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  ‘Wait here,’ says the cowboy without giving any indication he’s heard Spetzen. The second cowboy walks back to the gatehouse and Delamenko watches him make a phone call.

  ‘Miller said this would be taken care of,’ says Delamenko. ‘None of this gate bullshit.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ says the cowboy, ‘shit happens, I guess. This ain’t Moscow, Putin.’

  Puli mutters something and Delamenko raises a finger to quieten him. There’s a pause during which the only sound comes from the idling car engine. Then the barrier rises and the cowboy waves them inside with the muzzle of his rifle.

  ‘Yesh’te der’mo derevenschina,’ says a smiling Delamenko to the cowboy as he drives through the gate.

  Eat shit, redneck.

  CHAPTER 39

  THIS PLACE IS in a different league to Miller’s joint at Gullfoss.

  That’s the first thing Thurston registers. By the time he’s made his first pass around the perimeter, he’s reached the conclusion that this place has been built with two simple aims: to produce lots of drugs and to be easy to defend.

  A twelve-foot-tall, heavy-duty electrified fence topped with razor wire sits in a U shape around the compound, with twenty yards of clear ground between it and the forest. Thurston, keeping to the trees, spots CCTV cameras every hundred yards. In the gap at the top of the U is the lake. Thurston can’t get an angle on that yet but he imagines they have double or triple spotters in place there, especially in winter when the lake freezes. Inside the perimeter fence he observes two dog patrols. There’s only one road in and one road out. In addition to the two guards at the gatehouse there are two more positioned to the north and two to the south where the fence meets Lake Carlson.

  If Talbot Chemical Feed is a genuine company it is taking its security way too seriously.

  Thurston waits for darkness.

  CHAPTER 40

  DELAMENKO, PULI AND Spetzen drive past the three massive chemical storage sheds glowing pale orange under the halogens, the fog forming softly glowing globes around the floodlights. They pass the long low bunkhouse which, Delamenko knows, houses the main staff on site. He has no idea how many men are there at any time but he guesses around fifty. Maybe more. At this time of year he figures Miller will have less crew on the ground. Even white supremacists don’t like the cold.

  ‘Christ Almighty,’ mutters Puli. His mood has been darkening since arriving in East Talbot. ‘I don’t understand,’ he says, turning to Delamenko, ‘why we couldn’t come in, do the job and get the fuck back to Boston. Back to civilisation.’

  ‘Miller has some special instructions. Another job. Extra.’

  ‘Miller, Miller, Miller,’ says Puli.

  ‘He’s the boss,’ says Delamenko.

  Puli says nothing.

  ‘Don’t let the cowboy shit fool you, Dmitri. Miller didn’t get there being a Boy Scout. He is dangerous. And that’s me telling you, understand?’

  ‘OK, Viktor. I get it,’ says Puli.

  ‘Let’s get on with it,’ says Delamenko. ‘Get back to Southie. I hate the country.’

  CHAPTER 41

  THURSTON ALMOST STUMBLES across the dead deer as he’s looking for a suitable entry point. The carcass is hardly visible, covered by a crust of snow. A youngish female, her broken hind leg caught in a cleft between two logs.

  He skirts around and then stops. He retraces his steps to the dead animal.

  Grunting with the effort, he hauls the deer free and, as best he can, drapes the body across his shoulders. He looks across at the fence and sees he is, as far as he can tell, outside the scope of the CCTV cameras. It’s dark now anyway.

  Thurston walks across the open ground towards the fence. About a yard from it he lifts the creature clear of his shoulders like a weightlifter and throws it onto the fence, leaping backwards as he does.

  He’s rewarded by a spectacular flash and the smell of burning flesh. As he suspected, the fence packs a punch. This is not something designed to give a mild shock.

  He darts back into the trees and waits.

  He doesn’t have to wait too long. Less than twenty minutes has passed before he hears the buzz of a quad bike and sees the beam from its headlight bouncing across the snow on his side of the perimeter. As the bike draws closer, Thurston sees a single rider. He slides a bolt into the crossbow and takes off the safety.

  The rider, a hunting rifle slung across his back, halts next to the dead deer, steps off his bike and turns off the engine.

  ‘Shit,’ Thurston hears him say.

  He bends and pulls the animal clear of the fence. As Thurston hoped, the fence has been shorted by the contact because the quad bike rider has no hesitation in touching the animal. The rider drags the deer back a few more yards. He wipes his hands on the snow and lifts a torch from the quad bike. The guy sweeps the area without any sense of urgency. If he’s noticed anything weird about the deer it isn’t showing. Thurston guesses he’s going through the motions. After a few seconds he climbs back on the quad bike and heads back the way he came.

  Thurston shoulders the crossbow, breaks from the trees and reaches the fence in less than ten seconds. He pulls a small pair of wire cutters from his pocket and grabs hold of the fence.

  CHAPTER 42

  A QUIETER NIGHT at Frenchie’s.

  Terri’s at the bar with a beer, half watching a hockey game on the TV in front of her. Ellie, a friend, sits to her left and has been talking non-stop for about the last hour – which is why Terri’s watching the game. The fact that Terri hasn’t said much more than ‘Is that right?’ or ‘Uh-huh’ or ‘I know’ in that time hasn’t stopped Ellie’s flow. Terri’s regretting calling Ellie up but Terri’s not a woman who likes to drink alone. Especially when she aims to get loaded. She signals to Flynn behind the bar for another.

  Terri’s thinking about the Australian – if that’s what he is. Michael. Somehow she knows that’s not his real name. He was nice. Terri flashes on a couple of images from last night and a smile creeps onto her lips – a smile that gets wiped when she catches sight of the off-duty Riggs on the other side of the bar.

  ‘What?’ says Ellie, for once paying attention to Terri. ‘What was so funny?’

  ‘Nothing,’ says Terri. ‘I was thinking about something.’

  Ellie doesn’t ask a follow-up question and while she’s prattling away about some new guy up in Barre, Terri thinks about the look on Michael’s face when the light came on after she hit him with the lamp and a chill runs down her spine. While her adrenaline was spiking off the charts, he looked about as calm as a man taking an evening stroll.

  She doesn’t know much, but she’s willing to bet Michael Flanagan is not here shopping for real estate.

  CHAPTER 43

  NO FLASH. NO bang. No electricity.

  Thurston breathes a sigh of relief and cuts through half a dozen strands. He pulls the fence apart and steps through, making sure there’s plenty of room to step back once the power’s been restored. The last thing he wants is to be stuck inside the perimeter once the recon mission’s done.

  He crosses towards the line of trees and is swallowed up in the shadows. A couple of small animals skitter out of the way as he descends the hill towards the floodlights glowing through the fog.

  An hour later and Thurston’s got a pretty clear idea of where everything sits inside the compound. He’s had a couple of ticklish moments when the dog patrol has passed by but rode his luck. He shoots a bunch of images on the Nikon and decides he’s done enough for one night.

  By midnight he’s back in the Jeep and heading around Lake Carlson on his way back to East Talbot.

  CHAPTER 44

  ‘THERE,’ SAYS SPETZEN. He points across the intersection as the door to Frenchie’s opens and two women walk out, one of them laughing and holding on tight to the other. Both of them look a little unsteady on their feet.

  ‘Which one?’ says Puli.

  Delamenko catches a flash of blonde hair under the taller woman’s
woolly hat. ‘The taller one. Miller said she had really blonde hair.’

  ‘We gonna do both?’ says Spetzen.

  Delamenko shakes his head. ‘Not unless we have to.’

  He motions to Spetzen, who climbs out of the back and heads after the two women. Delamenko puts the Range Rover into gear and pulls out of the side street. He passes the two women and carries on about quarter of a mile. Spetzen’s going to update them by phone.

  ‘This is bullshit,’ says Puli. ‘This bitch isn’t our concern, Viktor.’

  ‘We been through this.’ Delamenko doesn’t move his eyes from the rear-view mirror. He wishes Puli would stop whining. It’s done. Get the fuck on with it.

  As if reading his mind, Puli falls silent. The two men wait.

  About two minutes later, Delamenko’s phone vibrates. He reads the screen and turns to Puli. ‘It’s on. Blondie’s on her own.’

  He pulls the Range Rover round in a circle and heads down Main. Puli spots the woman turning into a side street with Spetzen closing in. Delamenko accelerates towards the kerb as Spetzen grabs the woman from behind, his big hand over her mouth. Puli steps out and Spetzen shoves the woman into the back seat. He gets in, deflecting a kick and knocking her out cold with one punch. Puli gets back into the passenger seat and Delamenko pulls away.

  No one sees a thing.

  CHAPTER 45

  SOFI GIRSDÓTTIR COMES to him again in his sleep. This time she looks distracted. She tries to say something to Thurston but he’s not listening. Frustrated, Sofi begins pulling at his sleeve. In the background he hears Barb Connors screaming but now it’s at a distance.

  ‘Come on, Cody,’ says Sofi. ‘Come on!’

  From far in the distance comes a click and Thurston knows what it is. He’s heard the sound before, many times, and it’s never a good moment.

  The muffled slide being ratcheted back on an automatic weapon.

  He opens his eyes.

  CHAPTER 46

  DELAMENKO LEADS THE way, Puli behind him with Spetzen carrying Terri Greening over his shoulder, bringing up the rear. Using the unconscious woman’s keys for the motel, the three Russians go in via the fire doors at the back and head up the stairs towards 205.

  Puli’s got a 9mm SIG Sauer automatic fitted with a fat piston silencer. Delamenko has a Remington semi-automatic shotgun, its muzzle also blunted by a squat silencer.

  The three men move in complete silence, Puli’s bitching subsumed in the requirements of what’s happening. All three men have service histories; Puli’s is the longest and bloodiest. They know how to do this.

  In the corridor leading to 205, Delamenko pauses. From what he’s been told by Miller, the guy they’re here to kill has some military skills. Delamenko’s pretty sure Miller hasn’t been completely honest about how good those skills are. Delamenko saw for himself the guy do a pretty good job on the Axe back in London so he’s taking no chances. And although it’d kill him to admit it, Puli was right about the girl being bullshit. Miller’s ‘added extra’ – killing her and the Australian and letting Riggs tie up a neat bundle – might be one of those things that sounds like a brilliant idea but is less easy to do in practice. It’s a detail they could do without. If Miller wanted them to come in and do a pro job on this Thurston guy that’s fine. If he wants rid of the chick who shopped Thurston to him then why not shoot her and put her in the fucking woods? Christ, there’s an industrial furnace out at White Nation. Why not put both of them in there?

  Delamenko shakes his head impatiently. No sense in asking questions now. Get into the room, kill the Australian, kill the woman and get back to Southie before daybreak.

  At the door, Delamenko listens. He can’t hear a thing. He puts the key in the lock and silently opens the door.

  Still nothing.

  He racks the slide on the Remington and steps into 205.

  CHAPTER 47

  A FULLY DRESSED Thurston rolls out of bed, grabs the knife on the bedside table and comes up in an attack posture.

  The room’s empty.

  He remains completely still. He didn’t imagine the ratchet noise. That wasn’t part of the dream. He listens intently, sure now his instincts to spend the night across the corridor in the empty 207 were correct.

  Thurston hears some soft rustling coming from the corridor and his mind fills in the blanks – three guys, moving quietly.

  He pads across to the dresser and picks up the nail gun before crossing towards the door. He looks through the spyhole. Standing outside is a big man carrying an unconscious Terri Greening over his shoulder.

  Thurston pads quickly back to the dresser and picks up the crossbow. He loads a bolt into it, and silently turns the handle on the door. The big guy swivels towards 207 and Thurston puts the bolt straight through his eye.

  Before he’s hit the hotel carpet, Thurston moves into 205 as one of the men unloads three quick rounds into an empty bed. Thurston sees the other turn and bring up his SIG Sauer and drills a two-inch nail into his forehead. He falls forward and slams into the floor, causing his partner to swing the Remington towards Thurston. As the Remington starts whumping Thurston presses the trigger on the nail gun and fires blindly. He hears a grunt as a spray of two-inch nails rips into the assailant’s chest.

  Behind him, Thurston hears noises as the few guests at the motel begin to stir.

  Bleeding heavily, the Remington lying at his feet, the man staggers towards the window and slides back the door to the balcony. Thurston runs forward and kicks him straight over the edge of the balcony rail.

  Back in the room, Thurston drops the nail gun and scoops up the Remington and the SIG Sauer before moving into the corridor. A woman in a bathrobe peers out at him through a crack in her door.

  ‘Call the police!’ says Thurston. She disappears.

  Somebody else appears at the end of the corridor. ‘Get back!’ shouts Thurston and the guy vanishes.

  Thurston looks down and turns Terri over. She’s taken a shot to the side of the face – one of the strays from the Remington.

  ‘Shit,’ says Thurston and lowers Terri to the carpet.

  He runs into 207, collects what little he has and goes back into 205. He closes the door and moves to the balcony. There’s no sign of the man on the ground below, but a thick trail of blood leads across the parking lot. Thurston jumps and hits the snow hard. Without looking back he follows the blood trail around a corner.

  The bleeding man is slumped on his back in the snow. He makes small gurgling sounds and his eyes are wide.

  Thurston takes a step forward and puts a single round into his head, not sure if he’s doing it through kindness or hate.

  The Jeep is only five metres away.

  Thurston stows the guns and crossbow in the passenger footwell and opens the driver’s door. He pauses on the threshold before stepping back and returning to the dead man. Taking care not to step in the blood, he drags the body towards the Jeep and bundles him up and over the tailgate.

  He’s going to send Miller a reply.

  CHAPTER 48

  MILLER’S PHONE VIBRATES around five in the morning.

  He’s awake already, wired from too much coke, looking at his laptop. Mercy’s asleep, her bruised back turned to Miller. He was rough with her earlier, maybe got carried away, but she seems fine now. They’re resilient at that age, Miller has found. He glances at the screen expecting to see Viktor’s number.

  Instead, it’s Riggs.

  ‘OK,’ says Miller when he answers.

  ‘I don’t know what was supposed to happen down here, Nate, but it sure don’t look like it worked out.’ Riggs is whispering and Miller can hear talking in the background. ‘Wait a minute.’

  Miller hears Riggs’ muffled voice talking to someone else and then he’s back.

  ‘We got three dead. Two I think you might know. Foreigners.’

  ‘Easy,’ says Miller, reminding Riggs to be careful. No names.

  ‘Yeah, OK,’ says Riggs. ‘The woman? Y’k
now? Terri? She got half her face blown off. They think it was accidental, like.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Well, here’s the thing of it. There’s state cops here. Someone at the motel is an off-duty cop. Up here banging his girlfriend. Y’know, somewheres nice and quiet.’ Riggs pauses. ‘Anyway, this guy, Slater, works robbery-homicide out of Boston Southside and recognised one of the, uh, foreigners. Called his boss and next thing you know we’re knee-deep in city badges.’

  ‘Isn’t this your town?’

  ‘I tried that,’ says Riggs, ‘and they said all the right things and so forth – don’t wanna step on your toes, jurisdiction blah blah. But bottom line? They ain’t shiftin’. They’re gonna be doing some digging so I hope the trail don’t follow back to—’

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ barks Miller. ‘There’s nothing traceable. Quit panicking and let them take it back to Boston. A few days and they’ll be chasing … the visitor. And if that doesn’t happen we got some pull down there as insurance.’

  ‘Listen,’ says Riggs after a while. ‘There’s more. We have one big guy with a crossbow bolt through his eye.’

  ‘OK,’ says Miller, thinking, Crossbow?

  ‘And a smaller dude dead in the bedroom.’ Riggs pauses. ‘He was shot with a nail gun.’

  ‘Christ Almighty,’ says Miller.

  ‘And the last guy? The other guy from Boston?’ says Riggs. ‘Looks like our “visitor” took him. We got a blood trail leading across the parking lot and a wit who says she saw a body getting bundled into the back of a car. Said it sort of looked like he was – and I’m quoting here – like he was “taking a trophy”.’

  ‘A trophy? What the fuck?’

  ‘All I’m doing is passing it along.’ Riggs hesitates. ‘I don’t think this guy is going to be leaving town. I know you guys are, y’know, capable and all, but I’d still be careful up there. I think he’s coming for you. I think you pissed him off.’