Roger Crossland - Red Ice

Kurganov stood at the end of the pier in a heavy coat with a fur collar. Several men surrounded him, including reporters with cameras. Sato stood inconspicuously off to one side.

“Who invited him?” Wickersham growled, pointing down the pier. Far behind Kurganov stood Ackert in a knee-length fur coat. He had several men with him, including a U.S. Navy captain in a reefer jacket.

Vyshinsky, still very weak, moved to the rail and braced himself against a stanchion. Kurganov’s face metamorphosed into a melancholy smile. Throughout his life, smiling had been a pleasant but infrequently enjoyed exercise. He called out something to Vyshinsky that I didn’t catch. Almost before the lines were over, Vyshinsky and Kurganov were embracing in moist-eyed joy.

We dodged the reporters as professional hazards. They would have a good enough story, venturing how Vyshinsky escaped from Mother Russia. After the four of us had jostled our way through the clicking cameras, we… I began the long walk down the pier. Ackert took a few steps to meet me, with his hand outstretched.

“Fine job, simply fine job. Thought I should try an’ stop you, you were going against current policy, ol’ buddy. If my superiors had ever… Well, no harm done and the Koreans have agreed to share the crypto gizmo with my Company buddies. Why, they’re real pleased. Hell, no hard feelings, Fraze.”

The punch started somewhere down near my knees. It caught him in the side of the jaw and jarred him, but that was all. He took a couple little half-steps and swiveled his head as if to shake the punch off. His face flushed. For once he lost his honey-tongued composure.

“You take this sleazy band of no-count trash on a little ski trip and now you’re a bunch of heroes. So what? For me, it all counts the same toward twenty. In your case it don’t count toward nothin’. Well, boy, stand by, cause ol’ Ackert’s gonna mess you up so bad, your Nip honey ain’t gonna want what’s left.”

He swung flat-footed into the bandaged part of my left arm. My knees sagged and nearly buckled. The pain made my eyes water. His football instincts made him dive for my legs but I sidestepped and brought my knee up into his face. When he came up I slammed him hard below his left ear and he stumbled by.

He straightened up with a surprised look on his face; one eye was puffy and the side of his face was discolored.

Some of the men with him tried to intercede but Chamonix and Wickersham checked two of them off the pier. Dravit swept the legs out from under a third with his crutch. The Navy captain stood by impassively.

Ackert came again, this time wailing in with a flurry of punches—then dived for my legs before I could dodge. I hit the concrete with a wrenching thud. I could tell he meant to get me down, hold me down, and rain the punches from on high. But as soon as I hit the pier I rolled into him so he could not make full use of his massive arms. I could not afford to fight him rolling on the deck—he had too many pounds on me.

My tanto dagger had clattered to the concrete during my fall. Ackert grabbed for it, but Wickersham kicked it skidding down the pier.

I faked an attempt at a choke, then scrambled to my feet. He followed me up. Without missing a beat, he aimed a volley of punches at my head. It felt as if my head was going to be snapped clean off and I could feel one eye closing. I tasted blood in my mouth.

Ducking under one of his punches, I crouched into ippon seoi nage , a judo single shoulder throw. My execution wasn’t clean and for a second Ackert hovered head to earth before he came down, with his full weight, against a bollard. He brought himself up on all fours, holding his right shoulder lower than his left. His collarbone was broken.

He climbed to his feet and then registered a punch that seemed to snap my head clean back to my shoulder blades. He followed with a kick at my kneecap. I had barely time to raise my leg. He hit my shin instead. His kick stung unbearably and my leg wouldn’t bear weight. He tried again. I counters wept with my left leg. Caught off balance, he hit the pier with the back of his head.

He put up his hand to signal enough. I would have none of it. All I could see was Chief Puckins bleeding his guts into the snow with a guilty look on his face. I raised Ackert to his feet by his collar. He put my bandaged arm in his bear-trap grip and brought his knee up into my groin before I could turn my hip. I slumped but adrenaline was pumping into my system out of fifty-five-gallon drums and the pain was filed for future appreciation. A hard right cross had effect this time, and Ackert’s knees buckled. He sank to his knees. Arm weary, I managed to drum a boxer’s speed-bag tattoo into his wobbling head. Right, right, left, left. It must have taken two dozen punches before he toppled face first into the pier.

I stumbled a bit, at last feeling the full impact of the knee to the groin. My left arm was bleeding again and I couldn’t see out of my right eye. My shin was swollen but unbroken.

The captain remained where he had been. Then he did something strange. He winked. He winked as if in slow motion—a restful wink, a peaceful wink.

But—simply—in Charon’s traces there was no rest or peace.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Originally published by Charter/Diamond Book.

Copyright © 1990 by R. L. Crossland

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3069-4

Distributed in 2016 by Open Road Distribution

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