Page 4 of Shrapnel
His stream of consciousness was the only thing keeping him sane. The small Cesna dropped him off at an airfield that was partially frozen over. Where he was, no one knew. Literally. The airfield didn’t have a name and the pilot had only glanced over at the wad of cash Jamie handed over before kicking him out into the elements and flying off to some equally lesser-known airfield.
“Come to Alaska,” he began again as muscle fatigue dragged on the last of his fraying nerves. “Everything will kill you, there’s either no light or too much light, and you have to get everywhere by planes flown by a guy who got his pilot’s license off the back of a Slim Jim wrapper, and a gallon of milk costs $10 but hey, we’ve got fucking salmon.”
This wassupposedto be Elijah’s mission. Jamie had just spent three weeks in Canada trying to negotiate with the Weaver’s Canadian counterpart. His recent successes had made him…uppity. The Weavers liked their business partners to be confident, sure, but where these assholes got the audacity to demand more money was astounding.
He changed his tune once Jamie showed him a few of his molars. There wouldn’t be any more problems from their northern colleagues.
Why Jamie wasn’t back at home, feet up, and watching bad TV was a mystery to him. When Elijah called with his stupidElijahvoice asking if Jamie could take this mission so he could stay back and babysit his darling—Jamie said yes. The next person who told him Elijah wassuch a darlingwas going to get a snowball to the eye.
Pulling off a glove with his teeth, he rummaged through his pockets to pull out the GPS. Apparently, it was easy to get lost in Alaska so Grant had insisted he had the best GPS money could buy. While he waited for the compass on steroids to triangulate his position, he took a moment to glance around.
Besides a copse of snow-covered trees, everything was flat and white. Just a flatland of snow as far as the eye could see. Jamie supposed it would be easy to get turned around in a place like this. The snow muffled everything. Like he was listening to the world with a finger in his ears.
His target was a guy named Trey Langford. It seems that good ol’ Trey was a number whiz. Capable of handling the oh-so-delicate finances of a massive organization like the Weaver Syndicate. For years he was their accountant. He made the money dance, limbo just under the authorities’ radar. He was paid handsomely, living life high on the knowledge that he had a secure cash flow.
Until the idiot got caught with a DWI. Rather than take the lump, he offered to turn states witness. With evidence that could put away every member of Weaver Syndicate in a federal penitentiary for life, his DWI was swept under the rug, and he was put into witness protection. The only place the feds thought safe enough from the Weavers was a hunting lodge in the Alaska wilderness.
Trey had it made—all he had to do was sit by the fire and twiddle his thumbs until they called him to take the stand.
Dumbass couldn’t even do that right and Jamie was taking his idiocy real personally.
Rule number one of betraying your organized crime bosses: don’t piss off the guy coming to kill you.
He finally caught sight of the cabin around four. An ugly little building, calling it a huntinglodgemight be going too far. It was a plywood structure patched up in places with tarps and two-by-fours. A snowmobile was parked outside beside two upended gas cans and Jamie could smell a wood-burning stove. Thick plumes of black smoke snaked up into the sky from a hole in the roof and he guessed Trey was home.
A quick walk around the place confirmed what Jamie had suspected—the only way into the domicile was the front door. The place didn’t even have a window.
Popping his neck, he kicked the snow off his boots and stepped up onto the wood pallet that served as the front porch.
Removing his gloves and stuffing them into his pocket, he knocked on the thin door.
“Room service,” he called out jovially. “We’ve got your order of fresh baked eclairs and champagne!”
There was a flurry of knocks and thumps inside. Jamie guessed Trey had not been expecting visitors. The moments ticked by, and Jamie finally had enough.
Now that his prey was within sight, his adrenaline chased the exhaustion from his bones. Rolling his shoulders, he leveled a kick at the door. The plywood buckled and collapsed in on itself. Splinters of rotted wood rained down and Jamie stepped into the doorway.
“Who the fuckdoesn’topen the door for pastries?” he demanded as he dodged a poorly timed swing of a ski pole.
“W-Who are you? Who are you working for?”
Jamie took quick stock of the hunting lodge. A narrow space that was no bigger than a two-person tent, there was an assortment of boxes and crates stacked in one corner and a cot in the other. Trey had his back pressed to the back wall, wielding a ski pole like it was Excalibur.
“Just how many people have you pissed off, dude?” Jamie asked casually, knocking some wood splinters off his shoulder.
Trey lunged at him. Jamie let him get close enough so that he could grab the ski pole. He shook Trey off and popped him in the middle of the forehead with the handle. Howling, Trey stumbled back and held a hand to his face.
Trey Langford had deteriorated since Jamie had last seen him. Even with the neon orange beanie covering his head, Jamie could tell Trey’s hair was falling out. His skin was pale, so much so that Jamie could see blue veins tracing under the paper-thin flesh. The accountant had lost weight and the skin around his eyes was sunken in, making him look like one of those goldfish with the bulbous eyes.
“How did you find me?” Trey Langford whimpered.
Jamie twirled the ski pole between his fingers. “Seems like you have a hard time following the rules, number cruncher.”
Trey finally removed his hand. Jamie could see a perfect circle impression on his forehead.
“You betrayed the Weavers,” he began. “And look where that got you?” tsking, he pointed the ski pole at Trey’s crotch. “Still, you might have gotten away with it if it weren’t for your pecker. Who’d have thought that the girls in a shitty roadside strip club would betray you? Turns out Bouncing Betty and Snaggletooth Sarah are not the best confidants.”
The former accountant blanched, and Jamie enjoyed the way regret flashed in his eyes. He let his eyes drift off the scrawny man. One of the crates was open and several bear traps were heaped inside. Dried blood and rust coated the metal jaws and Jamie felt his irritation bleed away.