Chapter 8: Survival

The next day, a courier delivered a package to Natasha's door. It was a carefully packaged 45 cal. Glock 36 Slim-Line, complete with back holster. A box of shells accompanied the weapon. I now had two very powerful weapons at my disposal. I tested the holster and gun under my jacket, and I was satisfied that it was unobtrusive. I would be wearing it constantly until my adversary had been dealt with.

More surprisingly though, the box contained a concealed weapon carry permit, made out to Nathan Poirier. Now I wondered how many people knew that this was my new identity. It made me uncomfortable, but the permit would resolve any problems I might have if someone spotted the gun.

I dropped Natasha at her gallery and met with Harold Sinden on Monday as promised. He gave the full tour and what I would describe as the full-court press. It wasn't very subtle, but it didn't leave any doubt that he really did want me to work for him. I met several of his people, and I was impressed with their professionalism and diversity.

It was a bit of a risk, but when the tour was over, I filled Harold in on what had happened to my parents, and the threat to myself, Natasha, and my ex-wife. He immediately offered to provide some additional surveillance on Natasha, and I accepted. I would pay for their protection services, but it wasn't an issue at this point. I just wanted all the resources I could gather to protect her.

I told Harold that I would join Orca Investigations, but not until I had some sense that the danger was lessened. He wasn't happy, but he understood. We did agree that I would come in during the day for a couple of hours for orientation and training before I began with a caseload. It would at least give me something to do when Natasha was at her office.

He loaned me one of his electronics specialists, and we went over my car, Natasha's, and the apartment, making sure we were free of tracking and listening devices. When that was accomplished, Harold installed tracking patches that were exclusive to his "system," and applied them to Natasha's and my car. He was concerned that the CSIS system may have been compromised, and I might be located. Denis didn't need to know about that.

So it began. The orientation was quite surprising and revealing. I had little understanding of the kind of work private detectives did in this modern age. Sam Spade was long dead, and his methods as well. Science played a major role, along with forensic accounting and plain, old-fashioned footwork. The advent of GPS systems had changed the art of tracking people and items, making it easier and more precise.

On the other hand, the need for irrefutable evidence was heightened at the same time. Harold was religious about following the law and involving law enforcement when crimes had been uncovered. He wanted police co-operation, not confrontation. He spent a great deal of his time cultivating the relationships with the RCMP and city police forces. It had paid off handsomely. He was happy to let the police take the credit, and they were happy to get the help. His clients were glad to have their problems resolved.

It was the following Tuesday that I had decided to stay a little later and talk to a couple of the operatives in the industrial espionage group. I phoned Natasha's apartment and left a message that I might be a little later getting back there. She usually got home just before five, and I didn't want her to worry if I wasn't there when she arrived.

It was not much after five-thirty when I walked down the hallway to her apartment and slipped the key card into the slot. I entered the room and noticed all the lights were on, but I couldn't hear any sounds from Natasha. I began to walk toward the kitchen entrance when I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I froze for a moment, then carefully got down on my belly on the carpet, drawing my gun.

As I looked toward the kitchen entrance, I noticed the fridge door was slightly ajar and there seemed to be a light spray of something on the door. I lay still, my mind screaming at me to do something. All those hours of training began to kick in. Don't make the first move. Make your adversary come to you. Be patient ... but be ready.

I couldn't tell if there was anyone in the kitchen or in the back of the apartment. I concentrated on listening for anything that might help me locate the hit man ... if that's who it was. I don't know if time compresses or expands when you're in a situation like this. It might have been less than a minute or it might have been much longer, I couldn't tell. I knew I was forcing myself to breathe evenly, steady my nerves, and be alert. I might only get one chance.

It's strange what goes through your mind when you are under extreme stress. Logic was asking me if he might have body armor. If so, did I have to risk a head shot? Would he have a silencer? It reduced muzzle velocity and altered accuracy. Intermixed with these questions I wondered what Natasha had been preparing for dinner. I couldn't smell anything. I waited, not daring to make a sound or a move.

Then, I heard it. The slightest squeak of a door moving. There was only one place it could be and that was in the back. And, there was only one way out of the back and that was directly in front of me. I remained in the prone shooting position, forcing myself to stay calm and be ready for whatever came next.

It came in a blur. The intruder dove to the carpeted entrance, rolling once and coming up in a kneeling shooting position. I aimed and squeezed the trigger once before he had finished moving. My bullet tore away the left side of his head above the ear. I had hit my target, but only just. He dropped face down on the carpet and didn't move. I stayed in my shooting position for some time before I ventured to rise and move toward him.

A quick feel of his carotid artery confirmed he was dead. I kicked the gun away from his body, but he wouldn't need it any more. I began to breathe again. I holstered my gun and turned toward the kitchen and stopped cold. Natasha was sitting in a kitchen chair, hands bound behind her and feet tied to the chair. Her head drooped on her chest, her hair matted with blood on the back. There was little doubt she was dead too.

I walked carefully to the entrance of the kitchen. She had been executed, just as my parents had been. The speckles on the refrigerator were blood spatter. I took another deep breath. She had no chance ... not against a professional, a guy who could beat all the CSIS and Orca surveillance and work his way into the apartment.

I stood there for a moment more before realizing that someone might have heard my gunshot and called the police. It woke me from my trance. I walked quickly to the laundry area and took the collapsible footstool to the hall closet. In seconds I had removed my sport bag and replaced the hatch cover. I took the Slim-Line, wiped it clean, and threw it on the carpet in front of the dead man. I holstered my unused alternate.