Dan Simmons: Hard Freeze

"No," agreed Frears. "What is your second suggestion, Mr. Kurtz?"

"I kill Hansen. Tonight."

Frears nodded. "And your third suggestion, Mr. Kurtz?"

Kurtz told him. When Kurtz finished talking, John Wellington Frears sat back in the Eames chair and closed his eyes as if he was very, very tired.

Frears opened his eyes. Kurtz knew immediately what the man's decision was going to be.

Kurtz wanted to leave by six-thirty so he could get to the train station no later than seven. The storm had come in with nightfall, and there was a foot of new snow on the balcony when he stepped out for a final look at the night Arlene was smoking a cigarette there.

"Today was Wednesday, Joe."

"So?"

"You forgot your weekly visit to your parole officer."

"Yeah."

"I called her," said Arlene. "Told her you were sick." She flicked ashes. "Joe, if you manage to kill this Hansen and they still think he's a detective, every cop in the United States is going to be after you. You're going to have to hide so far up in Canada that your neighbors'll be polar bears. And you hate the out-of-doors."

Kurtz had nothing to say to that.

"We get kicked out of our basement in a week," said Arlene. "And we never got around to looking for new office space."

The meeting with Kurtz was set for midnight Hansen arrived at ten minutes after eight. Both Brubaker's and Myers's cars had trouble getting through the snow near the courthouse, so they'd had dinner downtown and waited for their captain to pick them up in his expensive sport utility vehicle. Brubaker was half-drunk and decided to confront Millworth on the ride to wherever the hell they were going.

"Whatever's going on," Brubaker said from the front passenger seat, "it sure and hell isn't department procedure. You said there was going to be something in this for us, Captain. It's time we saw what it was."

"You're right," said Hansen. He was driving carefully—he always drove carefully—following a snowplow east on Broadway. The plow's flashing orange lights reflected off the silent buildings and low clouds.

Hansen took two thick envelopes out of the Cadillac Escalade's center console and tossed one to Brubaker and the other back to Myers.

"Holy shit," said Detective Myers. Each envelope contained $20,000.

"That's just a down payment," said Hansen.

"For what?" asked Brubaker.

Hansen ignored him and concentrated on driving the last two miles along Broadway and side streets. Except for snowplows and the occasional emergency vehicle, there was almost no traffic. Broadway had six inches of new snow but was being plowed regularly; the side streets were wastelands of drifting snow and snow-covered vehicles. The Escalade powered its way along on permanent all-wheel drive, but Hansen had to switch into four-wheel drive and then into four-wheel-low to make the final mile to the abandoned train station.

The driveway rising up the hill to the station was empty. There was no sign that another vehicle bad been there. It was the first time Hansen had seen the station in real life, but he had studied floor plans of the complex all afternoon. He knew it by heart now. He parked by the boulders that sealed off the huge parking lot and nodded to the detectives. "I have tactical gear in the back."

He issued each man a bulletproof vest—not the thin Kevlar type that cops could wear under a shirt, but bulky SWAT flak vests with porcelain panels. Hansen pulled out three AR-15 assault rifles, rigged for rapid-fire, and handed one to Brubaker and one to Myers. Each man got five magazines, the extra going into the Velcroed pockets on the flak vests.

"We going into combat, Captain?" asked Myers. "I'm not trained for this shit."

"My guess is that there'll be one man in there," said Hansen.

Brubaker locked and loaded his AR-15. "That man named Kurtz?"

"Yes."

Myers was having trouble Velcroing shut the flak vest. He was too fat. He tugged at a nylon cord, found the fit, and patted the vest into place. "We supposed to arrest him?"

"No," said Hansen. "You're supposed to kill him." He handed each man a black SWAT helmet with bulky goggles on a swing-down visor.

"Night-vision goggles?" said Brubaker, swinging his down and peering around like a bug-eyed alien. "Wild. Everything's greenish and as bright as day."

"That's the idea, Detective." Hansen pulled on his helmet and powered up the goggles. "It's going to be dark as a coal mine in there for a civilian, but there's enough ambient light for us to see fine."

"What about civilians?" asked Myers. He was swinging his assault rifle around while peering through his goggles.

"No civilians in there. If it moves, shoot it," said Hansen. If this Mickey Kee gets in the way, too bad .

"No tactical radios?" said Brubaker.

"We won't need them," said Hansen. He pulled a pair of long-handled wire cutters from his bag. "We're going to stay together. Brubaker, when we're inside, you and I will be at SWAT-ready, covering forward fields of fire, you on the left, me on the right. Myers, when we're moving together inside, you face rear, keeping your back against Brubaker's back. Questions?"

There weren't any.

Hansen used his key remote to lock the Cadillac, and the three men crossed the parking lot toward the looming station. The blowing snow covered their tracks in minutes.

Kurtz had arrived only half an hour earlier.

He'd planned to get to the station by seven, but the blizzard slowed them down. The drive that normally would have taken ten minutes, even in traffic, took almost an hour; they almost got stuck once and Marco had to get out and push to get them moving again. It was seven-thirty before the Lincoln came to a stop at the base of the drive leading up to the station. Kurtz and Marco got out. Kurtz leaned into the open passenger door.

"You know where to park this down the side street so you can see this whole driveway area?"

John Wellington Frears nodded from his place behind the wheel.

"I know it's cold, but don't leave the engine on. Someone could see the exhaust from the street here. Just hunker down and wait."

Frears nodded again and touched a button to pop the trunk.

Kurtz went around back, tossed a heavy black bag to Marco, who set it on the passenger seat and closed the door. Kurtz lifted the other bundle from the trunk. It was wiggling slightly, but the duct tape held.

"I thought you wanted me to do the heavy lifting," said Marco.

"It's a hundred yards to the train station," said Kurtz. "By the time we get there, you can have it."

They walked up the hill and kept near the high cement railing as they approached the tower. Kurtz heard the Lincoln shoosh away but he did not look back. Marco used the wire cutters on the fence and they slipped through, keeping close to the station as they went around to the north side, where Kurtz knew how to get in through a boarded-up window. It was dark up here near the hilltop complex of the abandoned station, and the tower loomed over them like a skyscraper from hell, but the light from the sodium-vapor streetlights in the ghetto nearby reflected off the low clouds and lit everything in a sick, yellow glow.

The blowing snow stung Kurtz eyes and soaked his hair. Before going through the window, he shifted the taped and gagged man from his shoulder to Marco's and took a flashlight out of his peacoat pocket.

Holding the flashlight in his left hand and the S&W semiautomatic in his right, Kurtz led the way into the echoing space.

It was too cold for pigeons to be stirring. Marco came in, and their two flashlight beams stabbed back and forth across the huge waiting room.

If Hansen got here first, we're dead , thought Kurtz. We're perfect targets .