Sleeping dogs, p.23
Sleeping Dogs, page 23
It was the Great Gray Wolf.
And he was right in front of Max.
At last.
Two Fingers cranked off the last round in the magazine and popped in another, but he held off from returning fire. Instead, he went for his radio and ordered those with grenades to let loose.
It was time to end this.
Explosions rocked the mountain, lighting the landscape in flashes that even the blizzard could not obscure. Shockwaves blasted out through the trees, shaking them more powerfully than the wind.
Two Fingers felt their nausea-inducing power roll through him. Gripping the tree for support, he ordered the bombing to stop. Shrapnel continued to patter down on him for nearly a minute, falling through branches and blowing about on the wind.
Throwing a flare, he peered through the driving snow, straining to see if anything moved below. But the storm had grown more intense, and he could see nothing.
“Anybody see anything?” He asked into the radio.
The radio crackled back with negative responses from several men.
Two Fingers held off for another minute and then ordered his men to move in. He seated the stock of his rifle firmly into his shoulder, took a careful step down through the snow, and then stopped almost instantly. Down below, in the trees to his left, he saw something his brain couldn’t accept.
Odin.
Rising like a ghostly apparition from beneath the ice, he was crouched low and stalking forward slowly, his attention fully intent on something ahead.
Following Odin’s line of attack, Two Fingers saw the wolf devouring one of his men. His mind blanked, and he froze. He remembered Odin charging the wolf and how easily it had snatched him from the air, killing him instantly.
But how was it possible that he was here … now?
Two Fingers did not believe in haunts or spooks or anything supernatural. But what else? How could Odin be here?
Two Fingers put the metal gun sights on what he thought was the center of the wolf—moved them to the ghost of Odin—back to the wolf—sweat started on his forehead, despite the freezing wind.
He knew he had to decide. The muzzle went back to Odin—but what to do? The man he had been before losing his fingers would not have been able to make the decision.
But he was no longer that man.
He had grown since that day. He’d learned and matured.
Deciding, he moved the barrel and pulled the trigger.
Anthony Carlino thought his lungs might explode. His thigh muscles were burning, and he couldn’t get enough air. His body was sweating while his hands, feet, and face were freezing. The snow beat at him with fists of unrelenting fury. He wanted to stop, to rest, or better yet, to go back.
But he would not.
Besides, he’d never find his way back, not on his own.
The shooting had stopped briefly but then continued stronger than before.
And then came the explosions.
Didn’t matter.
He kept going toward the sounds.
Trying to see through the blizzard was impossible. His goggles slushed over almost instantly, but without them, the snow whipped into his eyes with such brutal force he couldn’t keep them open even as slits.
But he could hear, and he was close enough now that the echoes no longer confused him. He thought he should probably chamber a round in his rifle.
No telling how soon he might run into punks that needed shooting.
Although it made good sense, a part of him thought he might be using this as a good excuse to stop and rest for a moment. He stopped and brought the rifle up. The barrel was clogged with snow, but he figured a bullet going through it would melt it fast enough. He pulled back on the bolt and then let it go, hearing a round seat.
On wiping his goggles, he saw two men running at him from above. Muscle memory took over, and he adopted a hip stance, switching the weapon to full auto.
It was like the old days, only then it had been a good old American-made Thompson submachine gun instead of a Russian AK, but what did it matter? They both put out a lot of bullets—really, really fast.
“Don’t shoot, Skipper,” I said as Anthony Carlino turned the AK on us.
“Gilligan,” he said, “what are you …”
“No time,” I said, pulling Marco along. “There’s an army after us. Head for those trees.” I pointed to a thicket spreading down the slope to the south.
We all moved out as fast as we could and didn’t stop until we reached them. My thigh, side, and wrist were hurting—probably from the bullets and wolf bite.
Marco didn’t look much better.
“I’m glad to see you’re alive,” Marco said to Anthony Carlino.
Anthony Carlino grinned and patted the younger man’s cheek. “It is I that am glad to see you are alive.”
Marco’s head nodded toward me. “Thanks to him,” he said. He looked at me. “You are a warrior among warriors, my friend.” He looked back at Anthony Carlino. “Billy?”
Anthony Carlino shook his head. “No,” he said.
“We don’t know that for sure,” I said, checking our six to make sure no one was coming up behind us. The back trail looked clear for now, and the snow was filling in our tracks quickly.
I prayed it would be quickly enough.
“Gilligan is an optimist, “said Anthony Carlino. “Did any of the others survive?”
“Piero and Enzo,” said Marco. “We’re in a cave about a kilometer up that way. Enzo’s okay, but Piero has a chest wound. I think it’s infected.” He reached into his coat and pulled out the first-aid kit. “I stole this from one of their tents. The occupants won’t miss it.” He grinned slyly. “They won’t miss anything ever again.”
Anthony Carlino smiled and nodded.
“I took a couple of them out,” said Marco. “And then the American and I took out a few more.”
“Good,” said Anthony Carlino, “good, you both did good.”
I heard sounds. It was tough with the wind, but I heard them. I checked my ammo, not good. It was time to either run or dig in and make a stand. We had the trees, the snow, the dark, and the advantage of ambush. They had numbers, flares, bullets, and grenades.
I didn’t like the odds in a fight.
“What do you think, Marco,” I asked, “can you run?”
He looked up the hill on hearing them.
“If it’s that or take on the army, I can run.”
I looked at Anthony Carlino.
“You up for it?” I asked.
“I don’t want to fight an army either,” he said, grinning.
“Ok, stay to the trees for as long as we can. If I break into the open, move fast.”
I didn’t like the odds on our running much more than I did on fighting. With their numbers, the enemy could spread out and move fast. And even though the blizzard covered our tracks in a matter of minutes, it might not be fast enough. That meant I couldn’t take us straight to our cave. We had to hope for things that would slow the enemy down—some bare rocks or a creek. Things that would hide our tracks long enough to make them search them out. And then we had to hope that, in the time it took them to search, the blizzard would obscure them once we went back to fresh snow.
It was a long shot, but better than getting shot.
Leading the way, I moved them out.
Two Fingers fired three quick shots into the darkness that had been the wolf, but it was gone. Instead of hitting the monster, his bullets jerked the body of the man the wolf had been eviscerating.
Instantly, Two Fingers jerked the muzzle back to where he had seen Odin’s ghost.
But that too was gone.
Scanning the surrounding area as best he could through the storm and the dark, he saw nothing of either the wolf or Odin.
Desperate, he yelled through the night.
“Odin! Come! Odin!”
He saw some of his men turn and look up at him. He motioned for them to continue forward.
It had to be Odin—it had to!
He must have just been injured—stunned. Two Fingers remembered how his men had shot into the body and the carnage they had made of him. But it had been in the middle of a gun battle, with chaos and confusion everywhere. It must have looked worse than it was. Odin was the toughest dog he had ever seen.
Except maybe one.
The thought made his missing fingers ache.
Shaking his head, Two Fingers gave up on it. He still needed to kill the men and find Carlino. He scanned again with his scope, then continued down the mountain after his men.
The wolf was fifteen feet away, downwind from both the man and the dog. He could see them both, smell them, hear them. But they were triple-blind to the wolf.
The human wanted him, so did the dog. If he attacked one, it would give the other its chance. He wanted both of them, and he would have them.
One at a time.
Max had started his move when the Great Gray Wolf simply disappeared. Three shots sounded through the storm just to the side of Max. He sprang for the trees, diving fast, then turned and came back around from lower before staring out from under a thick pine. He saw the dead man and the moving man with the rifle. But he did not see the Great Gray Wolf.
Scenting, he searched for any trace of the Alpha or the Great Gray Wolf, but all he could smell were men and gunpowder and ground disturbance.
Something felt wrong.
Max could not see the Great Gray Wolf. He could not hear him or smell him. But somehow, he knew he was here … close … very close.
And suddenly, Max realized that he was no longer the hunter—Max was now the hunted.
He lay in the snow and waited for the Great Gray Wolf to make its move.
47
A hundred yards down and around, I stopped to let everyone catch their breath. I rested with my hands on my knees. So did the others. I’d taken the lead so I could break path through the snow to make it easier for them, but still, I was again impressed that Anthony Carlino hadn’t slowed us down.
We’d heard some shooting about ten minutes earlier, but nothing since then. It had sounded farther away than I would have expected.
Perhaps we’d caught a break.
“Marco,” I said, “how far is your cave now?”
He sucked in some air before answering. Maybe he was hurt worse than I thought.
He pointed. “That way, and up. Twenty—thirty minutes, at this pace. Maybe more.”
I nodded, feeling the fatigue myself. “My place is closer and downhill. We’ll head there.”
I saw him look up the way he’d pointed.
“You think they’ll stay put?” I asked, knowing that he was thinking of Enzo and Piero.
“I hope so,” he said. “I wouldn’t want them to come looking for me and run into the bad guys.”
I almost laughed at that one, a Mafia elite soldier calling other guys bad. Still, I agreed with him just now.
“Also,” he added, taking in more air, “Piero needs the antibiotics in the kit I took.”
“We could split,” I said. “Your call, but it's risky. You might run into them yourself, not to mention the wolf, and there’s the danger of getting lost.” I pointed in the general direction of our cave. “We’re down that way—half a mile, I’d guess. Maybe a little farther. If you feel you have to go, I’ll take the Skipper with me, and we can try to meet up in the morning.”
I looked at Marco and saw him staring at me.
“Mr. Carlino goes with me,” he said. “He’s my responsibility.”
I could see there was no changing his mind. I looked at Anthony Carlino. He was about used up. I doubted he could make another trek up the mountain. To tell the truth, I wasn’t so sure about Marco either.
“No,” I said. “He’s our responsibility. And I’m not letting him out of my sight. There’s no way he can make it up to your cave without a long rest—a long rest we don’t have time for. I think he can make it to my cave—down’s easier. And if not, it’ll be easier carrying him down than up. So, we’ll just have to take the chance on Enzo and Piero. I don’t know how bad Piero is, but I doubt you’d go out solo in this,” I held my hand up to the blizzard, “like you did if he wasn’t bad. So, you good with this?”
Marco was a soldier, and so he understood exactly what I was saying without actually saying it. Piero, maybe Enzo too, might well die if we didn’t go to them.
He was going to have to make a choice.
“No,” he said. “I’m not good with it. But they would do the same.”
“Okay,” I said. “We’ve gained a little time. Our tracks are almost gone.” I pointed to another big group of trees. “We’ll head there, around the bend, then cut straight down and hope the snow does the rest.” I stood up straight. Anthony Carlino and Marco followed suit.
“Let’s go.”
Max saw nothing but snow and waving trees. The men had moved down the mountain until his senses were no longer able to detect them.
Still, he waited.
If the Great Gray Wolf was out there, Max would not let him escape. Nor would Max make himself an easy target.
Twice before, Max had fought the Great Gray Wolf. Once as a pup and once when the bear had interjected.
The bear and the Alpha.
Both times the Great Gray Wolf had won. The first time he had knocked Max unconscious. The Great Gray Wolf had won the second time by being smart enough to put Max closer to the bear and leaving before he could be injured.
This time would be different.
Max was no longer a pup.
This time no bear, no sickness, no human, would come between them.
Max waited a little longer, stood up, noisily shook the snow from his coat, and walked out from the trees into a small open clearing.
The Great Gray Wolf thought himself the hunter rather than the hunted.
Time for him to understand the truth.
The wolf watched as Max stood, shook, and walked out into the open.
The wolf almost exploded out of his hiding place.
Instead, he stayed where he was, silent and hidden.
His golden eyes stared through the blizzard, watching Max’s every move, his tactical brain calculating faster than a supercomputer.
Max’s act was not an accident.
Not foolishness.
It was a trap.
The wolf wanted to kill this creature.
And he would.
Just as he had killed Odin. But the wolf would not fall for the trap, whatever it was.
He would kill Max, but he would do it at the time of his choosing. In the place of his choosing.
The wolf would not fall into Max’s trap.
Max would fall into his.
Max scented high but caught no trace of the Great Gray Wolf. His ears took in only the wailing wind. Finally, he thought the Great Gray Wolf must be gone.
Turning, he sprinted, chest-deep in the snow, and began following the men who were chasing the Alpha.
He stopped briefly at the site where the grenades had exploded. Here the scent of the Alpha hugged close to the snow. Max followed it until he realized the men he’d been following were headed in the same direction. Their scent was everywhere and much easier to follow.
Faster.
Making excellent time, he came up behind a straggler and took out his hamstring. The man screamed, but due to the storm, it didn’t carry far. Lying on his back, the man continued to scream. Max left him and quickly caught up to the main group. But this time, someone saw him and started shooting in his direction.
The deep snow hampered Max’s movements, and he barely made it to the trees before bullets whizzed all around him.
Moving from tree to tree, he tried to burrow beneath the snow, but the bullets splintered the trunks and burned holes into the ice and snow too close for him to stay in place. Max kept moving, but the men and their bullets were closing in. Something hot and fast scorched through his coat along his back.
Slowed by the snow, attacking the men straight on or trying to turn and make it up the mountain would be suicide.
But these were his only choices.
Max had nowhere to go.
Ducking low behind a tree, his shoulder and haunch muscles tensing, he prepared to attack.
Two Fingers saw Odin running from tree to tree before crouching down and aiming straight at his men. In turn, his men aimed their rifles.
“Stop!” he screamed. “Stop, don’t shoot him.” He ran between Odin and his men, the dog fifteen meters back, the men closer. The snow gusted and blew as if the storm god himself were raging.
“Odin,” he said, facing him and holding his hand out to him. “Odin, here!”
The dog stared at him through the dark and the snow. The lights on his men’s rifles did little to help, their beams bouncing off the slashing snow and reflecting the light.
But Two Fingers had no fear of Odin.
Odin was his body and soul.
Two Fingers had beaten it into him. The dog was subservient to no one but him and would never again consider challenging his absolute mastery. The consequences were too horrible for even his dog brain to contemplate.
Of this, Two Fingers was supremely confident.
Two Fingers squinted through the storm, his headlamp illuminating the creature in front of him. It was shivering and cowering now that it realized who he was. Laughing at his complete mastery over the animal, he ordered him again.
“Odin, here!”
The dog obeyed instantly, just as Two Fingers knew he would.
Max was about to attack when the man ran between him and the others and faced him.
The wind swirled, and Max caught his scent. He knew Two Fingers well. The man had tortured him, and Max had, in turn, given Two Fingers the reason for his name.
Two Fingers ordered him to come.
Max was only too happy to oblige.
