David Golemon - Primeval

"We'll refuel at the mouth of the Columbia River in Oregon, and then we'll push into Vancouver, and just pray the Canadian authorities don't shoot us down. We're not on speaking terms like we are with the FBI."

"Amen to that."

Collins finally made his own body relax as Ryan made his turn north over the Port of Los Angeles. He swallowed and finally spared a thought for his sister, praying she was still alive.

"Hang on, baby girl, just hang on a little bit longer," Jack mumbled to himself as he stared at his reflection in the side window.

The few members of the Event Group had made it out of the first phase of a mission that for the first time had no plan at all, other than to search — and in the case of Jack Collins, to destroy, if that search failed.

Lynn Simpson had to hand it to the two Russians and their small army of employees and guides. They had arranged everything from food and rest stops to refueling areas on the long and arduous helicopter ride from the town of Wrangell, just below the Tongass National Forest in Alaska, to the Stikine River, sixty miles south of Dease Lake, British Columbia. Lynn was surprised that Sagli and Deonovich had been so free with the information about the expedition they were on. She guessed they figured she wouldn't be coming back with them at any rate, so why not allow her full access to their immediate plans.

The four brand-new Sikorsky helicopters skirted the river as low as the trees would allow. They had almost run headlong into a small Bell Ranger of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police an hour before, but the expert pilots on the Russian payroll had avoided them nicely by dipping below the small range of mountains that flanked the Stikine. The helicopters were loaded with men and equipment that had been waiting for them in Seattle, undoubtedly the staging point for every murderous operation since they killed Serta, the lumber magnate a week earlier.

As Lynn watched the Stikine Mountain Range looming before them, she was approached by a man who had been introduced to her as the expedition's doctor: Leonovshki something or other — she couldn't keep all of the names straight, which told her she wasn't doing her job right. If she got out of this mess she had every intention of bringing every one of these bastards to justice. The doctor unceremoniously grabbed her hand and started to unwrap the bandage that covered the area where her index finger used to be. He looked it over, poked the inflamed skin around the wound once or twice, and then grunted his satisfaction. He rewrapped the amputation with a fresh wrapping and then rummaged in his black bag and brought out a syringe.

"Antibiotics," he said as he leaned forward.

"Why bother? I mean, it's not like they're going to let me go after they find what they want."

"I do as I am told, young lady. What my employers plans are, do not concern me; just what they are paying me."

"Spoken like a true mercenary."

The doctor gestured for her to stand up and lower her denim pants that had been supplied to her a day ago. She did, not exposing as much as the young doctor would have liked. He punched the needle home. As she looked around, several of the other killers for hire were admiring the upper portion of her ass.

"In the end, aren't we all just mercenaries? Even you with your agency masters?"

Lynn wasn't about to get into a philosophical debate with the doctor, so she just buttoned her pants and then sat down, staring at the others until they turned away. The doctor reached up and pulled down a plastic bag and handed it to her.

"I believe this should be about your size. The days are still warm here, but the nights can get cold."

Lynn opened the clear bag and pulled out an expensive, bright yellow down jacket. She looked back at the doctor and frowned.

"This would make for a good target in the woods."

The doctor ignored the comment and walked away, using the tied-down equipment to steady himself as the helicopter rose and dove over the trees below.

Lynn placed the jacket beside her and watched as the large helicopter started to descend after smoothing out. They were near some sort of small settlement that looked almost deserted. She spied a few small fishing boats, not more than fifteen feet in length as the helicopter she was riding in circled the settlement. The pilot finally sat the transport down in a small clearing about three hundred yards from the thick forest that lined the base of the mountains. As she watched, the other helicopters did the same, spacing themselves far apart as their wheels touched down on the rocky soil.

Lynn didn't move and was soon approached by Dmitri Sagli. He was wearing expensive hiking boots, denim jeans, and a bright red shirt. He looked ridiculously like a lumberjack of old. He even had suspenders on. She couldn't help but smile, although she hid it behind her hand.

"We are at the Wahachapee Fishing Camp. It is small and is populated by Tlingit Indians. If you make one attempt at either escape, or to relay your predicament to the locals, we will not only shoot you, but everyone here, children included. Do you understand?"

"I've understood you since you first opened your foul mouth in Virginia."

"Then you do understand — it won't be us killing these people, but you." Sagli turned and made his way to the lowering stairs as his ten men started unloading the supplies and equipment.

Lynn shook her head and then grabbed the coat she had been given and followed Sagli out of the helicopter. As she stepped onto the rocky soil, she was amazed at the raw beauty of the area. With the mountains behind and in front of them and the river coursing through the center, the spot was an ideal location for nature lovers. However, as she saw that the area was void of people, her enthusiasm quickly diminished.

A hundred yards to her front, she saw Deonovich and Sagli speaking together in hushed tones, not once sparing her a look. As her eyes scanned the area, she saw what looked like a small general store, perhaps there to sell bait to the local Indian population. Next to the three-story market, there was a large icehouse and its chilling tower. A small warehouse was at its base and several of the local men were standing on the dock, watching the newcomers as they unloaded. The men were of various ages: some had the long hair of the young native, while other older men wore their hair short. Their skin was copper toned from living and working in the open and, like all fishermen, had the honest look of laborers. She saw an old woman coming from the river carrying two baskets filled with fish — the heavy Indian woman looked her way and then quickly in the direction of the two Russians. It was as if she didn't even notice all of the equipment being off loaded from the four helicopters.

Good for you, Lynn thought to herself, the less curious these locals are, the more likely they will survive the murderous group that was invading their tranquil home.

"Sikorsky S-76s — four of them — now these are some fishermen that know how to travel."

Lynn was startled as the voice came from behind her. She turned and saw a young woman, maybe sixteen years old, as she placed a hand on the sleek light blue side of the tail boom of the helicopter she had ridden in. Lynn looked back at Sagli and Deonovich, but they were busy supervising the unloading of their equipment. She turned back to face the pretty girl in the dark green overalls and the black shirt. Lynn could see the twin braids that coursed down her back and she had a face as bright as sunshine, setting off her raven black hair. She was surprised to see a Caucasian girl among so many native Canadians.