30
LOKAN
The cargo plane's landing gear hit the runway with a bone-jarring thump that woke Carol from her exhausted sleep. She jerked upright against Lokan's shoulder, blinking in confusion at the dim cargo hold around them.
"Where are we?" she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
"Finland," Lokan said, peering out the small porthole window at the grey dawn light illuminating the airport. Pine forests stretched beyond the runway, dark green against patches of lingering snow. "The pilot mentioned Rovaniemi."
Carol yawned. "Well, anywhere is better than Russia."
"It's also not the first time the clan has run an operation here," Grant said. "Finland is where the Kra-ell we saved from Igor's compound boarded our ship."
Camden started collecting their things. "No offense to the Russian people, but I'm very happy to be out of there. I thought that Putin was a strong leader, but it seems like that country is ruled by its criminal element."
Grant chuckled. "Aren't they all?"
Carol nodded, her curls bouncing enticingly even when tangled from sleep. "Most politicians are crooks who are in it for the money. It's a legal mafia."
"At least they are not trying to kill us," Dougal said.
"Yet," Lokan countered.
"Welcome to Finland, folks. Local time is 6:47 AM," the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom. "The temperature is a balmy two degrees Celsius. There's a van waiting for you on the tarmac—blue Ford Transit, the driver's name is Mikko. He's expecting you. Good luck to you all."
"Any chance this Mikko is going to try to collect a bounty on us?" Carol finger-combed her tangled hair with little success.
"I can vouch for him personally." The pilot walked into the cabin. "We are all old friends." She smiled. "You're safe here."
Once the cargo ramp had lowered with a hydraulic whine, letting in a blast of crisp Arctic air that made them all shiver despite their immortal constitutions, they rushed to put on their jackets.
"There's our ride," Dougal said, nodding toward a blue van parked some fifty meters away.
A tall, lean man stood beside it, wearing a green corduroy jacket and a gray scarf. His hands were in his pockets, and he was watching them with the relaxed alertness of someone with extensive military training. Lokan could spot former Special Ops guys from a mile away, and this guy was entirely obvious.
They gathered all of their possessions, mainly weapons, plus what they had stored in their packs, and walked down the ramp. Lokan kept Carol close, his arm around her waist.
"Hello, Mikko," Grant said as they approached the guy.
He nodded, ice-blue eyes taking in their bedraggled state. "And you must be Turner's lost sheep. Rough journey?"
"You could say that," Lokan confirmed.
Mikko cracked a smile. "Come on, let's get you somewhere warm. We can swap war stories on the way. I'm sure you are eager for showers, coffee, and something to eat."
They piled into the van, Grant sitting next to Mikko, Lokan and Carol taking the middle row, and the two other Guardians in the back.
"The safe house is about forty minutes north," Mikko said as he pulled away from the airport. "Full amenities, hot water, proper beds, stocked kitchen. Turner said to take good care of you, so I got you the best."
"Thank you," Carol murmured. "A hot shower sounds like heaven."
"Any word on the situation with Turner's network?" Lokan asked.
Mikko shook his head. "It's under investigation. Turner is not the only one utilizing this wider network of operatives, and it is crucial that this Foxhound is found and eliminated; otherwise, the entire organization will collapse. Turner is now relying only on his close associates whom he knows personally. Like me."
"You served with him?" Grant asked.
"Delta Force, back in the day. Did a tour in Afghanistan together before he became a desk jockey." Mikko navigated the empty roads with the familiarity of someone who lived in the area. "I'm semi-retired, but when he called saying he needed a safe house and extraction for priority packages, no questions asked, I didn't hesitate."
