for the Quebecers—and make the province its own nation. Yet even then, John had grander designs, and his grievances were older than the French-Canadian resentments, the angry white men. He was Algonquin, a Native American—an Indian by the white man’s words. The Algonquin tribes of the Canadian Shield region had decided to join the French-Canadian separatists. Their secret agenda called for separating from Quebec once the French-Canadians won their independence from the rest of the country.
The Canadian Shield comprised northern Quebec. It was a geological wasteland, curving around Hudson Bay like a giant horseshoe. It largely consisted of snow, pines and the most ancient stones in the world. Few people lived there, but it boasted many lakes, famous resorts, vast forests and gold, copper, iron, nickel and uranium mines, wealth that white men lusted after.
The separatist movement did well the first few years. They even declared independence and formed a militia, on several occasions defeating Canadian Army formations. The split might have worked, but the U.S. interfered. They loaned the Canadian Government several hardnosed Marine battalions. John had fought and killed Marines and he’d seen many of his fellow Algonquians slaughtered, sometimes in the depths of the forest in their sleeping bags when Marine Recon fighters had surprised them.
Lost in his unpleasant thoughts, John forgot to pay attention on the Quebec City sidewalk. A businessman staring down at his smart phone bumped into him, their shoulders hitting. John looked up sharply, his scowl fueled by bitter memories. The businessman paled, his eyes darting away from the fierce gaze, and he muttered an apology. John might have shoved the troublemaker. If he’d been younger, he might have drawn his knife and waved it under the fat nose and watch the man piss his pants. Now…as an old warrior far past his fighting prime, John just stared at the intruder.
The businessman slipped the smart phone into a pocket and hurried away, his shoes clicking on the wet city sidewalk.
After a moment, John shrugged. The man meant nothing. He was a worker-ant for the oppressor of his people. If he was going to change things for the tribe, he must complete his mission.
He continued down the sidewalk, and he remembered the old days. The separatist war had fizzled out in the end, the French Canadians unable to stomach the deaths that fighting incurred. Finally—newspaper columnists said wisely—the Canadian Government offered amnesty to everyone.
On the sidewalk, John’s scowl deepened.
The Canadian Government had offered everyone the deal but the Algonquian tribesmen who had fought to free their ancient land from the white invaders. The government had called the Algonquian warriors terrorists, saying they had gone too far with their atrocities. As always, the Indian had become the pariah, an outcast to the so-called civilized peoples.
To save his hide, John had been forced to flee his homeland, flee Quebec and Canada. He went to the far north, to the oil platforms in the Arctic Circle, in the Arctic Ocean. He worked for Blacksand Security, providing his services as an armed guard. Seven years ago, he’d met one of the Marines who had fought in the Canadian Shield during the separatist war. Paul Kavanagh, a tough man he’d instantly hated and tried to drive away from the oil well.
Then once more, John’s world had turned upside down, changing the direction of his life. The Chinese had struck at night, submarines bursting up out of the pack ice to infiltrate commandos onto the oil platform. White Tigers had slaughtered the oilmen, although three of them had escaped, one of them being Paul Kavanagh. John and the former Recon Marine had trekked across the Arctic ice, seeking to reach Alaska. Along the way, they killed Chinese soldiers.
While walking the city sidewalk, John imagined that Paul Kavanagh was busy fighting the Chinese and South Americans invading his country. John wished him well. Kavanagh had proved to be a fierce warrior and a boon companion. With his help, John might have immigrated to America, but he had other plans, other dreams.
With his hands in his parka pockets, John used his wrists to press against the MAC-10 submachine gun strapped tightly to his torso under his coat. He had several extra magazines attached as well. Three days ago in the safe house, he had taken each bullet and cut a deep X in the tip. That would cause the bullet to expand once it plowed through flesh. Upon exiting a body, the expanded, X-cut slug would tear out that much more blood,