Arctic Rising: A Constable Maratse Stand Alone novella (Guerrilla Greenland Book 3) by Christoffer Petersen (good ebook reader .TXT) 📕

“Of course,” Walcott said. “I should have seen it coming. Your file…” He laughed. “All those flags and markers.” Another laugh. “If you didn’t speak English, and you weren’t a police constable, you would never have made the list. You could have lived the quiet life in one of the settlements.”

“Until,” Maratse said, speaking out of the side of his mouth, “you forced me to move.”

“Right.” Walcott snorted. “And what’s so bad about that? I mean, really, tell me, because I don’t get it, and I don’t get this,” he said, gesturing at the store. “Life out here is so very fragile. The store is practically bare.” He pointed at a flat screen television behind the counter. “You say you can buy modern things, but you can only get one channel on the TV. All the packets and cans of food have a government label on them, allowing them to be sold way after the best before date. Yes,” he said, nodding, “I saw that and got someone to explain it to me. You see…” Walcott lowered the rifle to the ground and crossed one leg over the other. “I’m not blind to how you live your life outside the city limits, I just don’t understand why you want to live like this.”

Maratse leaned forward and Walcott removed the last of his cigarette. He stubbed it out on the linoleum. Maratse watched him.

“Boss?” Isra waved from the counter.

“Just a minute.”

“I don’t think we have a minute. We should go.”

Walcott lifted his head, narrowing his eyes as he looked at her. “I said…”

“I know, but if we’re going to get on the helo, it has to be now.”

“Why?”

Isra tapped the trigger guard of her carbine as she looked at Maratse, then turned to Walcott. “If we don’t go right now, there’s going to be trouble.”

“What kind?”

“Police,” Maratse said. He tilted his head at the sound of an outboard motor roaring towards the shore.

“Fuck.” Walcott grabbed his rifle, clicked his fingers for Isra to join him, then curled his hand around Maratse’s arm, pulling him to his feet.

“It’s the young one,” Isra said, as she grabbed Maratse’s other arm. Together, they pulled him through the store to the door.

“Danielsen?”

“That’s the one,” Downs said. He waved them down the splintered steps to the ground, then signalled Mitchell to cover the rear. “There’s two in an inflatable, heading for the beach. The cutter is moving around to the east.” Downs pointed. “Towards the helicopter. The fog is lifting. You’ll see them any second.”

“Right,” Walcott said. “You’ve tried calling them?”

“On what?” Downs tapped the radio clipped to the shoulder of his tactical vest. “This is the team radio. We need VHF or something.”

“I have a radio,” Maratse said.

“What?” Downs frowned at him.

“In my jacket pocket.”

Isra let go of Maratse’s arm and pulled the radio from his pocket. She turned the dial to switch it on. “Channel?”

“Twelve.” Maratse nodded at the screen. “It’s already tuned in. Just push to…”

Isra cut him off. “I know how to use a fucking radio.”

“Easy,” Walcott said. “Give them a call.”

Isra lifted the radio to her mouth, then handed it to Walcott. “It’s better coming from you.”

Walcott took the radio. He held it for a second, then nodded. “Okay.” Walcott pressed the transmit button, and said, “This is Special Assistant Spenser Walcott calling the police cutter…” He looked at Maratse.

“Sisak.”

“Sisak,” Walcott said. “What are your intentions, over?”

“Tango,” Mitchell said. He dropped to one knee and pulled his carbine to his shoulder. “Twelve o’clock. Two cops. Armed. One of them has a rifle.”

“More behind,” Downs said, as he pushed past Walcott. “A woman with a rifle. There.” He pointed. “She just slipped behind that house.”

“Take it easy,” Walcott said. “Pick your targets. Isra?”

“What?”

“Take the constable.”

“Where?”

“To the helo,” Walcott said. “Walk slow. We’ll cover you.”

The radio crackled as Isra grabbed Maratse’s arm.

“Special Assistant Walcott, this is Sergeant Sullineq of the Greenland Police.”

“Yes?” Walcott said, keying the transmit button.

“We’re here to take Constable David Maratse into custody. We advise you not to interfere.”

“Into custody?” Walcott laughed as he replied. “That’s just what we’re doing, Sergeant. I suggest you let us continue, and then we can swap notes once we have the constable back in Nuuk.”

“That’s not possible,” Sullineq said.

“What’s not possible?” Walcott frowned as Danielsen and the second police officer drew nearer. “This is an IGA, matter, Sergeant. And if you check, I think you’ll find you work for me. So, if you want to save yourself a lot of embarrassment and paperwork, then I suggest you let us take Constable Maratse to the helicopter and we can take it from there.”

“Negative,” Sullineq said.

“What did you say, Sergeant?”

“I said that’s a negative.”

“What part?”

“Working for you.”

Walcott stared at the radio, barely registering Isra’s struggle as Maratse slipped free of her grip and dropped to the ground.

“What the hell?” he said, stumbling as Downs grabbed the back of his vest and pulled him down into the dirt. Isra aimed a kick at Maratse, only to curse as Mitchell shouted something about a grenade.

Part 8

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The grenade detonated with a magnesium flash that blinded Walcott and Isra, and a deafening bang that echoed in the fog as if the grenade had gone off inside a room. Isra rolled onto her side, raising her carbine, finger on the trigger. She blinked into the fog, working her jaw and shaking her head as she tried to compensate for the effects of the flashbang. Walcott knelt on the ground – one hand fumbling for the carbine slung around his body, the other clutching Maratse’s utility belt.

“Target left,” Downs shouted. “Ten o’clock. Firing.”

The last ring of the grenade evaporated with the first burst of bullets from Downs’ carbine. He added a second, then a third, chasing his target behind the house to the left of the IGA team.

“Target on the right,” Mitchell shouted. He opened up, emptying a full magazine into the side of the store, stitching