Callsign: Rook (Stan Tremblay) (Chess Team, #3)
Jeremy Robinson
1
“What the hell am I doing here?”
Stan Tremblay shook his head, and his abbreviated grin carried no trace of humor. Even with half the journey behind him, the lights of the small village seemed no closer. He knew he’d get there eventually, but trekking through the far reaches of Norway’s arctic in the dead of night wasn’t the act of a sane man.
Tremblay’s sanity wasn’t the issue. A member of an elite U.S. Special Forces unit known as Chess Team, Tremblay had survived much worse than a little cold and isolation. He liked to think that his call sign, Rook, described his role on the team as the man who specialized in direct, in-your-face action. But the last mission had dispersed the five Chess Team members around the globe and Rook had lost contact with them. After the killing of his support troops by Russian helicopters, Rook had only made it out of Russia thanks to the help of an old woman with more guts than any ten civilians he’d ever met. The woman, Galya, had given her life to save his.
Right now, he didn’t want to think about her. He didn’t want to think about her brother, the smuggler who’d helped him escape via boat, or the other woman on the boat who had disembarked with him but now walked in the opposite direction for reasons she hadn’t cared to explain. He didn’t even want to think about the rest of his team, three men and one woman who were like family. He just wanted to find a warm spot to lie down and close his eyes for a few hours.
Rook sensed movement in the darkness and stopped. The moon provided enough light for him to make his way along the dirt road without a flashlight, and his eyes picked up a change in the shadows. If the source of the movement was human, the person had to know Rook was here. His hand slipped to his .50 caliber Desert Eagle pistol, one of the few things he’d managed to bring with him out of Russia. He had just five of the seven round Action Express magazines though, and he didn’t have the forty-four barrel that allowed him to use the more common Magnum magazines, so he’d have to make every round count.
Multiple howls emanated from the night, and he switched on his flashlight. The light revealed a huge wolf with black fur standing a few feet away. He’d encountered wolves before during his extensive wilderness experience, and he recalled two things in particular about them. First, they tend to run away from people.
Second, they always hunt in packs.
Rook whirled, and the light picked up half a dozen more of the beasts forming a circle around him. Their coats contained the same jet-black fur as the first, but they looked smaller, more like good-sized male black labs. Unlike the first wolf, which stood still and just stared at Rook, these others growled and kept their bodies in motion. They were angling for an attack.
Rook’s harsh laugh drowned out their growls. “I don’t believe this shit. Okay puppies, let’s see if I can’t turn one of you into a nice fur-lined jacket.”
He considered using the Desert Eagle, but rejected the idea almost immediately. The sound would echo right up the fjord, possibly bringing more unwanted attention. Plus, after battling an enemy who had the ability to bring inanimate objects to life in the form of giant stone golems, dispatching the wolves with just his KA-BAR knife would not be much of a challenge.
He turned back to the large wolf and with no hesitation, sprinted straight at it. The knife was in his hand before the second step. The wolf jumped away, but not in time to avoid Rook’s lunging left hand, which made contact near the animal’s rib cage. A dog-like whimper lasted only an instant before an aggressive growl replaced it.
Rook pivoted and saw the large wolf now in front of the others. For a second, they locked eyes. “Didn’t think a big guy like me could move like that, did you? How about I declare victory and you and the pack move on?”
As if hearing him, the wolf turned and ambled away, the other wolves following a few steps behind. The leader showed no sign of the recent injury. Rook watched them go, until even with the flashlight, he couldn’t make out even the slightest trace of a bushy tail.
Rook turned off the light and continued down the road. His fatigue had disappeared, the brief action heightening his senses. The mission tonight was to find a place to sleep. He’d abandoned most of his cold weather gear during his escape, so he couldn’t rest under the stars all night. If he couldn’t find shelter, he’d have to keep moving.