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Chapter 2

  Starting out two weeks previous from Deadhorse, the trip was arduous, to say the least. He had been through worse, hell, he had lived through worse, but this was close. Up here it was just cold and brutal. There was a serious lack of the comforts and amenities he had become accustomed to through previous jobs with this group, but the pay was worth it and then some. Traveling from one ghetto and slum neighborhood to the next, he'd given up his real name decades ago, opting for Mr. Willow and refusing to give a first name to anyone. Even his falsified travel documents were labeled: “M. Willow.”

  He checked and rechecked his weapon, cleaned the scope lenses and ensured there were no obstructions at the end of the barrel. Ice, compacted snow or anything else that got inside the suppressor could easily cause a catastrophic explosion and, at the least, ruin the shot. The wind howled outside of his tiny pup-tent, colored white as his clothing was, ensuring the maximum amount of camouflage. He sipped hot cocoa, courtesy of a tiny propane camping stove which doubled as a heat source, letting his mind drift until the day became fully lit.

  He drifted back to his childhood, to his first murder and the willow. The willow held significance to him, it was the weapon he had chosen for his first murder at the ripe old age of eleven. Drugs and crime had gotten him well acquainted with local drug dealers, for whom he distributed product to the schools and kids on the street.

  One unforgettable cold and rainy day in October, he volunteered to collect an outstanding debt from a long-suffering client and one he knew personally. He pointed out that, by sending him to the door first, a young and seemingly innocent-looking boy, his presence would disarm the rival, leaving him open to a quick attack. The rival was only to be “roughed-up” in the words of the bosses. However, when the beating started, he pretended to be scared and ran out of the house.

  Once the men were gone, he returned with a willow branch from the tree in the next yard where he had been watching. He then strangled the broken man to death with the flexible limb. Since that day forward he had assumed the Mr. Willow persona and could not resist smiling every time he heard it or saw it.

  He had camped near the breathing hole overnight, under a natural windbreak formed by two very large pieces of ice that had broken loose and been shoved upwards, freezing into place again. This not only helped to keep the howling wind off of him, it also helped to keep him hidden as well.

  As the blackness gave way to what passed for dawn above the Arctic Circle this time of year, he assumed his position on the ice, waiting, adjusting his weapon and scanning the surroundings. This was the beginning; when the whole thing was over, he would be somebody, not just a killer in the streets, not a nameless thug, but a real somebody. A person with real wealth, power, and most of all, status.

  For now though, there was a job to do. He knew from the previous months of surveillance that the researchers' day started here, every day, with the water sample collections. On good weather days, groups tended to come out twice a day. On days like today, he knew he should only expect one or two, and that was why he was here. He had to contain any stragglers or potential escapees heading away from the camp, as this was the only way they would have to go, if everything went as planned.

  In just a few moments, after his shot was heard, the other teams would take over the station. He was about to lose himself in thoughts of future plans and the work to come, when he saw movement by the breathing hole. Only one researcher, he thought, Well, that makes this part easier... one and done. Easy money.

  He put the scope up to his eye, quickly bringing the researcher's head into clear view. Leveling out the gun and switching off the safety, he took a deep breath and prepared to fire. A huge burst of water sprayed up from the breathing hole and all over the researcher's face and head. He almost laughed out loud, realizing immediately that it was the whales.

  The guy seemed to take it in stride and moved down the hole a little ways, when several spouts of water came out at once, from what must have been a dozen whales. The guy got down quick this time, getting his sample and standing up before the whales got to his new location.

  The cross-hairs were directly on his right temporal lobe, just about the same level as his ear, ensuring that the brain stem would be severed for immediate death. The researcher looked up toward the sky as he let the shot go. The recoil and blast of noise knocked identical puffs of snow off each side of the ice shelter under which he hid.

  Son of a bitch!!! he screamed in his head...

  Even with a top-notch suppressor on the gun and thick earmuffs, the impact and shock nearly blew out his eardrums, amplified by the triangular structure of ice under which he sheltered. Shaking it off, mentally and physically, he put the scope back to his eye and surveyed the situation.

  The red triangular plume was clearly visible, still settling and refracting the light like mist from a waterfall, producing a clearly discernible rainbow. The body was face-down, looking as if all of the muscles were flexing at once. Ripples were merging together on the surface of the water from the skull fragments and tissue blown out. Even from this angle he could see the steaming, oily slick expanding outward from where the head dangled over the edge of the ice.

  The body was in a suspended, arched shape, then it convulsed once and went limp. There was steam rising from the open cavity in the skull and from the brain matter and warm blood on the top of the water. He ejected the spent round, slid the bolt back into place without reloading and retrieved the shell casing.

  Sliding the rifle over his shoulder and stowing his range-finder in his pack, he brought out his silenced nine-millimeter pistol and started to head toward the breathing hole to take care of the body. Got a few more of these to do, he thought as he walked up to the edge of the water.

  There was obviously no need for another shot. The bullet had entered just below the right ear, traveling up and to the left, removing most of the upper left quadrant of the face and head from the hairline to the upper lip. As he put away his pistol and unsheathed the huge hunting knife strapped to his leg, he couldn't help but notice the whales sitting at the surface, not making a sound; it was almost as if they were staring.

  He started to reach for the pistol again, to put a couple of shots in the water and send them on their way, but then remembered that these animals were why they were here, and accidentally shooting one could be trouble. As if they knew what he was debating, the whales exhaled noisily and, one by one, descended beneath the glassy surface.

  As he began his final job with the body, now beginning to waft the smells of coppery blood, feces and urine into the surrounding air, he heard the distinctive pops of small-arms fire in the distance behind him. It had begun.

  He turned to complete his task when a huge crashing sound, accompanied by vibrations across the ice, came from out of nowhere. Turning toward the direction of the research base, he could see the black cloud of smoke curling around on itself in the characteristic shape of a small mushroom cloud: the sign of an explosion.

  Something had gone wrong...