto a room that had three sides of collapsed thin timber shelves. Empty paint drums, rusty brackets, handles, pins and all manner of deck fittings were scattered across them. Cobwebs added to the array. Wade shined his high density, thin beamed, finger torch across the room and floor. He could see where other footprints had been but they led no where. Frustrated and ready to give up he pushed the door closed and stepped further inside. Behind the door was an aluminium box, the size of a standard size television. He tapped the box and a sound reverberated inside. He grabbed the cover and was about to lift it when through habit he switched the light to infrared. A thin wire glowed like a beacon as it circumnavigated the entire surface. He traced across the wall until he saw the concealed activation switch. A fairly basic but ingenious device. The box had been trip wired to explode if the switch was not deactivated prior. Swapping the wires, he lifted the box.

Behind the box was a set of steel framed stairs that led down at forty five degrees into a five foot high musty cave that had a pungent diesel smell. Large road base stones acted as the floor covering. Stooped and aware of possible further activation devices Wade inched his way forward. Sixty metres further on another set of steel framed stairs rose up. The trap door looked simple enough but Wade checked every possible point. Nothing present he thought of an old Spetsnaz trick of placing the explosive device on the lid of the door and activation was by a float switch. A would be attacker lifts the lid without keeping it level and when the float goes beyond a certain point, out of level, a seal breaks and the circuit is activated. Rubbing his hand lightly underneath the door he felt how the condensation all ran to the centre. A simple concave effect.

Gently sliding the trap door across he slowly entered the large facility. A slab of C4 sitting centre stage of the lid. Keeping himself low to the floor he scanned the room with infrared; nothing. Switching to white light revealed three tables covered in computers. A single chair at each table. Food scrapes scattered around and under the chairs. All the computers had their screens turned off but the hard drives whirred away. Conscious that the screen of a computer would light up the warehouse to outside eyes like a neon sign he lowered them face down and dialled the secure sat phone.

Meshulam answered on the first ring. Wade explained as he flashed his light around the room.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Wade.

Meshulam thought for a moment. “Go back to the second table you showed me. See the hard drive that is flashing a slight orange colour I want you to lift the screen.”

“Won’t that light this place up like a Christmas tree?” asked Wade with his hand on the mentioned screen.

“I don’t believe so but it should activate the other screens.”

Wade picked up the screen and instantly dull slithers of light appeared under all the down faced screens.

“Now find which hard drive is slowly flashing bright orange.”

Wade scanned the room and found it behind a larger terminal on the third table. Watching through the phone video Meshulam continued. “This is the tricky bit. I want you to insert the key in that hard drive and at the same time hit control, alt, delete. The keys must remain pressed.”

“Right,” said Wade. “And how am I suppose to do that? I don’t have three hands.”

“I’m not sure. It’s normally done by two people.”

“What happens if I insert the key then hit the keys?”

“One of the three things. Firstly, nothing happens and you need to start again. Secondly, the system crashes and all the data is instantly wiped. This in turn alerts, wherever the system is controlled from, that their system has been breached and you are back at square one.”

“And the third?”

“That’s a little more drastic. An activation stage is encoded in the hard drive and if the sequence is not exact the whole place explodes.”

“Excellent,” mumbles Wade.

“What about Nirit? Where is she?”

“She’s on something else at the moment. Plus, now that I know what this is I wouldn’t allow her down here anyway.”

Wade placed the phone upright on the desk. He searched until he found a roll of half used duct tape. Wrapped the duct tape around his thigh. Then stuck another section of tape, sticky face up. Further tape held this section rigid. He placed the key on the tape. Ensured it was secure and slid his leg against the hard drive.

“Okay Meshulam, here goes. Anything else I should know before I start?”

“Only that once you start this process the key can not be removed until the upload is completed.”

“Why, what happens?”

“Same scenario as before and more than likely option three.”

Wade blocked the thought as he readied the key at the mouth of the USB opening. Placed his fingers on the three keys and without hesitation pushed his leg and slammed his fingers down. The hard drive started racing. Thirty seconds ticked by when suddenly the thirty inch screen lit up. Wade quickly closed his eye that was looking through the monocle NVG.

“Shit,” he yelled. “I need to get this screen down. Meshulam, what happens if I push it over and break the screen?’’

“No, no, no. Don’t do that. It will cause a misalignment,” he shouted.

Controlling his thoughts Wade moved his right thumb over the ‘delete’ key freeing his fingers. “What about the keyboard? Can I move that?”

“No. You must not move anything. We have no idea how the protocol is established.”

“You are not making this easy, mate.”

Wade stood and pushed the chair out from under his legs. With his shoulders forced back he shook and twisted slowly forcing his long coat down his back. The stretch in his groin was shooting pains up his back. He remembered doing yoga with his wife and how she would always instruct him to breathe and not fight the stretch. Slowing his breath, he kept shaking and twisting. Finally, it dropped to his elbows.

“Wade what are you doing?” asked Meshulam.

“I’m going to try and flick my coat over the screen. If I get there I won’t be able to see anything so I need you to tell me what percentage of the upload, we are at. This is going to be an extremely difficult position for me to hold so I need you to keep talking. Got it?”

“Sure,” replied Meshulam not really grasping what Wade was referring to.

Wade bent at the waist and flicked his back and shoulders. Attempt after attempt were not even close. His back felt jarred. His shoulders ached. The minutes ticked by.

“Twenty percent,” he heard Meshulam reply.

Hooking his foot under the chair he dragged it back in. Standing on the chair he tried again. This time the coat made the screen, sat for a moment and slid off. Again he tried. The coat carried across and slid down the rear of the screen. Darkness enveloped the room. He waited. His muscles locked like steel. The coat remained.

“Forty percent,” came the sound from the phone.

Wade closed his eyes. Pain shot across his shoulders, down his back, up his legs. His neck felt like a spring about to break. His entire body weight was on his two fingers and a thumb. He relaxed his breathing and focused on his aboriginal Dreaming beliefs. The beauty of his homeland appeared in his mind. Stories of the elders made him calm. Visions of hunting with only a spear, watching the birds show the whereabouts of water in the desert, the creatures appearing to talk to one another; slowed his heart rate and relaxed the intensity in his muscles.

“Sixty percent,” he subliminally heard.

He felt like he was in a trance when a noise seemed to appear off in the distance. Focusing it became louder and clearer.

“Wade, Wade, Wade. Can you hear me?” yelled Meshulam.

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

“It’s finished. You can let go.”

Wade opened his eyes as he slid back on the chair. The screen had gone black again. The room was in darkness. He pushed the coat off his head. Sensations in his fingers started to return. His back was as tight as a coil of steel.

“You okay?” asked Meshulam.

“Fine,” he replied slowly standing. “Did you get it all?”

“Yes. We are going through it now. It seems like your Russian friends have some sort of body parts extortion going on. I’ll get back to you ASAP.”

Wade, aware he didn’t want to push his luck, climbed through the trapdoor, reconfigured the explosive detonation, exited the second opening, replaced the box with the crossed wires and returned to the car. The rain had abated. A small wispy sprinkle of water was drifting in the decreasing wind.

He explained the events to Nirit as they drove to the second mentioned Russian location.

The Harbour Authority was an insignificant group of corrugated sheds off to one side. A jetty protruded to the north. A lighthouse sat on the western most point. Two oceanography vessels were tied against the sea wall and a pickup truck was parked behind the last shed. The entry gates were open and hidden behind bushes and the boom gate had corroded in the open position. Obviously security was not important. A sign stated the area was under CCTV but Wade doubted that. He parked down a dirt track that sat adjacent to the entry gates. Killed the lights and confirmed with Nirit she was to remain in the car.

Skirting the sheds, he located the one occupied by the Russians. Unlike the previous warehouse the doors were easily opened and the internal was a typical boating storage facility. Two boats were being repaired and a third had a new paint job that was in the final stages. He checked the offices, around the workshop and in the changing facilities. Everything was incredibly dirty with rubbish abundant but nothing out of the ordinary. Convinced he departed.

“What now?” asked Nirit.

“Time to pay Burrows a visit,” he replied.

37.

The storm had abated to a rain shower. McWaters had ordered his team back on the streets. Not known for leaving the station he decided the string of murders needed his face on the ground.

Strong turned the wheel, of the unmarked police car, bounced over the kerb and entered the main carpark of Phoenix Inc. The sixth carpark they had entered that morning. Beautiful manicured bushes lined either side of the magnificently presented entrance. Terracotta coloured pavers, laid in a tessellated pattern, designated the parking areas. Victorian era lights hung from curved white poles high above the vehicles. A full height, tinted, glassed four storey structure rose like a pixelated upside down wine glass. An armed guard stood beside the air lock, double entry, front entrance. Two huge state of the art security globes, each containing eight cameras scanning every possible direction, strobed as they moved through their cycles.

“Who do we expect to find here boss?” asked Strong.

McWaters ignored the question as he studied the multitude of cars that adorned the carpark. Strong made to enter a car parking bay.

“No, keep going round,” ordered McWaters.

Strong knew better than to ask a second time so he slowly drove through the eighty bay car park. Passing the cars, a second time McWaters pointed, “Stop … there.”

The two men climbed from the vehicle and walked either side of the black Lincoln. Glass littered the rear seats and floor. The dash was shattered.

“Get a forensics team down here now,” he ordered.

Strong dialled his cell phone, barking orders as the gloved McWaters slowly pried the driver’s door open. Leant down and shined his torch under the seat. Using a pen, he scooped a small cut piece of white tape. Flicking a zip topped bag open he dropped it in and sealed it. The two centimetre wide specimen had indistinguishable pale blue letters and numbers written along it.

“What is that?” asked Strong.

“I’m not sure but I think we might find the covering tape of a Dragunov magazine.”

“Dragunov?”

“Yes. Russian sniper rifle.”

“Russian!”

“Probably more likely Bratva.”

“Bratva? What’s that?”

“Russian mafia.”

“Jesus Christ. Are you saying we have Russian mafia running around our streets?” asked Strong suddenly loosing his bravado at the thought of this news.

McWaters ignored the question and stuck his head under the passenger’s seat. Strong stood at the rear of the vehicle fascinated how his boss always seemed to be able to come up with the information.

A white unmarked van and a standard issue black and white police car pulled up behind their vehicle. A stern looking, wispy long haired, middle aged male slowly climbed from the van. Grabbed a bag and approached McWaters.

“What glorious little bag of fun have you got for me today?” he asked.

McWaters didn’t look up. “Good to see you too, Joey.”

“Murder, suicide, drug overdose, suffocation, drug deal gone wrong, sex gamers. What is it?” asked Joe Burns, Halifax chief of forensics, McWaters primary verbal sparring partner and a person who struggled to find the goodness in mankind.

“Just a shot up vehicle and a small strip of tape,” answered McWaters.

Burns slipped on his clear, skin tight gloves and bent down to McWaters at face level. “You better be kidding me Brian. I have a scene, three hundred metres up the road, that needs to be cased and two reports that need to be finished by tomorrow for the start of the Bannister case and I don’t have time to be playing games with a shot up gang bangers car.”

McWaters raised his head and handed across a second strip of the tape. “Know what this is, Sherlock?”

Burns turned the tape around in his hands. Read the writing, twice. “This is not what I think it is, is it?”

“One and the same … Looks like there back again.”

“Same M.O?” questioned Burns.

“Appears so. Spread havoc. Multiple kills. No rhyme or reason to what they’re doing.”

“Weapons?”

“Not sure.”

Burns kept turning the paper in his hand as he stared at the shot up vehicle. McWaters stood and the two men stared in unison.

“I think the one difference is this time they have no hesitation in taking out their own,” said McWaters.

“Own? What do you mean own?”

McWaters pulled out his mobile phone and started scrolling photos across the screen as Burns watched on. The images showed the crime scenes, those killed, the operations day board and reports.

“Fellow Russians.”

Burns took the phone as he read the reports.

“What about a third party?” asked Burns.

“Like?”

“I don’t know. But even the Russians are not likely to kill a dozen or more of their own without giving some idea what their intentions are.”

“True,” mumbled McWaters, scratching his head. “We have this one guy running around that we still can’t get a handle on but I struggle to believe he could do all this alone, or even with the help of a woman, he has been spotted with.”

Strong not understanding this coded form of communication and aware that interrupting his boss, was not good practice; waited until the two men had finished.

“So how many are we up to now?” questioned Burns.

“Fifteen.”

“Fifteen deaths?”

“Yep and some bare handed.”

“Christ,” said Burns backing away from the car. “What about CSIS?”

“I’m guessing not far away and that’s why we need to get a handle on this ASAP,” replied McWaters.

“Sir,” asked Strong.

McWaters and Burns turned in unison.

“Why would CSIS become involved? I thought they are only interested in surveillance and national security and spying?”

McWaters walked around the car with Burns and Strong following.

“Frank does anything seem out of place to you?” asked McWaters.

Strong followed his boss’s eyes trying to see something but the vehicle seemed no different to any other vehicle except the rear window was broken and the dashboard shattered. He bent down and checked the undercarriage. Ran his hands across the panels. Studied the dash and lifted the floor mats. McWaters and Burns stood watching. Strong had circled the vehicle twice when he replied, “I’m sorry boss. Nothing.” Dropping his head expecting to be admonished for incompetence or missing the obvious.

“Exactly. There is nothing out of the ordinary. A shattered rear window but that could be a stone from a lawnmower. The dash is obviously a bullet, probably 9mm, but I’m sure if it were extracted it would be untraceable. The point is there is nothing for us to go on other than we have fifteen deaths. It’s like we’re up against a ghost, or something, and if we don’t get some results CSIS will be all over this.” He paused. “And we know they’ll want to be involved because of the Russians and then they will become aware of the Bratva.”

McWaters turned and looked at the building. “And why here? Why dump this vehicle, in this carpark, in plain view for everybody to see? … Either somebody’s trying to play us or we are missing one very obvious sign.”

The three men stood in silence until McWaters continued, “Joe, could you run for prints? Hopefully there might be a match against one of the forensics reports.”

38.

Wade and Nirit drove out to the holiday home. The rain lessened the further they got from Halifax. The sun tried fruitlessly to pierce the clouds. The ground was drenched. Climbing the steep hill, they passed the area where the limousine had crashed through the trees. Snow had turned to slush. Birds and creatures came from their hiding spots to search for food. Nirit watched the beauty of water trickling down the snow covered branches of a pine tree as the forest got denser. Water flowing along the edge of the road was growing in intensity the higher they rose in altitude. Nirit was enjoying the solitude.

Wade was not expecting anybody to be present at the holiday home but he needed to start his search; somewhere. The plain, ordinary cabin was deserted. No vehicles and no indication anybody had been there in the last twenty four hours. They walked around and checked inside and out.

“Where to now?” asked Nirit with her hand favouring her lower ribcage.

“Stacey mentioned, when I needed to find somewhere for them to hide, her Nans, which I assume would be her grandmother and that she was at a place called Duncans.”

Nirit dialled into the secure Mossad site and typed in the information. Ten seconds passed when Duncans Cove, nineteen kilometres south of Halifax, flashed on the screen.

“If this is the place then we need to head back into Halifax and then south,” she said watching the screen as a two storey, multi sectional, luxurious house appeared nestled amongst the trees and stretched along the foreshore. A fifty four foot cruiser was moored alongside a four berth pontoon. “Definitely more like where millionaires would go than this,” said Nirit pointing at the screen as she looked across to the cabin.

The drive back to Halifax was uneventful. They discussed everything from the Burrows to Russians, Wade’s loss of memory to their future together. They passed through the southern outskirts of the city, across the rolling hills until the ocean appeared directly ahead. The road dipped and rose following the contours of the coastline. Wade was engrossed in Nirit’s idea of their future and didn’t see the police cruiser until the lights and siren suddenly appeared behind them. Instinctively Wade accelerated. The Camry was no match for the power of the police car and the officer easily overtook and cut off the smaller, slower car. The police vehicle slowed and stopped. Door swung open. Wade hit the accelerator as the four cylinder car smashed the door snapping it off its hinges and caving in the front fender of the Camry. The stunned constable dived across the seat. Upon recovering from the initial shock, he restarted and roared away.

Wade had gained enough of an advantage to be over the next rise and out of view as the police officer radioed in.

“We need to dump this vehicle and quick,” shouted Wade. “Grab the bags.”

He reefed the steering wheel hard to the left as the small vehicle struggled to keep traction. The rear wheels bounced and shuttered as they crashed off the road and through the large pine trees. The wet, narrow fire track had not been used since the last summer and Wade knew the police constable would see the rubber on the road and the wheel divots through the trees. The track twisted and turned as the dirt instantly became mud under the wheels of their car. Wade bounced the rear end from sapling to sapling. They had covered four hundred metres when a red shingle, ‘A’ framed, hut appeared. The garage sized building sat adjacent a rickety pole and twine constructed platform that projected six metres out over the ocean. A boat ramp, made of logs, rose out of the water directly below the platform and a hand made gantry swung over the platform’s edge. A pale blue, single operator, fishing boat was tied against the furthest platform pole.

Wade locked the brakes and the vehicle skidded to a halt perched at the top of the ramp. Nirit forced herself from the vehicle dragging the two black bags. Wade opened his door. Grabbed a stick. Using the butt of his pistol smashed the two front windows. Broke the stick to the required length and forced it between the accelerator pedal and the seat. The engine revved. Wade pulled his foot from the brake, slammed the gear shift into gear and dived out the door. Springing to his feet he watched the small vehicle bounce and swerve down the broken and battered, disjointed, log ramp crashing into the water as it rolled and sank.

A police siren could be heard tracking its way slowly down the fire track. Wade grabbed the bags and they raced for the hut. With a well positioned kick, against the lock, the door sprung open. Dropping the bags, he reached for the extra magazines, and silencer, as he shoved the pistol into his rear waistband. A bundle of zip ties went into his cargo pants and he slipped the folded up balaclava over his head. Re-zipping the bags he looked across at Nirit screwing her face in agony. With a bag slung over each shoulder he reached under her legs, across her back and lifted her.

“What are you doing?” she asked trying to control her short breaths.

“Quiet,” he ordered.

He raced from the hut, across the platform and down the rickety gang plank. The timbers creaking and moaning at the first weight they had endured for months. The siren died as the sound of a vehicle slowly careening up against a tree, could be heard off in the distance.

Nirit forced her chest against Wade, trying to offset the pain, as he slammed his foot into the small galley door of the fishing boat. Racing through he lowered her on to the unmade bed and dropped the bags. Quickly scouted around and found the ignition key. Checked the fuel and turned over the engine. Convinced all okay he killed the engine.

“I want you to lay there. No heroics. Got it?” he ordered not waiting for a reply. Passing through the door he turned and said, “I should only be about ten minutes. Need to disable this cop.”

Nirit tried to nod, and smile, but she realised her injury was far worse than she had been portraying. She curled up as she heard his footfalls leave the boat and cross the platform.

Wade raced for the trees circling the hut. Ten steps into the forest and he was gobbled up in dense vegetation. Moving like a jungle cat that had spent its life hunting in these difficult terrains he turned, twisted, ducked, leapt until he arrived at the police vehicle lying on its side. The constable was leaning against a tree looking back along the track; waiting.

Wade, moving on all fours, slowly crept up behind the unsuspecting policeman. Birds and forest animals blanketing any noise he made. With the balaclava covering his face Wade’s right hand flew across the man’s chin as his right knee crumbled the man’s legs. The policeman had hardly been able to blink as he hit the ground. Wade slammed a punch into his solar plexus. The man doubled over. Wade flipped his body and zip tied his wrists and ankles and then zip tied them together. Tearing open the man’s shirt he ripped off a section and used as a gag. Propping him against a tree he disappeared into the trees.

Nirit had her shirt off and was trying to retie her bandage as Wade appeared at the door. Like a ballerina, albeit an injured ballerina, she spun grabbing for her pistol. Wade always alert to unsuspecting situations leapt across and grabbed her from behind as she turned.

“Hey,” he whispered in her ear as his hand clamped over the pistol. “It’s alright.”

Realising she dropped her hand and turned in his arms. Her breathing becoming shorter and shorter.

“I’m … I’m … I’m sorry,” she slowly voiced. “Something’s wrong. I can’t breathe properly.”

“It’s alright. I’ll get you out of here,” he said lowering her on to the bed and covering her shaking body with two thick blankets.

Starting the engine, he raced on deck and released the two mooring lines. Returning he spun the wheel and slammed the throttle fully open. The chunky, heavy vessel’s engine groaned against the weight. Slowly momentum increased as the sturdy little vessel chopped through the swell.

Wade grabbed for the unsecure sat phone. Quoting the restricted protocol access codes, the line opened.

“Wade Ross for Meshulam Hammerstein or Ben Harel, urgent.”

Instantly the connection could be heard. Wade once again fascinated at the efficiency of Mossad and all those that work within the organisation.

“Hi Wade,” said Harel.

“Ben I need an evac for Nirit ASAP. I’m currently heading north north west from Duncans Cove, twelve hundred metres from the coast.”

At the mention of evac Harel had initiated a protocol that instantly put all Mossad forces, within the noted operation area, to become involved and advise on their current status.

“Co-ordinates?” asked Harel.

Wade gave the coordinates with his current boat speed. Harel watched as symbols, indicating available Mossad personnel, appeared across his screens. Mossad is set up in such a way that anybody who can advise or offer instant help is able to access a conversation they are not part of.

“Her symptoms Wade,” asked a doctor.

Wade explained.

“Keep her warm. The team will be ready by the time she gets here,” said the female doctor in her strong Israeli accent.

“Wade. On route. Chopper bound. Should be above you in eleven mike,” said a helicopter pilot. “If you could turn into the wind we will drop a cradle. Any chance you could jettison anything loose as I would like to get down pretty close?”

“Copy that, will do,” said Wade spinning the wheel, turning into the wind, slowing the throttle and engaging autopilot.

Racing on to the deck he started throwing fishing baskets, nets, tubs, lines, safety equipment all over board. He dropped the rear outrigger to the deck and tied it down. Any swinging lines were cut free. Sound of a high speed helicopter could be heard off in the distance. The wind was gentle but the swell was ever increasing. The boat worked hard as it ploughed through the rising and falling water.

Wade dived below. Wrapped a blanket around the now semi conscious Nirit, lifted her in his arms and started up the stairs. The boat had been rising up a wave as it suddenly lurched forward and crashed down the other side. Wade stumbled, holding Nirit tighter as his head and upper arm smashed into the galley access cover. Blood slowly started to trickle down his eye and cheek from the gash above his eye. He felt the blood running down his arm from the cut across his shoulder. Determined not to cause or injure Nirit anymore than necessary he stood watching as the cradle lowered from the hovering helicopter. Sea spray was like thousands of stinging needles. He fought to keep his eyes open and hold Nirit. A blanket covering her face.

He felt the boat start to rise again as the cradle crashed on to the deck. Lowering Nirit he raced against the swell. Wrapped the blanket tighter, clicked the harnesses together. Checked all the hanging ropes were free and raised his hand signalling to go. The cradle rose like a bullet as the boat crested the wave and the pilot accelerate away from the dangerous floating vessel. He stood watching as the fast action rappelling line zipped the cradle up and into the cabin. The door slammed shut and the jet powered helicopter turned and raced towards a hospital.

A person very strict with his military standard operating procedures and who would have normally starting focusing on the mission at hand, Wade broke his code as he stood and watched the helicopter disappear into the clouds.

He felt a tinge of pain at the thought of loosing another person he was close to. He remembered the promise he made his wife that he would always protect her. Only to find, that while he was gone, they tracked her down in a secure Mossad protection facility and killed her, his unborn child and one of his best friends. The pain ate at him like a pool of piranhas. A thought always in the back of his mind and now he was falling for Nirit only to find once again he was not there to protect her.

A wave crashed against the side of the boat and the spray brought him back from his thoughts. Back at the helm he scrounged around until he found a first aid kit. Wrapped a bandage around his head and across his forehead. Ripped off his shirt to expose the bicep laceration. The open wound had peeled back like slicing the skin of a plum. Blood flowed freely. Unable to find something suitable to stem the flowed he flexed his muscle and wrapped duct tape around and around. The grey, non flexible, strong binding material bound his arm tight and finally stopped the blood but also meant he was unable to effectively use the arm. He checked his bearings, turned off the autopilot, changed direction to the east and headed for Nan Burrows house.

39.

“What have you got for me?” ordered McWaters leaning back in his chair pushing his knees against the desk trying to ease the arthritis discomfort as he watched the blinking light of his handsfree desk phone.

“Unfortunately not much Chief,” replied Strong. “Smithson and Baker were the first on the scene and when they got here Roberts was zip tied, gagged, his car on its side and the driver’s door gone. We questioned Roberts and he said it all happened so fast. All he can remember was somebody wearing what he thought was a balaclava.”

“What about the car he was chasing?” asked McWaters.

“No sign of it at the moment. There are some tracks that lead to the old Barnaby shack and toward the log ramp but unless it was either ditched in the ocean or is still hidden somewhere around; we have no idea.” Pausing he slowly continued. “There is the possibility it’s not even the right place.”

McWaters scratched his head. Looked over his notes and listened to the sounds of birds coming from Strong’s phone. Seconds ticked by. McWaters rubbed his knees and wrists.

“Chief are you there?” asked Strong.

“Yeah,” mumbled McWaters. “I’m here.”

“We’ll keep searching and I’ll widen the search area,” advised Strong.

“Don’t waste your time. He was there and now he’s gone. He has sent us a message that he is not intending to hurt any of us. If you haven’t found the car yet, then you’re probably right it’s on the bottom of the ocean. He more than likely either stole a boat that was moored there or has hiked through the forest.”

“I don’t think he came through the forest boss. There must be forty uniforms out here. No way he would get past them.”

“Seems to me forty uniforms would be the least of his worries … what I don’t understand is why Duncans Cove? What or who is he looking for? Duncans is like a geriatric retirement village.”

“What do you want us to do?” asked Strong.

McWaters glared at his blank desktop computer screen as if he was waiting for some divine intervention or mystical answer to appear. The frustration of the case starting to take a toll on his lack of sleep, unhealthy eating habits and determination not to fail.

His eyes felt like they were covered in sand. A migraine pulsated from one side of his head to the other and back again. Arthritis bit in like thousands of small stinging wasps. He watched his left hand start to shake. Mildly at first. He knew he needed to get the tablets into himself or the shaking would become uncontrollable. The small pink tablet looked so insignificant against the remaining twelve multi-coloured and multi sized objects that were lined up like soldiers across his desk.

“Chief?” hesitantly asked Strong.

The large mouthful of water chased the small object down his throat as he watched and waited. The effects were instant and the shaking started to subside. McWaters knew the instant pain and spasm relief was becoming a short term solution. Doctors had advised he would need to consider palliative care in the very near future. The tablets would become non effective and the pain unbearable. He tried desperately to shake the thought from his head.

“I want one patrol car in Ketch Harbour and one in Portuguese Cove and maybe one at the Ketch Harbour Road and lighthouse turnoff. Tell them they are to report in every thirty minutes. One man behind the wheel and one standing outside watching. Got it?”

“Yes Chief.”

“And I want you and the rest of the team back here ASAP. Maybe check out the old refinery in case somebody decided to make a return visit.”

The line went dead as McWaters hit the internal dial numbers. The phone was just about to dial out when a gruff voice answered.

“What?”

“Lovely to talk to you too Joey,” answered McWaters.

The forensics chief lessened his bravado. “I’m guessing you are calling about the prints?”

“Yep and anything else you might have found?”

“Well I hate to be the bearer of bad news but it was as clean as a surgical theatre. Somebody who knew what they were doing had given it the once over. Nothing I can help you with other than the slug is Polish.”

“Polish? You’re sure?”

“Well as sure as forensics can be. Why?”

“Do you know who use Polish slugs?” asked McWaters.

“Not really. Maybe half the world. Seriously Brian how could knowing that help?”

“I’m not sure but can you run a test for me on the slugs rifling? I will send some images I want you to compare against.”

“No problem,” replied the bewildered scientist, disconnecting the call.

McWaters dialled an international number as he sat and listened to the dialling code. The man answered yawning.

“CIA Barry Goodyear. How can I help?”

“Hi Barry it’s Brian McWaters.”

“Brian McWaters, well, well. It’s not my birthday and Christmas is a fair way off so what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

“Forensics and Bratva.”

Goodyear sat back in his seat at the mention of these two words together knowing full well the CIA listening devices would have kicked in.

“What about forensics and Bratva?” asked Goodyear.

McWaters went on to explain the situation hoping the CIA could advise on current Bratva dealings in Canada and the forensics on Polish slugs. Goodyear advised he needed twenty four hours and he would get back to him as he watched multiple security warnings flash across his screen. His divisional boss and 2IC approached as Goodyear lowered the telephone receiver.

40.

Keeping the trawler as close as possible to the mainland Wade slowly navigated northwards along the coast. Waves rose and crashed no more than ten metres to his left. The vessel fought against the swell that continually tried to forced the hull up against the face of the wave and at which time it could then slam it into the rocks. GPS coordinates pinged indicating the house, that Nirit had found, was five hundred metres northwest of his current location.

Scanning through the small plexiglass window Wade searched for a suitable landing point. Rocks that had previously been a reef and were either below or at water level now rose vertically as a cliff face. The island he had been watching, two hundred metres off to his right, suddenly closed in. With vertical rock faces to both sides and the water smashing and churning like a washing machine, Wade slammed the throttle hoping the tough little boat would be able to handle any side collisions as it raced through the forty metre wide opening. Waves crashed from both sides. The bow nosed dived. Two metres of water slammed over the deck and cabin. The gantry tensed against the mooring line. With the wind shield wipers flat out Wade strained to get vision. Water raced through the kicked in door and into the galley. The boat rose and the gantry reefed the mooring stay from the gunnel. A massive steel arm swung around gaining speed as it continued its revolution. Wade dived into the one metre deep galley water as the arm sliced the cabin roof like an islander looping the top off a coconut. The cabin, door, window and secondary mounted gantry disappeared overboard. Force of the contact snapped the gantry at its base and the huge steel structure flew across the cabin. All the ropes and wires tied to the gantry whipped and snapped as they followed. Two wire stays, fixed either side at the stern, that supported the weight as the fishing nets were dragged in, could not resist the force of the main structure being catapulted overboard and followed. Metal plates fixed along the rear running board, that supported the stays, sheared away. Rear of the boat opened like a can of sardines.

Wade knew he had only seconds before the steel framed structure would lisp and sink. Strapping the larger of the two bags across his back he felt the boat start to dive again. Racing up the stairs, three at a time, he lunged on to the deck as the black wall of water started to rise again. On his feet he saw in his peripheral an orange mooring buoy. In one smooth motion he slid his knife from the scabbard, slit the tie rope, leaving two metres of line, replaced the knife, grabbed the buoy and dived overboard.

The wave crashed over the boat and the shear volume of water, added to the destroyed hull, caused the vessel to dive like a rock to the bottom. Bursting through the surface Wade fought to get his bearings. He tied the rope around his waist and let the current carry him. With water splashing, turning and churning from every direction he forced with his legs to climb above the water line. Weight of the weapons and ammunition, in the waterproof pack, was rapidly sapping his energy. Again forced under water he kicked and scrambled for the surface. Breaking through he saw he had arrived at the other end of the short, narrow waterway. A small black sand beach appeared one hundred metres off to his left.

The washing machine effect had stopped and the waves had become more gentle. Wade breaststroked until he felt the sand with his hands. Dragging himself out of the freezing water he dropped the pack and collapsed, face first, on the beach.

A young teenager, fishing on the nearby rocks, had watched the entire sequence of events. When the black clad figure carrying a huge pack on his back and dragging an orange buoy collapsed on the beach he dropped his rod and raced across the sand.

“Hey mister,” said the teenager pushing Wade’s shoulder with his boot and quickly stepping back.

“Mister, you all right?” he asked this time jabbing his boot against Wade’s bicep.

Like a jungle cat suddenly woken Wade sprung on to his feet and slid the knife from its holder. Adopting the attack stance, he eyed the boy.

The young teenager lay spread eagled on the sand having collapsed back with fright. He watched the razor sharp knife Wade held back along his forearm.

“I’m … I’m … I’m sorry mister. I … I … I thought you might need help,” he stammered petrified at the sight standing above him.

Wade replaced the knife and bent down to help the boy. “No problem. I just wasn’t expecting anybody. Here let me help you up.”

Getting to his feet the teenager backed away. “Are you okay? I saw what happened with the trawler and then you appeared.”

“Hey mister,” said the boy stepping closer. “You have blood on your arm.”

“Yeah, better get that looked at. Thanks,” said Wade ignoring the sight and looking toward the gap in the cliff face.

“I have a car up on the other side of the lighthouse. Would you like a ride somewhere?”

“Thanks but I’ll be fine.”

“Where will you go? It’s miles to the closest town.”

“Don’t worry,” said Wade turning back to the boy. “I have friends who live around here. I’ll go see them. But thanks for the offer, appreciate that. Good luck fishing.”

Wade felt the cold from the wet clothes start to eat into his bones. He knew he needed to warm up as soon as possible. Untying the rope and dropping the buoy he hooked his good arm under the side of the pack and started running up the sand.

He could feel the water in his boots, the sand in his shirt and the straps of the pack digging in to his shoulders. Unrestrained weapons bounced around in the pack, hitting against his spine, as he got in to the rhythm of the run. One hundred and eighty, man made, dirt track, steps appeared. He started the climb as he fought the cold that was sapping his energy. Oblivious to his surroundings his mind went back to his military training days.

Wade had finished his initial employment training and was now a recognised Australian SAS (Special Air Service) trooper. Assigned to his Sabre squadron the Commanding Officer had decided the squadron should undertake a survival exercise. They were issued with a weighted backpack, that contained nothing useable, only bags of sand (that were to remain intact), a knife, a water bottle, a bayonetted rifle, that the bolt had been removed and no food. After being dropped one hundred and twenty kilometres from the destination point, and divided into pairs, they were given ten days to cross the harsh, barren Australian desert and the rugged Pilbara mountain range. Wade remembered how he and his partner Kiwi had decided that the best way to complete the task was to cover as much distance as possible as early as possible while they still had the strength.

At the end of day four and having covered ninety kilometres they arrived at the mountains. Their diet of berries, slugs and small desert fruits had come to the point of not sustaining them any longer. Daytime blistering heat gave way to the early evening bitter cold. With their thick army coats wrapped around them and the collars up turned they forged up the sharp rock encrusted ranges. Wade remembered how they took turns leading with the person following transfixed to the steps of the one ahead. The mind played tricks as the lack of sugar to the brain made them see and hear things that they would normally know are not really there.

Each step was like lifting a lead weight over a log. Faces and hands had been burnt dry from the wind and sun. Cracked lips stung in the cold air. Make shift bush hats helped with the suns rays but didn’t help the loss of body hydration. Weight of the packs forced the two men to stoop forward. Rifles, that were completely useless, did nothing more than weigh down their arms. The night became a blur. They stopped and started at regular intervals trying to focus on the stars and ensure they were still on the correct bearing.

0400 and the worst of the night had arrived. Time of day that soldiers feel the world stops. One hour before sunrise and definitely the coldest time of the night. Time when people are in their deepest sleep and when those deprived of sleep make the most mistakes. Kiwi was leading when his foot slipped on a rock outcrop. Falling backwards he slammed into Wade. The pair tumbled ten metres down the steep incline and smashed against the cliff face. Their packs took the brunt of the force but the fall had cut their hands, arms and legs.

Ripped and torn clothing they looked toward each other.

“You okay?” asked Wade.

“Yeah … think so,” mumbled Kiwi. “Shoulders a bit iffy,” he said as he lowered his weight on his left arm. Instantly the arm crumbled and he fell face first.

“Shit mate. You sure you’re okay?” said Wade lumbering against the weight of his pack and staggering to his feet.

Kiwi lay prone. No movement. No sound. Wade dropped his rifle and pack. Reached under Kiwi’s ribcage and released the clips to his pack. Removing the pack and rifle he slowly turned his mate. Even in the dull moonlight the dislocation was evident and the large cut was bleeding prolifically. His shirt was caked in crimson and sand. Wade quickly pulled off the large army jacket. Using his razor sharp knife Wade slit Kiwi’s shirt into fragments. Two long strips he used as a bracing bandage, over the protruding bones and across his back. Pulling the knots tight Kiwi sprung awake and screamed against the pain. Using all his strength and weight Wade forced his buddy back against the rock.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. Hang in there,” said Wade.

Eyes wide and stunned like a rabbit caught in the car headlights Kiwi stared at his mate.

“You’ve pulled your shoulder from its socket. You need to let me tighten this again and then I can apply field bandages,” said Wade forcing himself into Kiwi’s back.

The intense pain had not abated and Kiwi had not responded but Wade felt his breathing slow.

“Okay on three,” said Wade. “One, two,” and with that he reefed the bandage tight snapping the joint back into alignment and slamming his weight against his friend.

Kiwi screamed, bucking his torso and head, and then collapsed into unconsciousness again.

Wade quickly applied the two field dressings and bandaged in every direction possible with the two large compound bandages and the two small triangular bandages. Replacing the army jacket he made his friend as comfortable and warm as possible and waited.

The first rays of sun light could be seen off in the distance as Kiwi stirred and opened his eyes. The two highly trained special forces soldiers discussed whether they should call in an evac helicopter to get Kiwi to hospital. Thirty minutes later and after much too and fro they agree they would continue and Wade would carry the weight.

With a rifle tied to each pack and the packs crossed over his back and front they continued. During the course of the following days Wade was able to track and kill game, find water and use his aboriginal hunting and foraging skills to locate various medicinal plants to help ease the pain and aid in the healing of the wound.

Early morning, day seven, they arrived at the designated collection point. Kiwi was instantly evacuated off to the base hospital while Wade collapsed and contemplated the exhaustion of carrying the added weight across the mountains. A company commander approached.

“Well done Ross. That was a super effort, to carry that extra weight, that distance but more so the fact you did it to help ensure a fellow trooper made it out. That’s what being part of the regiment is all about. Keep it up.”

The words rang in his ears as the steps disappeared and the rolling hills and pine forest engulfed him. His inbuilt GPS told him he was one hundred metres from the house when suddenly multiple shotgun shots echoed through the forest. Wade dove for the forest floor, dropping the bag and rolling behind a large, rotting tree trunk. Multiple shots rang out again. Thirty seconds passed and then again.

Waiting two minutes he heard voices off to the south west. A group of three men and two women. Silencer fixed to his pistol, and the extra magazine, he circled around only to find the group were sport shooters hunting duck, over a lake. He watched for another few minutes. Convinced they presented no threat he turned and headed back for the house.

The brisk walk and climb, from the beach, had warmed him as the house came into view.

41.

Wade brought the mono scope, high density, binoculars in to view. The large six hundred square metre building sat atop a rocky outcrop with uninterrupted views of the Atlantic. Tall pine trees obstructed any onlookers from the land. Six, two and three storey, interlinked, ultra modern, architecturally designed cubes formed the basis of the eight bedroom mansion. A Bell Relentless sat idle on the rooftop helicopter pad. A man and woman, dressed in waiting staff uniforms were loading boxes from the house to the chopper.

A further three waiting staff females were dragging luggage from the house across the pool deck area, down the long winding garden path, on to the pontoon and stacking them beside the large cruiser. With a deck hand loading aboard.

Scanning for security Wade saw the glint of a sniper rifle, off in the trees, to the north, behind the furthest shed. Focusing his scan on the forest; he discovered two more. One crawling along the edge of the trees and the other positioned to the south. Whoever they were, Wade knew they had strategically located themselves to have the building surrounded from the land side. He watched until he was certain the snipers were settled. He memorised the terrain both above the house and the route to each man.

Continuing his reconnaissance, he scanned from room to room. He saw the lavish interior, the minimalistic architecture, the highly polished concrete floor that gleamed like a mirror and five metre full height glass they covered the entire front of the building. Wade tried not to think of the idiocrasy of so much glass, in such a cold climate, and facing the harshness of the wild Atlantic. ‘Some people just have too much money’ he thought.

Arriving at the last bedroom, on the top floor, he saw Burrows and his wife. Claire was seated on the edge of the bed crying. John limped around the room with a mobile phone to his ear. Stacey raced in to the room and wrapped her arms around her mother. Wade continued to scan the remainder of the building as he kept one eye on the Burrows.

The wind started to increase and the temperature dropped. Wade knew his time was running out and he needed to find warmth. He watched as the deck hand closed up the cruiser, checked the mooring ropes were secure and started along the pontoon.

Wade tossed the bag over his shoulder, on to his back, and bee lined for the boat. The trees stopped sixty metres from the pontoon. A manicured lawn separated the trees and the start of the immaculately presented walkway. A very easy shot for a sniper and judging by the quality of the sniper rifle he had seen Wade was not interested in that gamble.

Keeping ten metres back into the trees he skirted the lawn. Slipping down the shoreline rocks, that separated the forest from the ocean, he once again entered the freezing waters. The numbness to his face and fingers was instant. His arm bandage came loose. Waves tried to smash him against the rocks. Each wave felt bigger and stronger. His strength was wanning. He fought desperately to stay conscious. Taking a breath and ducking under each wave he used his feet to push back against the force of the water. As the wave crumbled and broke he would push off the rocks and breaststroke until the next wave. The relentless pummelling was starting to have an effect. His knees and elbows felt like jelly. He was loosing his grip on his bag when suddenly the pontoon appeared above him. Using the cover of the deck he pulled himself across the swell and beside the boat. A hanging fender rope served as a means to tie off the bag. Circling the hull, he dragged himself across the running board and fell on to the deck. His bicep screaming in pain. Body shaking uncontrollably. Blood, once again, flowing down his arm. Fingers wouldn’t move. Jaw locked open. Not giving himself time to recover his breath he crawled across the deck. Pried the rear door and slid inside. Bee lined for the bathroom. He quickly removed his clothes, turned the shower to hot and climbed in. The hot water was soothing as he let it cascade over his head and injured arm. He focused on controlling his breath and body shakes. Closed his eyes and slid down the wall. The warmth was intoxicating and refreshed his mind.

Something felt wrong about the whole Burrows affair but no matter how much information he was able to gather and no matter how hard he analysed the facts he still seemed to be getting no closer.

The room was like a sauna when he finally exited from the shower cubicle. Drying himself he covered the small port hole window. Activated the small vanity light and then rifled through the suitcases. Found black jeans, flannel shirt and a military standard black tactical cold weather jacket.

Applying a bandage, he found in the vanity cupboard, he dressed. Now warm, he dropped down onto his front, slid through the door, retrieved his bag and returned. Stuffed the cloth wrapped Glock 19 in his rear waistband, two magazines and the silencer into the small backpack along with two stun grenades, C4 explosive, a H&K MP7a1, two additional magazines, NVG and a sheathed Ka-Bar knife.

Back on deck he continued to scan the house and trees until darkness engulfed the surroundings. Nobody had arrived or left the house and the number of snipers had increased to five. He grabbed the DTA Stealth Recon Scout A1 scoped, suppressed rifle. Checked a round was chambered and the seven round magazine was full. Donned his black balaclava and all-weather gloves. Screwed the silencer to the Glock. Slid off the deck and slowly inched his way along the pontoon. Using darkness as his ally he moved, snake like, across the expansive front yard. Circled in front of the large retaining wall, that the main house sat upon, and came to the furthest shed. Inching along the rear wall the NVG’s showed the closest sniper had burrowed himself into a runoff gulley. Leading with the rifle against his shoulder he crept along the down wind side of the trees. Fifteen metres from his prey he slid the mono goggle on to his forehead. Slowly slung the rifle behind his back and aimed the Glock. Waiting he listened for the surf. A single shot entered the side of the sniper’s skull. A dull thud emanated but was unable to be heard over the crash of the surf against the rocks. Crawling across he checked for identification. Russian.

Wade immediately knew the Russians were after Burrows but why snipers and why five? Time was running out and his luck was eventually going to go against him. Slowly and silently he slid the sniper’s rifle bolt back and dropped sand into the firing chamber.

Skirting higher into the trees he turned back to the house. Using tree stumps and clean ground he avoided any broken branches or forest floor cover. He tried desperately to hold the pistol in his left hand but his arm had lost its strength. Leading with the pistol he came up behind the second assailant. Twenty metres and about to fire he suddenly saw there were two within two metres of each other. Replacing the pistol, in his pack, he removed the knife. Unsheathed it and moved forward. Two metres from the first he picked up a small stone and lobbed it in front of them both. Both men instantly raised their heads. The first didn’t see or hear a thing as a hand went across his mouth and the razor sharp blade slit his throat. Blood gurgled as Wade forced the man’s head down to restrict the sound of air gasps and kept his vice like grip as the man tried to move. With the life gone and blood cascading down the attacker’s shirt, Wade lowered the body, turned and threw the knife into the side of the third man’s neck. The blade pierced his neck, throat and voice box. The dying man tried to fathom what had happened as shock, blood loss and lack of oxygen overcame his computational functions. His face collapsed into the dam of leaves he had built to hide himself. Wade destroyed both of the weapons with sand, retrieved his knife, replaced his NVG and continued his search.

The remaining two men were huddled together at the south end of the property. Hiding behind a fallen tree stump, one was dragging on his cigarette as the other was scrolling his mobile phone.

Wade again circled and came in downwind of their position. His arm had now got to the point he couldn’t even lift it. Swinging along like a gorilla arm he came up behind the first. Raised the silenced pistol and headshot the phone scrolling attacker who was lying behind the rifle. Wade had not expected the second to move so quickly as the seated man’s foot swung through the air and connected with his limp arm. The shock was intense and flung him back; slamming him into a tree. Falling to his knees and dropping his weapon. The large bulky Russian, defied his size and agility as he jumped to his feet. Wade tried to clear his head. A fist smashed into the side of his jaw and the force sent him reeling back against the tree again. The Russian then made the mistake of trying to grab Wade by the upper arms. Using all the strength he could muster Wade slammed his right hand up and into the Russian’s nose, killing him instantly.

Collapsing back against the tree he struggled to get his breath. He could feel the blood trickling down his arm and on to his hand. Removing his jacket and shirt he cut off the bandage. The large cut was bleeding freely. Wade, used his knife, cut the Russian’s shirt into strips and bound them across the wound. He knew it would only be temporary until the next time he had to flex his bicep.

With his hands, arms, face, and chest caked in blood and mud he redressed. Searched the bodies, found the cheap, throw away mobile phones that the Russians used to communicate. He dropped three of the phones into a pool of water. Checked the fourth was on silent and pocketed it.

Unsure of security he skirted behind the pool filtration room and found the workers access to the kitchen. The commercial size kitchen had a two metre wide island bench running the full length. Polished stainless steel pots and pans hung precariously above the twin eight burner gas cooktop. Food was bubbling and steaming. Meals sat prepared. Seven plates had been laid across the prep counter and were half finished. Opened wine bottles stood like soldiers; waiting. The large dishwasher sat open with the steam still drifting out. Whoever had been in the kitchen had only left in the last few minutes. Voices could be heard approaching.

Off to his left, three metres back, was a partially opened door. He darted in as two male chefs, the deck hand and three female waiting staff scampered into the kitchen all talking and nobody aware of what anybody else was saying.

“We need all this in the dining room in the next three minutes,” yelled the older of the two chefs in accented Russian. The four workers grabbed something and headed for the further most door. “Come on Billy we need to finish plating,” said the same chef as the two cooks turned to their workplace.

Wade had entered a storage room that had no windows and only the one door. It was five metres to the rear door he had entered and he would need to pass behind the chefs. He watched as the waiting staff returned and departed again. The chefs, with their backs to the door, Wade crept out. Two steps out Billy turned.

“Hey. Who are you?” he yelled.

Not wanting to hurt civilians, who he felt had no part in what was happening, Wade charged for the door. The head chef spun, lightning fast, and hurled the razor sharp boning knife. Wade instinctively dived as the knife skimmed millimetres above his head. Sliding on the glass like vinyl floor he saw in his peripheral as the same chef reached for a paring knife. His proficiency with knives was evident by the speed the weapon left his hand and was rocketing across the room. Unable to control his slide Wade flipped sideways as the knife sliced through the edge of his back pack. A sharp sting told him the knife had penetrated the rear canvas and had cut into his left shoulder blade.

The two silenced rounds, that left his Glock, found their mark as both men fell back on to the searing hotplates. An intoxicating smell of burning flesh instantly started to fill the kitchen. Sitting on the floor Wade was sliding the back pack down his left arm as a silenced .22 calibre round ricocheted six inches above his head. Rolling across the floor, with the pack in his left hand, he scrambled to the cover of the bain marie. A second shot shattered the glass that rained down on him. A third tore straight through the thin stainless steel missing his ear by mere millimetres. The following ricocheted off the floor a metre beyond his boots.

“Did you get him?” asked a female Russian accented voice.

“Shut up … I think so,” came an angry male Russian accented voice.

Wade listened; still as a rock. Feet shuffled at the kitchen doorway.

“Get Tanya to the front,” ordered the same male voice. “Tell her it’s started. No one alive. And get Burrows ready to move. We leave in five.”

Wade waited trying to decipher what was happening. Was this an attack team or were the house staff the defence team? Footsteps slowly started across the floor. Not boots? Rubber soled soft shoes. The breathing was short, soft and controlled. Wade recognised the sign of a killer who was able control the adrenaline that spikes those unfamiliar to killing. The sharp, hard breathes that come with the anxiousness to get more air. The rapid increase in heart rate. The abrupt and disjointed movements.

Wade knew the slightest movement would cause glass to fall off him and give away his minimal advantage. He needed the killer to think he was dead. Without moving his head, he forced his eyes as far left as possible. The shadow of the shooters leg appeared. Wade increased the pressure on the trigger of his pistol. He felt the blood of his arm start to trickle down his left hand and the blood from his shoulder had found its way through his shirt.

In a movement he had practised a thousand times he lunged right, rolled on to his right shoulder, snapped his right hand and head in to a lock position and fire three rounds. The falling effect was a planned action that enabled the first round to be a headshot. The second a chest and the third a groin. As he hit the floor Wade saw it was the deck hand that crumbled away from him.

He pulled himself from the glass covered floor, retrieved his pack and raced for the door leading from the kitchen.

42.

Wade exited the rear door and circled behind the pool. Wind rocketed from the ocean, across the lawns and blasted the house. He collapsed behind a small corrugated makeshift shed. The aromatic manure smell meant a gardeners shed. Sheets of iron creaked and groaned. The distinctive sound of helicopter rotors going through their start up procedure could be heard over the howling wind.

His current location meant he had lost visibility of the rooms of the house and where the Burrows were placed. With no means to determine the size of the force he was up against, a virtually useless left arm, an unknown field of operation, unsure as to why and/or what he was involved in and all avenue of surprise gone; he sat looking away from the house with the wind hammering into his face contemplating why go on.

The loss of memory had been very unsettling. He tried to piece back the lost time Ben had mentioned. Flashes of memory appeared that made no sense. Trucks coming and going. Laboratories that appeared to be used for R&D. Men whipped and beaten with batons. Large cash transactions that appeared to be some form of deal were undertaken in crowded, loud, strobed night clubs. Eastern European men dressed in expensive clothes and ladled with jewellery. Scantily clad, beautiful women, that never raised their heads or spoke as they paraded around large ostentatious rooms. He couldn’t decipher day from night. He recognized nobody. As quickly as the thoughts had started they stopped.

He peered from behind the shed. A flashing light could be seen across the roof. The rear, red, rotating anti-collision helicopter light had become visible. Instantly he forgot his analysis. The years of training and instinct kicked in. He leapt to his feet and raced across the lawn to the house.

A balcony door was ajar. Leading with his silenced pistol, in his right hand, he entered the darkened lounge room. An eerie green of the night vision goggles showed minimal furniture. Two large club lounges, a glass coffee table and a further side stand with a vase and flowers. A row of full height doors lined the opposite wall. Otherwise the room was empty. The only sound was the helicopter and the wind. Crossing the smooth tiled floor, he squashed back against the wall as voices could be heard coming down the stairs.

Claire and Martin, with hands zip tied to their fronts, were being forced down the stairs by two of the gun toting female waiting staff.

“How dare you treat us like this,” yelled Claire. “After all we have done for you.”

“Shut up bitch,” said the closest of the gun carrying females. “I would love to waste you here and now. Give me just one reason and you’re roast,” came the Russian accented broken English.

“Het (no),” replied the other Russian, in her native tongue, angrily shaking her head.

The first leered at her partner as they approached the bottom step. Claire stumbled and crashed to the floor. Martin bent down to help his mother.

“Get up, get up,” screamed the first woman as she fired her pistol in the air.

Wade on his haunches slid his pistol from behind his hiding spot. His first round lodged behind the ear of the female escorting Claire. On impulse her trigger finger released a second round as she was blown backwards. The round shattered the large wall to ceiling window. Glass fragments, buffeted by the gale force wind, rained down. Upper storey doors slammed shut. The stairs and foyer, that had been lit from above, again plunged into darkness.

The second woman flung herself on the floor, using Claire and Martin as a protection bund. Claire screamed. Martin was pinned on his knees; petrified. He started to shake. Claire was hyperventilating as she tried to breathe and scream. The sound of the wind was like an approaching freight train. Small fragments of glass, indiscriminately landing on the stair and tiled floor, shielded Wade as he crept along the foyer wall to the abutting room.

The second attacker had been waiting for Wade to fire another shot so she could pinpoint his muzzle flash. Unable to restrain herself she starting firing rounds at the door to the lounge room. Wade waited. Her pistol clicked empty. She dropped back behind Claire. Wade heard the fluid changing of the magazine. A trained operative. Her left leg slid out from behind Claire’s head as she lay on the floor wondering if she had hit Wade. Wade’s second round found her left knee. She screamed and dropped her pistol as she clutched at the shattered bone. Wade leapt across the room in three large steps. Kicked the pistol away. He pressed his weapon against the woman’s head.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The woman clenched her teeth as she tried to fight the pain of her knee.

“Last chance,” he said.

“Yebat tebya (fuck you),” she replied.

Only knowing basic Russian swear words he softly said, “Not exactly the answer I was wanting.”

The woman spat and swore again.

“You will pay. Taras never fails,” she screamed as she lunged at his weapon. The round was quick and silent. Blood, bone and brain splattered against the stairs.

Without hesitation Wade grabbed Claire by the bicep and kicked Martin back into his senses.

“Follow me,” he ordered. He shoved his pistol into the rear of his pants. Hoisted Claire off the floor and raced away from the stairs. Martin stumbled as he tried to follow down the corridor.

“What’s this room?” he asked. “Claire … Claire. What’s in this room,” he asked again.

“I don’t know where we are,” she mumbled.

Realising his mistake, that he was the only one with NVG, he slowly turned the handle and gently pushed the door open.

“It seems to be some sort of library,” he said entering.

The room was small. One chair against the window and a single book shelf along one wall. A window was open and books were scattered across the single rug that covered most of the floor. Ceiling light was shattered. Small slithers of external light partially provided visibility. A smashed laptop had been thrown in to a corner.

Helping Claire in to the chair he re-entered the corridor. Martin was leaning against the wall; sobbing. Grabbing his arm Wade tried to lead him into the room.

“No,” he screamed. “Why are you trying to kill us?” He backed away throwing his arms about. “Dad, dad,” he yelled.

Wade lunged at him bringing his knee up into Martin’s abdomen. Martin gasped as he doubled up and collapsed on the floor. Wade grabbed him by the collar, dragged him in to the room and threw him on the floor.

“Claire, you need to shut him up or we will all be dead,” he said stepping up beside her.

Claire had controlled her breathing and replied, “What is going on?”

“I have no idea but I can tell you these Russians have no qualms in killing you, me or anybody. So we need to find out who they are and what they want.”

“I heard John mention they work for somebody called Grigory and I believe they are here to get money back from him. I don’t know why but I did hear John say they should take him and not his family.”

“Where is your husband and daughter now?” asked Wade as Martin coughed and spluttered.

“Don’t tell him mum. He just wants to kill all of us,” yelled Martin.

Wade strode across and slapped his hand around Martin’s throat. “Either you shut up or I’ll shut you up,” he threatened. “We have no time for you and your childish antics.”

“Wade please … please,” pleaded Claire. “Martin you must stay quiet. Wade is trying to help us; whether you see that or not. So please do as he asks.”

“Mum, he’s trying to con you. Can’t you see that.? He wants us all dead and he intends to blame the Russians.”

“Why would I want you and your family dead and why would I blame the Russians? That makes no sense,” asked Wade becoming frustrated with the discussion.

As he waited for a reply his wristwatch vibrated. Wade touched the screen.

“Wade can you hear me?” came the muted voice of Meshulam.

Placing the watch/computer to his ear. “Go ahead.”

“We have a GPS of your location but the weather is too unpredictable for a drone.”

“Drone? Why would you send a drone?” whispered Wade stepping away from Claire and Martin.

“You probably don’t realise but we have been able to follow and listen to everything that has happened since you strapped on the watch and I have just been instructed to offer any assistance I can.”

Wade looked back as he stepped into the furthest point of the office he could reach trying to limit his voice being overheard.

“Meshulam are you telling me that you have been listening to everything that’s been happening and Ben has only now told you to help?”

“Wade I’m sorry but you know how it is here. I can only do what I’m told,”

he pleaded trying desperately not to upset his friend.

Wade ran his hands across the top of his head, bending his neck back, stretching his back.

“I know … I know … what were you intending to do with the drone?”

“We have pinpointed four tangos that appear to be set up in sniper locations and have encircled the house. We could use the drone to silently take them out.”

“You don’t need to worry. Already taken care of and there was five not four.”

“Oh … well how would you like us to help?” asked Meshulam.

“There’s a helicopter I can hear getting ready to take off. Can you track it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I want to know where it goes. Who’s on it and where they go when it lands. Also everything you know about a Russian called Taras,” he ordered as he touched the screen again.

Turning his attention back to the Burrows he saw that Martin was curled up in the foetal position and Claire was gently stroking his hair.

“Claire, once again where is your husband and daughter?” Wade asked.

“Last I saw they were standing at the end of the bed, in the master bedroom, as Martin and I were forced from the room.”

“Who were they with?”

“Two masked men with guns.”

“Masked? … what sort of masks?”

“Balaclavas.”

“And you are sure there was only two?” questioned Wade again.

“No there were three. The one who seemed to be in charge left the room immediately after he spoke with John and I never saw him again.”

Wade scanned the room.

“There is a door behind you. Where does it go?”

“It’s only a storeroom.”

“Good. Take Martin and go in there. No matter what happens or what you hear don’t come out. Even if it is your husband or daughter, don’t make a sound. Don’t answer anybody and especially make sure he keeps quiet. Once I have figured out what’s going on I will come back for you. Is that clear?” ordered Wade.

Claire looked down at her son as she continued stroking his hair.

“Claire I’m serious. If you don’t do as I have instructed they will kill you both. They are not interested in either of you. They want your husband and somehow it seems your daughter is mixed up as well … Claire … Claire you need to move.”

She looked up and saw the seriousness etched across his face.

“I will. I promise,” she whispered crawling to her feet.

43.

Meshulam entered his bosses’ office. Harel was engrossed in one of the screens on his desk. Knesset, the Israeli government, was in heated debate about whether the Sayeret Matkal, Israel’s elite special forces unit, should be called upon to work with Turkish special forces units in the infiltration of Syria.

“What do you make of all this?” asked Harel.

“I’m sorry sir but I really don’t understand the full story,” he nervously replied.

Ben Harel swivelled in his chair to face his trusted IT guru and one of Mossad’s most loyal employees. The two men would meet every morning for Meshulam to detail all major events of the last twenty four hours and any topics, world wide, that could have implications on Israel or ‘The Unit’.

“Before you start; where are things at with Wade?” asked Harel.

“Sir he did not take it well when I advised we had been observing him for all this time.”

Harel scratched his chin, looked down, took a deep breath.

“Go on.”

“He asked us to follow a helicopter which has since landed in Portland. Two men, who we have identified as Russian, bundled John Burrows and his daughter, into a hire van and they are currently on route to what appears to be Boston. We have a duel tail constantly in visual contact and a change over with drones ready.”

“No questions from customs when they landed on US soil?”

“No sir. The three customs officers did not leave their office until the van was clear. They interviewed the pilot. He refuelled and fifteen minutes later he departed. He appears to be heading back to Halifax.”

Harel paused, then nodded to go on.

“Wade also enquired about Joseph Taras,” stated Meshulam.

“Joseph Taras?” replied a surprised Harel. “I wonder how Wade knows about such a shifty character as Taras.”

“I don’t actually think he does. His exact words were could I find out anything about a Russian called Taras.”

“Okay then … What do we know about Taras?”

“As you are aware he is a Bratva leader and operates out of their Moscow headquarters. Our agents have not sighted him outside the confines of the building for over six months. The only form of communication he uses is phone and always encrypted. We know the Bratva are in the middle of a leadership power play with Taras up against two others for the top position. Recent intercepted calls suggest he has significantly increased smuggling especially into North America. What they are smuggling is harder to ascertain but we believe body parts.”

“Body parts? Really?”

“Yes sir. But how they are doing it we don’t know.”

“Another significant issue is the vast increase in chatter across the airwaves. Analysts have informed me communication in and out of Moscow, especially known Bratva strongholds, has quadrupled in the last four days.”

“Do we know much about this chatter?”

“Mostly directions and instructions but we feel it is a coded way to hide the fact they intend to increase numbers on the ground in North America. The Bratva have a special group that they send in whenever things get difficult or require highly skilled personnel. Our intelligence confirms they are either ex KGB or ex Spetsnaz. Their leader is a guy by the name of Bra.”

“Bra? That is a very unusual name.”

“Yes sir but unfortunately the name does not match the man. He makes Attila the Hun look like an angel.”

Harel smiled. “Attila, Meshulam.”

“Yes sir.”

“Very creative.”

Harel stood and walked across to the door. Stood silently, frowning. Turned and walked back to his chair. Still standing. “Do we believe Wade could somehow be linked?”

“All indications are that he is not … but we really don’t know.”

Harel stopped himself from saying anymore. He needed to believe his friend, even though he had been missing for two years, was still the same person he had always been. Moral, ethical and incorruptible. The closest to a son he was ever going to have. Forcing himself to block the thoughts he put on his masterclass face.

“What more do we know about this John Burrows?” asked Harel.

“I’m sorry sir but nothing more than the original report, you received, three days ago.”

“Can you ensure the team use everything they’ve got to dig up things on Burrows. Something tells me he is the common denominator in all this.”

Meshulam nodded as he headed for the door.

“Another thing, Meshulam, can you get a team to Halifax to support Wade?”

“Sir you know Wade won’t like that. He always wants to operate alone or only with those he asks for.”

“I know. I know but I feel he needs backup.” Pauses. “Get them to keep to the shadows. Two teams. Male and female each team.”

Never one to question his boss, Meshulam hesitated.

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Yes Meshulam, I’m sure. I understand your reluctance but even Wade would have trouble against the might of the Bratva.”

44.

The upper floors of the house were reminiscent of a burglary gone wrong. Beds and furniture upturned. Glass and mirrors smashed. Cupboards emptied. Broken vases, clothing, jewellery boxes; littered the floors. Wade tread carefully trying to avoid broken glass. His NVG guiding him through a green haze.

Thirty minutes later, having searched from both ends of the building, he was convinced nobody else was present. Returning to the same bedroom, he had watched the Burrow’s, he switched on the light. Rifling through clothes and bed sheets he saw the open flip top mobile phone flicking. Password locked he removed the sim card. Activated his wrist computer and inserted the card. Instantly Meshulam appeared.

“Hi Wade. What have you got for us?”

“I’m not sure but could be the sim card from John Burrow’s phone. Might help locate where he is and what’s going on.”

“I can tell you John Burrows and his daughter were on the helicopter you saw leave. We are currently tracking them and they appear to be heading to a known Bratva stronghold in Boston. I’m watching live, via drone, and they are about ten minutes out.”

“Does Ben know all this?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his take on what’s happening?”

Taken back Meshulam hesitated. Unsure on how much he should say, as per directions from his boss, but also wanting to help his friend. Wade instantly picked up on the hesitation.

“Meshulam, what’s going on. Why are you holding back on me?”

“Wade I’m sorry but I have been instructed on how much I tell you,” he mumbled nervously.

“What,” yelled Wade. “Who the fuck. Is this Ben’s work?”

“Yes Wade it is my work. I instructed Meshulam. I’m sorry … but I need to be careful, and sure, that you are not some how involved with the Russians. We don’t see or hear from you for two years and then when we do you appear to be mixed up in some illegal Russian import trade,” said Harel stepping up behind Meshulam.

Wade stared at Harel’s face trying to decipher how he felt.

“Do you really think I am mixed up in this Ben.”

“Actually I don’t, but I have responsibilities to many others outside of you and me.”

All was quiet as both parties stared at each other.

“Okay I accept your reasoning but it doesn’t make me feel that great,” said Wade.

“Understood,” replied Harel waiting, and hoping, his friend would break the tension. Nothing forthcoming he continued. “We believe you have somehow stumbled across a Russian Bratva gang whose leader is now making a play for the top job within his organization. Part of this involves a major increase in his illegal importing of body parts.”

“Body parts? … Are you serious?”

“Deadly serious. And further more you taking out his teams has caused a major ruffling of feathers.”

“How so?”

“We have learnt that they have a special Bratva team on route to Nova Scotia as we speak.”

“Special?”

Harel explained the little details they had and the make up of the team. Four ex Spetsnaz and their leader. Two ex KGB, reputed to be masters of torture and information extraction and an Asian woman.

“What do we know about the woman?” asked Wade not the slightest interested in Spetsnaz or KGB.

“Incredibly attractive, always wears tight fitting full black outfits and carries two Tanto knives,” answered Meshulam.

“Tanto? So Japanese?”

“Possibly; but not one hundred percent verifiable. Either way extremely dangerous and totally unpredictable. She has been known to take out her own team members if they get in her way. One further thing about her is she is believed to have mastered the art of Ninjutsu.”

All three remained quiet until Harel took a deep breath and spoke. “I have two teams, on route, to act as backup for you.”

The silence was deafening. Meshulam not wanting to move a muscle. Harel waiting for the opposition.

“Thanks,” said Wade. “But I need to get out of here and get to Boston.”

45.

With Claire and Martin bundled into the Burrows car, Wade raced through the small towns as quickly as the ever increasing, buffeting winds would permit. Streets deserted, trees once again bending to breaking point, objects randomly hurtling across their path he swerved and corrected. The small car lifted and dropped on every corner they took. Claire screamed as the Burrows locked themselves together in an embrace.

Wade sped across Halifax Common, the land adjacent the police station, and attempted to take the roundabout. Half way into the corner he realised he was too fast. The front passengers wheel lifted and the back wheel followed. The car tipped, in what felt like slow motion, and careened, on its roof, across the grass and garden. Wade yelled to hold on as the front hood smashed against the light pole. Like a coin skating across ice the little vehicle spun around and the back collected the same pole.

All three occupants had been wearing seatbelts as the belts dug into their respective shoulders whipping their heads. The airbags flew out further resisting forward motion. On impact the side windows disintegrated. Broken glass fragments swirled and cut into their face and hands. Wade looked across and saw they were both hanging in their seatbelts with their eyes slammed closed. Finally, able to release his seat belt he cut the Burrows free and dragged them from the smashed wreck.

The wind was bordering on cyclonic. He had got them to their feet and had crossed to the far side of the road when he suddenly grabbed them both and hurtled them to the ground; just as a steel garbage bin missiled through the air, missing decapitating the group, by centimetres.

“Wade I don’t know how much more I can take,” said Claire standing and rubbing her cut, scratched hands and face. Her hair twisting and twirling like she was in a washing machine.

“Don’t worry. Only going as far as there,” he yelled, over the wind, pointing at the red brick police station.

With a Burrow under each arm he dragged them up the stairs of the police station.

“Claire I have things I need to do. You take Martin and go in. I will see you soon.”

“What about …” she tried to say as the words got lost in the freight train sounding wind.

Wade had already decided he didn’t have time to explain to police what had happened. Rounding the corner, and secluded from view by a large mound that sat directly in front of the station, he saw the beat up F100 parked against the wall. Windows down he jumped in and fifteen seconds later, after hot wiring, he was returning to the airport.

“Hi Meshulam,” said Wade getting use to his watch / phone.

“Wade we have just been advised the Bratva team have landed at Halifax Stanfield and are in Building 8. Our man is on site as we speak.”

“Excellent. I should be there in 15. Let him know I’m in a dark blue rusted F100.”

The arrival of a Bratva special team did not bother Wade but the stirring, mixed emotions of not knowing why he was in Nova Scotia. Why he was involved in stopping a Russian gang. And why did it all feel so personal; was eating at him. He knew his capabilities and he knew he could plan and execute a takedown as well as anyone. Fifteen years at the front end of some of the worst imaginable missions and he had never once stopped, questioned himself or felt he would fail.

Wade had never been one to big note himself and very much liked to work alone but he did know he was one of the best and when he was alone everything seemed to work like clockwork. No second guessing partners. No wondering if they were where they were supposed to be. Everything timed to his own capabilities. He had worked with Kia for many years but Mossad work was primarily two entering the mission and both working individually to complete the mission.

But why did this feel different, he was asking himself, when the airport road came into view.

“Wade. Just to the left of the blue domed building on your right,” said the agent into the phone.

“Got it.”

Wade raced behind the building and slammed on the brakes. Aware noise was not an issue with the wind howling as loud as it was. Leaping from the vehicle the two men made eye contact and without a word darted through the one metre gap separating the large hangars.

The massive hangar doors were slightly ajar. Wade could see the Russians loading bags, of what was clearly obvious as weapons, into cars. He was moving to get a better vantage point when suddenly the doors flew open and the two cars raced out.

The first had two Spetsnaz and their leader and the second two Spetsnaz and the smaller KGB officer. Wade instructed the agent to follow the first and he would follow the second. The cars separate at the T intersection that determines whether an arriving traveller goes south to Halifax or north.

The car heading north had gained an advantage as Wade ran back to the pickup, hot wired the ignition and raced around the building. The highway was empty with Wade not seeing another car since he drove through the exit gates of the airport. Tree branches intermittently flew across the road and this helped Wade as the Russian driver would slow waiting for another object. The black Dodge Minivan was swaying from side to side. The driver fought to keep a straight line. He was not expecting another car when Wade raced past and reefed the steering wheel to the left slamming the rear of the F100 into the front fender of the van. The shocked driver instantly pulled his wheel back to the right but the abruptness of his action was too much for the van to be able to control. The wheels locked sideways and the vehicle flip over and over sending the unsuspecting van twisting like a tornado across the highway median strip. Coming to a rest on its side Wade had turned the pickup and charged into the vans roof. Crushing the vehicle to oblivion and ensuring its occupants were dead.

Without stopping he reversed the vehicle and started back to Halifax.

“Where are you?” asked Wade of the agent.

“Police station. They have set up some sort of cover fire and are covering both entrances.”

“I’ll be there in twenty. Call me back if anything changes.”

“Roger that.”

46.

“Claire I know this is all probably not making any sense but we need you to explain what has happened and what is going on,” asked Owenisque.

A policewoman was bandaging Claire’s head while another was using a pair of tweezers to remove fragments of glass as she tried to bathe and clean Claire’s hands and arms.

“Joseph I have no idea what to tell you or where to start,” mumbled Claire as she tried to stop herself shaking.

“What about this Ross guy?” asked McWaters. “He seems to be a lot of the problem.”

“Wade?” questioned Claire. “He is not the problem. He’s the only one who seems to be able to stop all this.”

“Why do you say that?” asked McWaters again. “He has killed more people in the last two days than has been killed in the whole of Canada in the last month.”

“I don’t know what this is all about but according to Wade it involves Russians and my husband.”

Suddenly rapid gun fire could be heard followed by the sound of breaking glass.

“What the hell,” yelled Owenisque as the windows of the interview room were shattered and the ceiling riddled with gunshots.

Everybody dived for cover. The lights and ceiling tiles disintegrated and crashed to the floor. Quickly as the gun fire had started it stopped. Two seconds later it started again and the same thing could be heard in rooms either side. Sixty seconds, and thousands of rounds, later the police station looked like a bomb site. The only noise was swinging light fittings and the roar of the wind coming through the shattered windows.

“Find out what’s going on,” yelled the police chief. “Get some men to the entrances and I need someone on the roof.”

Boots could be heard running across broken glass when the sound of a high powered rifle reverberated over the cacophony of noise.

“My god. That was a serious rifle we just heard,” said Owenisque to no one in particular.

“Chief, chief, chief” came the voice from his belt radio.

“Go ahead Vic. What’s up?”

“Jimmy’s shot. Rog just told me that both Mac and Billy are down in the reception area and I can’t get on to Flo or Ross.”

“Christ … How are Mac and Billy?”

“Can’t get to them. We would be sitting ducks for that sniper.”

“Sniper? … Are you near Kath?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Get her to get a call through to the troopers and CSIS.”

“CSIS are you serious?” asked Vic.

Another rifle shot cut through the air.

“Yes I’m serious,” yelled Owenisque through the radio.

Pause. “Vic … Vic … Vic. Come in Vic,” yelled the chief.

“Chief its Kath. He’s … been … shot. He’s dead. His head’s gone,” she gasped.

“My god,” he stammered.

“Chief we need to do something and we need to do it now,” yelled McWaters.

“I know. I know. But what?” he replied.

47.

Wade’s years of war, and battle situations, had him prepared for any circumstance that involved a bloodbath or destroyed facility. This acclimatised way of thinking through processes generally meant he was able to look past the death and mayhem and find solutions or opportunities whilst others were struck in awe of the catastrophe confronting them.

He had parked the pickup two streets over and snuck up behind the agent.

“What have we got?” he asked the surprised agent.

The agent explained the location of the three men and the firepower they had been using. He pointed across to the barrel of the SVC, Russian favoured sniper rifle, protruding from the adjacent building roof.

“Chukavin,” whispered Wade to himself, referring to the name of the rifle. Turning to the agent. “I need you to get into that building and take out the sniper. I’ll worry about the other two.”

The agent nodded, without saying a word, as he slid back down the mound and doubled back behind the second building.

Wade knew the remaining two Spetsnaz would have developed some form of communication that enabled them to watch over each other, irrespective of headset dialogue. A simple but effective special forces tactic that had been utilised and had proven efficient, worldwide. Another and equally powerful tactic was ‘the best form of defence is attack’. Wade knew he could comfortably out manoeuver one of the two but the risk was being able to take out the second without the first becoming aware of his presence.

A single rifle shot rang out over the noise of the wind. Wade spun to the adjacent roof as he saw the barrel come back to steady. Instantly 9mm pistols returned fire. The shots ineffective and obviously fired blindly. The wind started to ease. Voices could be heard coming from the police headquarters.

Wade backed down the mound and crept along behind the parked cars that lined the streets either side of the three roads leading to the police station. He approached the closer of the two Spetsnaz and silently screwed the suppressor to his H&K MP7. The three men were connected by headsets and their faces were covered by balaclavas. Wade advanced further along the cars until he had a line of sight of both Russians. Lying on his front he took aim, from under the car, and fired the 4.6mm round. A direct headshot blew off the Russian’s headset as his head exploded. Without waiting to watch the consequence of his shot he spun the thirty degrees and was ready to aim on the second Russian when a huge volley of shots rang out from the police station. Ducking he felt and saw rounds strike the car and road to both sides of where he lay. The familiar sound of both 9mm pistol and 5.56mm rifle rounds ricocheted all around him. Flattening his face and body as close to the asphalt road as possible he had his left hand wrapped around the weapon’s stock. A round ricocheted from the underside of the car and tore through the bone attachment of his little finger. The intense pain and force of the round caused him to drop the weapon. Wade had been shot three times previously and was aware of what it felt like and what the body would want to do. Closing his eyes, he slowed his breathing. Lowered his hand to the ground and forced the weight of pain to be driven from his mind.

Ninety seconds later he slowly opened his eyes. The gunfire had ceased. His hand lay useless. The surprisingly small amount of blood crept from under his hand. His body was fatiguing. He couldn’t keep this relentless adrenalin fuelled pace much longer. He needed food and he needed to rest.

Still peering from under the car he watched as two police cars raced into the police carpark and slammed on their brakes. All three officers hadn’t even had a chance to open their doors when they were mown down by automatic gunfire that tore across the front window of each cruiser.

Wade flipped his eyes over to the second Russian expecting him to be the attacker but he was gone. Further gunfire rang out from the station. Wade heard magazines empty and guns click unloaded. He knew the police were getting low on ammunition and had been depending on the arrival of the three latest officers as sufficient backup to end the siege. Checking the neighbouring roof, he saw the barrel had gone. The Israeli had completed his task. Crawling to his feet, with his left arm hanging limp, he retrieved his weapon and started for the location of where the second gunman had been.

48.

Bra, like most Spetsnaz operatives had joined the Russian army to escape a life of either despair or poverty. He was a typical seventeen year old, tall, lanky kid who had dreams of making a difference while serving the motherland. His indoctrination had commenced immediately he had arrived at his first posting. An excellent shot and a huge determination to succeed was all his superiors needed for them to decide he was perfect for special forces training. Three years later and forty kilos of muscle heavier he graduated as a Spetsnaz operator. After twelve years of distinguished service he was recognized for his ability to lead as well as think rapidly on his feet. This trait did not go unnoticed by the Russian Bratva.

He was promoted to lead a six man guard unit to protect a diplomat who was travelling through Sudan. On the last day of the five day excursion, and while travelling from their hotel to the Russian embassy, they came under attack from Sudanese militia who foolishly had not realised who they were attacking. The forty strong militia were overpowered by the skill of the Spetsnaz and Bra’s ability to see chinks in the militia fighting armour. On return to Russia the diplomat, who had close relations with the then leader of the Bratva, advised the leader of what and how things had happened. The leader was impressed and offered Bra a job. He terminated his service with the military to move on as leader of a Bratva special operations group. Now three years later he is confronted with the mission of taking down his most challengeable opponent yet.

Bra had instantly realised the guy, causing all the trouble, was not to be taken lightly. He had seen first hand how easily he had snuck up on his fellow compatriot and if not for the luck of the police firing he would now be as dead as the first guy. Having doubled back the way he came he circled behind the rear entrance to the police station.

“Dubok come in,” said Bra. “Dubok,” he said slightly louder. “Dubok do you copy.”

Tapping the headset, frustrated, and aware the remainder of his team were now either dead or off comms, he threw the unit to the ground. Ducking behind the large cartaway rubbish bin, that sat beside the rear door, he slowly edged forward and looked through the small window.

Having memorized the faces of the Burrow’s family members he recognized Martin slumped over the chair staring at the wall. A quick scan showed he was alone. Screwing the suppressor to the end of his pistol he slowly eased the door wide enough to slot the barrel through. A thud sound could be heard and Martin with the far side of his head blown away collapsed to the concrete floor.

Bra had risen and was about to enter the room when a voice could be heard charging into the room.

“Chief, chief,” yelled Kath. “The Burrows kid, he’s been shot. In the kitchen.”

Bra instantly leaped, from his knelling position, and raced off from behind the bin and across the treed section of the carpark.

Wade saw Bra cross the rear of the carpark, screened from the police station, by the thick line of red pine trees and low lying bushes. The wind had blown itself to a monopoly of gusts. Cars could be heard in the distance. Muffled voices emanated from within the police station. The storm had dissipated as fast as it had formed.

Calling on all his training and endurance levels he charged after Bra. The Russian had got a good one hundred metre start and Wade knew Bra would be in far better physical condition than he.

The next street over from the police station was a wall of ten storey buildings. Wade rounded the corner and felt the air of a rifle round shoot past his forehead. On instinct and with what had been determined, during his military career, as beyond possibility and almost super human reflex speed, he pulled himself back. The sound of the rifle shot echoed down the street and a second shot ricocheted off the footpath; where one second early he had been standing. The impact of hitting back against the wall, and his useless arm, caused him to drop his rifle. The pain in his arm was unbelievable as he fought to stay focused. His head throbbed and he could feel the onset of shock. His body began to shake and shut down. He shut his eyes and tried to take deep breathes. His gut twisted and knotted. His senses were fading rapidly. About to take another breath suddenly his rifle, lying on the ground, flew across the path and on to the road. Bra had shot it out of his reach.

Aware that now was foolhardy to try and chase an armed, highly trained, experienced opponent when he himself was unarmed, incapacitated and about to collapse; he staggered back the way he had came. Wade crossed behind the furthest end of the building as two more shots rang out.

Rounding the trees at the entrance to the police carpark, he stumbled as a round sliced through the tree branch, directly above his head. Pushing off the ground with his good hand he glanced back and unsuspectingly barrelled head first over a dead police officer.

He raised himself on one knee. Saw the policeman’s weapon and grabbed it as he fell face first on to the asphalt road.

Bra watched from the trees. Wade didn’t move. Thirty seconds pass until the Russian charged across the open area. Wade still lying on his front. Bra slammed his boot into Wade’s kidney. The body jerked and slid from the impact but didn’t react.

“Freeze,” came a voice from across the road at the rear of the police headquarters.

Bra spun like a pirouetting ballerina and fired two shots into the unprepared officer before the officer even realised something had happened.

Wade had used the two seconds, Bra was occupied, to slide the police pistol from under his body and double tap two shots straight up into Bra’s neck and jaw. The Russian’s head exploded out through the top. Two hundred and forty pounds of muscle swayed in the air than fell forward, squashing Wade.

………….

Wade could hear voices but he couldn’t take a full breath. He felt like he was suffocating. His body and limbs wouldn’t respond. He was trapped under a dead Russian.

“Get him off. Get him off,” yelled McWaters to the three police constables.

Wade felt the weight removed as air flooded back into his lungs. The police chief turned him over.

“He doesn’t look so good,” said Owenisque. “Better get an ambulance,” he ordered, to no one in particular but at the same time to everybody. “We need an ambulance over here now,” he yelled.

“What do you think, Chief?” asked McWaters.

“I’m not sure but look at the state he’s in and we did see him shoot this guy straight after he had shot Andy.”

“True.”

“I’m starting to believe Claire Burrows story. Maybe this guy was helping us all along … Let’s get him to the hospital. Let the doctors fix him up and then see what he has to say for himself.”

An ambulance siren could be heard in the distance as a Canadian Mounted Police helicopter started its descent on the far side of the carpark.

49.

His head throbbed, eyes felt like lead and his mouth was as dry as the Sahara. Slowly Wade opened his eyes and peered out from under the bandage that circled his head. A machined hummed away in the background. An intravenous drip slowly went about its living saving work. The distinctive smell of a hospital disinfectant struck his nostrils.

“Well hello stranger,” came the sweet, caring voice of Nirit.

She gave him some water and helped him sit up. A nurse came and checked his vitals and left.

“How long have I been out?” asked Wade.

“Eight days.”

“Eight days?” he questioned.

“Yes. The doctors said it was a miracle you were able to last as long as you did. You were shot in the hand. Your kidney has been severely bruised. An MRI scan showed your brain has been thrown around inside your skull like a pinball machine. You were in shock when they brought you in and your vital organs had started to shut down.”

Wade slowly scanned the room. “How did you get here and why?”

“Why because I wanted to be with you. How by plane and car,” she replied smiling.

“Ha … anyway it’s nice you’re here.”

He continued to scan the room as he pieced together his thoughts. “What about the Burrows and the Russians?”

“All finished. John and Stacey Burrows were picked up by an FBI team in Boston two days ago and an illegal Russian body parts ring has been busted.”

Wade fidgeted as something didn’t feel right. “What are the police saying?”

“They lost eleven men and their station is as good as totally destroyed. It appears their boss has decided you are like some hero for saving the town from the maniac Russians. Word will get back to them, like wildfire, that you are now conscious and they will be all over you to congratulate you. A specialist team of Canadian Mounted Police, have arrived, and they are conducting all the enquiries.” Paused. “I’m not sure if you are aware but the Burrow’s boy got shot by one of the Russians.”

“Martin?”

“Yeah.”

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

“Christ … how is Claire taking it?”

“She has been sedated since she was told and they are waiting for her husband and daughter to return before worrying about a funeral.”

“What about the Asian woman and the remaining KGB agent?”

Nirit look on shaking her head as Wade spoke. “I don’t know of those two.”

“Can you get Ben or Meshulam on the phone? I think you will find this is not finished yet,” said Wade reaching across and removing two cables linked to machines and pulling the intravenous drip from his arm.

“What the hell are you doing,” said Nirit raising her voice and stepping across to stop him from spinning off the bed.

Two nurses raced into the room as the machines alarms beeped and wailed.

“Sir. Sir you must remain in bed,” said the first nurse as the two woman separated and came at both sides of the bed.

“There are too many things that can go wrong if you attempt to stand up,” said the second.

Wade was stunned at the intensity of their voices and the speed at which they had stopped him from moving. Pushing him back on the bed, a doctor raced in. With his head spinning and his body weak he collapsed under their weight. Two more nurse’s aides arrived and the noise was a gaggle of sound as instructions were issued and repeated. Ten minutes later, with the equipment all reconnected, Wade closed his eyes as he succumbed to his lack of body strength.

“Wade, Wade … can you hear me,” said Nirit who was starting to believe she had imagined he was waking up.

Wade slowly opened one eye.

“Oh. Hi. I thought you were coming around,” she said stumbling with her words.

Wade opened both eyes. Touched his head. The bandage was gone. Looked down the drip had been removed. There were no machines whirring and beeping. He listened as Nirit explained he had been out for another twenty four hours.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Like a truck hit me but all good,” he replied trying to smile wincing through the pain in his rib area.

“What’s happened while I’ve been out?”

Nirit hesitated before she spoke. Wade caught the hesitation instantly.

“The KGB man you mentioned has been detained in the states along with the balance of the crew involved in the body parts smuggling ring but the Japanese woman disappeared. The FBI seem to be trying to locate her albeit not with a lot of intensity.”

“What do you mean?”

“As you know we track FBI and CIA movements and the chatter coming out from the Hoover building on this subject does not match the intensity associated with uncovering such a major importation ring. It appears like somebody in charge has lost interest in pursuing any further arrests.”

“Could she have returned to Moscow?”

“Not very likely. That doesn’t match Bratva standard MO. Director Harel believes she is still in North America and more than likely coming for you,” replied Nirit.

“Well we better be ready for her then,” he stated as the covers flew back and he dropped his legs to the floor. A few wobbly moments and a few deep breaths and Wade was ready. Nirit gathered his clothes after asking numerous questions of whether he was ready to be heading back into action.

Ten minutes later a Mossad agent pulled to the kerb at the entrance to the hospital.

“Where are we heading?” asked Nirit.

“Police headquarters,” replied Wade. Nirit raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Let’s bring the lion to the den. No point in waiting for her to turn up unexpectedly,” he further added.

50.

Halifax police headquarters had been moved to the carpark and was operating out of converted shipping containers. Wade, Nirit, Owenisque and McWaters were seated around the small table in the chief’s makeshift office. Wade’s left hand was bandaged and he concentrated on small breathes, to limit the movement of his ribs. He had explained that the Russians were part of the Bratva and the ring they had busted was part of a larger international crime syndicate. McWaters tried to quiz him but his chief cut him off.

“So you’re saying this is not over yet?” asked Owenisque.

“We don’t believe so.”

“We? Who’s we?” asked McWaters still suspicious.

“Myself and members of a sovereign country intelligence gathering organisation.”

Both police officers fidgeted in their seats as they manoeuvred to ask the obvious question.

“You’re referring to Mossad? Correct?” asked Owenisque.

“Let’s just say people from within an intelligence community who would have far more experience, knowledge and ability to gain information than either of you could imagine.”

Both men shrugged and nodded in acknowledgement that the conversation, regarding where the information was coming from, was now finished.

“I still don’t follow why you think this is not finished,” question Owenisque.

“The Bratva hit squad, I have been telling you about, had a Japanese woman with them when they left Moscow. This woman possesses an extremely dangerous skillset and she is not someone the Bratva leadership would deploy unless they felt it of the utmost importance,” answered Wade. “As you are no doubt aware no woman matching this description has been sighted yet and therefore we believe she is now on route to here.”

“Here? Why?” asked McWaters.

“Why,” chimed in Nirit. “Well I think that is pretty obvious. She has to take out Wade and Burrows and all indications point to Burrows returning here, as we speak.”

Both men sat back. Rubbed their eyes and heads. Looked at Nirit and Wade like they were from a foreign planet.

“I can’t believe this. I have been a police officer for nearly forty years and in that time I have seen some really bad shit but you two, and the world you work and operate in, is something I thought was only in the movies. We have had more deaths recently than the last fifty years put together. Our police station decimated and nearly two thirds of its staff gone. Some crazy body parts ring operating through our docks. A Russian mafia gone berserk on our streets and then to top it off an Asian woman is heading here to kill more people.” Paused. “I guess one blessing at least the Mounties are here now,” said the police chief looking across to his detective.

“I don’t think I would depend on your mounted police to stop this,” stated Wade.

Both men looked on in bewilderment.

“Our Mounties are pretty efficient and they sure know their shit. Plus, they have a staggering amount of backup available to them,” reaffirmed Owenisque.

“No offense, to your top cops, but I would back them off and let us handle this.”

“Are you serious. You think you two can be more effective than an entire troop of Mounties?”

“Like I said, no offence to your guys but if they try to take her on they will die,” answered Wade as he and Nirit stood and headed for the door. Half way through the door he turned and added, “They will never even see her coming and all that’s going to happen is more deaths on your streets. Chief, keep them away, for your own sake.”

They exited the car park sitting together in the back seat.

“What now?” asked Nirit.

“Where would she go?” Wade asked to himself, Nirit and the driver.

The trio drove around in silence. The aftermath of the storm was well and truly forgotten. People were back into their daily lives. School children stumbled and lopped along to school. Retail staff were fixing their hair or grabbing a coffee to start the day. Tradesman yawned and rabbled away on their mobile phones. Young girls checked themselves out in the shop windows as they past. Halifax had returned to being a normal city about to start another day.

“I think we don’t look for her. We find Burrows and plan an attack using him as bait. She will be instructed to ensure Burrows is out of the picture. Why we don’t know. After she has completed that she will come after us purely because of what we have done to their numbers,” said Wade.

51.

Wade and Nirit used the balance of the day, at the Mossad station, analysing all the information Meshulam and his team could provide. Data was available on current North American Bratva movements, standard MO’s of their operations, expected force sizes, weapons used, tactics incorporated and likelihood of attack times. Detailed maps of Halifax, and surrounding areas, were downloaded and memorised. Attack points were planned and simulations discussed. They spent hours discussing the Burrows building layout and how to best handle a knife wielding, elusive master assassin, in such a confined space.

After multiple conversations, and disagreements between Harel and Wade, it was finally agreed that the Mossad teams would be strategically spread throughout the city but not called upon unless instructed by Wade. The attack team would be a two man operation using Wade and Nirit. The attack would occur at night and varying size drones would be utilised. Everybody was aware their enemy could involve one person or as many as thirty.

An undercover agent was operating as a cleaner from within the Burrows building. She had advised that Claire Burrows was in the apartment and under protection by a policewoman and another full time care nurse. Another plain clothes policeman was stationed in the reception.

“Do we know anything about when Burrows and his daughter will arrive?” asked Wade.

“They are booked on an unscheduled, unmarked FBI jet and are expected to land at 6.30 this evening. A car will pick them up and take them directly to their apartment. It’s a two man, male and female, team and we believe they will be handed over to Halifax police, at the apartment, and then they will return immediately to the airport,” replied Meshulam.

“Okay then; so we know tonight is the night. We leave in ten.”

The beautiful sunset was wasted on Wade as he and Nirit sat staring out their respective back seat windows. Wade knew the operation was coming to a close but he still could not understand why he was in this part of the world. No answers were forthcoming only more questions. He concentrated on closing down his mind and bringing his focus to a single point. A technique he had mastered and had served him well in clearing the unwanted rubbish from his thoughts and crystallizing what he was seeking. But recently, nothing crystallized. His memory seemed to be a kaleidoscope of useless, nothingness images that made no sense.

The city became enveloped in darkness. The vehicle came to a halt in the laneway adjacent the rear entry of the Burrows building. Nirit dressed in her all black fatigues and backpack charged for the fire exit door. Wade watched from behind the large rubbish bin as the car drove off. A couple sauntered along the opposite footpath oblivious to what was unfolding. A dog entered the alley, saw Wade and immediately retreated. Traffic could be heard on the next main thoroughfare but the street fronting the building was quiet. Parked cars lined both sides. The city was entering its night time routine. Wade waited and listened as he slowed his breathing down. This amplified the sounds from the streets but also brought his awareness to a higher level. He checked his watch. Ten minutes to the expected arrival time. Nirit double tapped through his earpiece, to advise she was in position.

Five minutes passed when Meshulam’s voice could be heard through the earpiece.

“Target two minutes out. Black Lincoln. Four occupants. Eye in the sky, nothing to report. Second eye in apartment.”

Wade double tapped acknowledgement.

The vehicle rounded the corner and braked hard under the Porte Cochere. The plain clothes policeman was waiting beside the revolving door. Burrows and Stacey leapt from the vehicle with the two agents racing after them. All five charged for the lift.

“Targets in building. Headed for lift … Entering the private lift. Should be visual in ten to fifteen seconds,” came Meshulam’s voice again.

No further communication was made until the two FBI agents left the building and climbed in their car.

“I have a visual. All three Burrows are in the main living room and the policewoman is at the front door. The nurse is in the kitchen and I assume the other policeman has returned to the reception.”

“Correct, he has. I have a visual,” replied Wade.

The tiny drone, the size of a small housefly, continued to relay visual and sound of the Burrows and their movements as the team waited.

Experienced operatives like Wade and Nirit had endured far worse conditions than waiting for hours on end in a cramped environment. Midnight came and went. The plain clothes policeman had been relieved. Only one other elderly couple had entered the building hours earlier.

Four AM arrived. Wade was cold and his muscles ached. The Burrows had gone to bed. All in the same room. The nurse was in a separate room. Mounted police were conducting drive by’s, with plain clothes mounted police trying to look inconspicuous has they sauntered past the building block. Meshulam had provided some commentary of events within the apartment, every few hours, but it had been all quiet for at least three when suddenly the power went off to the entire city block.

“NVG’s Nirit,” said Wade. “She’s here.”

Using the cover of darkness and operating with a monocle night vision goggle Wade ran for the same rear door Nirit had entered ten hours earlier. Using his memorised layout of the building he crossed the fire exit and slowly opened the door to the front foyer. His NVG told the story. The policeman was dead. No doubt knifed. Ignoring the body, he crossed the marble floor and entered the opposite stairs. Taking three steps at a time he flung himself around and around as he circled up the building. Exit signs provided small amounts of light at each floor. At the top floor he tapped his earpiece. Counted to five and slowly pushed the door open. The corridor was deserted except for Nirit copying his actions at the opposite end. They entered and moved like spiders as they silently slid across the carpet. The policewoman’s blood soaked body lay against the far wall. Her slit throat carved as skilfully as if performed by a surgeon.

The corridor had two entrances to the Burrows apartment and Nirit arrived at her door first. Slowly she lowered the door handle and lying on her back pushed the solid core fire door slowly open with her boot. The door was half open when a shuriken (throwing star) sliced through the air, at chest height, and lodged in the opposite wall. Immediately another followed. Nirit responded instantly firing three sound suppressed rounds from her Glock 19 pistol.

Wade charged through the opposite door. Entering a separate room, he heard two more rounds strike a wall and then glass shatter. With his left arm strapped but unable to be used as a weapon firing limb, he quickly scanned the room. His right hand, pistol held, elbow locked appendage followed his eyes. The room had two couches facing each other with a small coffee table between. Flowers adorned the table. A large painting sat centre stage of all four walls. A meeting or welcoming room. Wade didn’t know and didn’t care. An opened door was straight ahead. Advancing he heard the swish as another two shuriken whistled through the air, followed by the thud of the deadly weapon lodging into a wall and then a subdued gasp.

Nirit fought with all her might to resist the pain of the razor sharp steel lodged in her thigh. She swung back behind the protection of the wall but she knew her leg would now be useless to attempt to charge her attacker. Her weapon still trained on the door she tried to slow her breathing by taking longer deeper breathes.

The woman had reacted instantly to the sound of her blade hitting flesh. Like a frightened gazelle she had leapt for the door. Reaching across her front she extracted the first of her two Tanto’s. Landing beside the door jamb, as light as a water spider that never sent ripples across the pond, she hesitated as she waited for Nirit’s breath to indicate where she was.

The pause was all Wade needed. Both his double tap rounds found their mark as the Japanese killer’s brains exploded out the far side of her head.

“Meshulam I need an ambulance immediately. Nirit has been sliced in the thigh by a Throwing Star,” said Wade. He slit her pants and gently pushed her back on the floor. Applying a tourniquet and wrapping a further bandage around the weapon so as not to dislodge or move it, he heard the reply.

“On route. ETA four minutes. Mounted police expected three minutes.”

Wade acknowledged and he headed to check on the Burrows. Entering the room, he switched on the light and was surprised that neither of the three had woken to the sound of breaking glass or two loud pistol shots. His surprise was fuelled when he saw the blood covering Claire and Stacey’s faces.

Quickly he checked their pulses as he radioed Meshulam.

“Meshulam, I’m not sure but the two women’s pulses are steady and relaxed. They have blood all over their faces but it could be from Burrows. His throat has been slit. Definitely our Japanese friend … Maybe their drugged?” he added as a scream reverberated behind him.

Pivoting he saw the nurse grab at her mouth.

“Are … Are they alright,” she stammered.

“I think so. The husband has been attacked, and is dead, but the women seem like they could be drugged.”

“They are. I gave them all sleeping tablets.”

Wade shook his head as he turned and headed back to Nirit.

………….

The police numbers had multiplied. A barricade was circling the building. Onlooker numbers were increasing with each minute. Building tenants were kept outside as they arrived at the scene. A forensics team was entering the building. Nirit was on her way to hospital and the nurse had cleaned up and moved the two, still sleeping women. Wade had kept his earpiece operational to enable Mossad staff to listen. The drone was still buzzing through the building. Owenisque and McWaters stood beside Wade as he vaguely explained events.

“So you think its all over now?” asked the chief.

“I believe so,” replied Wade half heartedly.

“Why the hesitation?” asked Owenisque now glad he had heeded Wade’s advice and kept the police away even though the killer had knifed two plain clothes mounted police as if they were unsuspecting children.

Wade looked away watching the comings and goings of law enforcement personnel. Scanning faces; he never expected to register any familiarity when suddenly two men, dressed in tieless black suits, heads down, hands in pockets, entered the far entrance. Instantly his memory returned. He ripped his pistol from his rear waist band and charged like a raging bull through the crowded foyer.

He had covered twenty metres, of the sixty metres separating them, when the two men turned to the noise unfolding. Rosco Chamber reacted faster than his FBI counterpart and reached into his jacket for his pistol. Years of field work in some of the toughest parts of New York had help finely tune his skill at retrieving his weapon. He dropped to one knee as he spun looking for the instigator, knowing and expecting it to be Wade.

Wade saw Chamber react and dived for the highly polished marble floor as he slid for the counter that the dead policeman’s body lay beside. Slamming into the counter he scrambled behind the sheet draped body.

Other officers had seen the events unfold and suddenly the room was filled with weapons pointing in all various directions.

Chamber realising his chances of survival in a one on one with Wade was near impossible; fired off two rounds. The sound was deafening. Everybody dived for the floor. The rounds shattered the stone top reception counter. Chamber’s buddy was still taking in the events as Wade’s rounds hit his chest and neck. Slamming him against the wall. Itchy finger policemen opened fire and Chamber was riddled with bullets. The body dancing like a rag doll as twenty eight rounds hit all parts of him.

Everybody stood bewildered as they tried to comprehend what had just happened. Meanwhile Wade had moved on from that situation and was charging for the door, the two agents had entered. His ears ringing with tinnitus from the gunshots that had reverberated throughout the confined enclosure. Reaching the ajar door, he saw the car suddenly start to accelerate away and knew immediately it was the vehicle they had arrived in. His first round shattered the side window. The second splattered the passenger’s brains across the front windscreen. The driver hesitated and swerved from the impact of his mate’s body parts colliding with his face. The hesitation was all Wade needed and his third round ripped through the driver’s shoulder.

Wade started to walk toward the car as Owenisque, McWaters and a dozen weapons drawn officers raced toward him.

“What happened? Who were those guys?” asked the chief.

Wade hunched over with his hands on his knees and looked up.

“The one inside, with the riddled body, his name is Rosco Chamber. They’re all FBI and they’re the one’s that started all this.

Wade went on to explain how he must have been brainwashed but up until he saw Chamber he could not remember all the details. Chamber had worked within a psychological unit of the FBI and believed he could mind control people for his own financial benefit. He had intended to introduce people, like Wade, into gangs and institutions which he would then go on to blackmail and control. In this case the Russian mafia. Which he was delusional enough to believe he could control or prosper from their illegal importing. Wade was expected to make contact with the Russians on his arrival into Halifax but unfortunately, for Chamber, the Burrows kids had come along at the most inconvenient time.

Wade turned to leave.

“I’m not sure we can just let you leave after what’s happened,” said Owenisque.

Wade smiled. “I’m not sure you can stop me.”

THE END