Rise of the Huskers (The Raven Falconer Chronicles) Read Free Page A

his feet to the floor, muttering as he did.  With a large hand he attempted to smooth back a row of unruly, wavy locks, which extended a few centimeters down his forehead, the brown hair immediately springing back, out of place.  A pair of much darker, arched eyebrows shaded hazel eyes, injected red from lack of sleep over the past few nights.  In boot camp he’d often been teased about the length of his eyelashes, which curled up, touching his brow.  The veteran generally wore his hair cropped short, a look he’d embraced while serving in the Canadian Special Forces, but lately a haircut had been pushed well to the bottom of his list of things to do.  However, he’d kept his strong jawline and upper lip cleanly shaved, again a holdover from his service abroad.  Fine, light-brown hairs covered his arms and legs but for a length of skin on his right upper thigh, where shrapnel from an IED had permanently scarred the tissue. 
    Rubbing his eyes, he tried to make sense of the concussion he’d heard, or imagined, only seconds before.  The muscular officer stood, stretching and extending his arms well overhead, before placing his hands on his hips and spinning his torso back and forth.  A definitive ‘ pop ’ sounded from his lower spine and he let out a quick, “Whew, that’s got it,” as he reached for his pants draped over the back of a lone, steel chair.  Nowicki stretched a thin, too often worn, blue undershirt over his broad chest, testing the fabric and outlining his toned physique.  The gym was his home away from home; a place to unwind, relieve stress and meet women.  However, taking care of his own needs seemed misguided, as duty and devotion to the little, mountainous community was foremost on his mind.
    Though he’d slept with thick, woolen socks over his feet, the concrete floor’s cold permeated the material easily and chilled him to the core.  “Damn, I hate winter,” he hissed, in the same moment that another, more distinctive blast erupted outside the police station.  “What the hell?” he shouted.
    Ziggy finished dressing , taking a second to wrap his heavy, leather belt and holster around his waist, before he used the key to make good his escape.  Hustling down the narrow corridor between cells, he arrived at yet another locked door, which he hurriedly unlocked and pushed aside, bringing him to the main office area and foyer.  Nothing was disturbed.  It was just as he’d left it the night before; lights off but the generator humming gently in the background.  Glad that’s still working, he thought, as he ran to a front window, his Glock now extricated from the holster and partnered with his right hand.
    Outside, a man knelt behind an RCMP crui ser, one knee resting on a thin layer of wet snow and the other at a 90-degree angle to support his weight.  He held a scoped rifle, which the shooter slowly pivoted a few degrees right and left, looking for his next shot.  Unable to see the man’s face, Officer Nowicki burst through the front door and leveled his pistol at the figure.  Frightened, the man spun, dropping onto his butt in the cold, soggy ground, both feet splayed before him as he brought his Savage 300 to bear on the officer.
    “Hold up there,” Ziggy yelled, concentrating to keep his Glock’s laser sight dancing on the man’s forehead.
    “Nowicki?  That you?” the shocked civilian stammered.
    “Yup, and who are you?”
    “Willie, Willie Daniels – you pulled me over up by the hot springs a month or so ago and ticketed me for speeding.”  There was a quiet pause before Willie continued, “Thought all you guys were gone.”
    “Not hardly – you see me standing here, don’t ya?  What in the world you doing out here this morning?  You ‘bout got yourself shot!”  Ziggy lowered his pistol but did not return it to the leather case.
    “I had to try.  With those things roaming the streets at night and supplies all but gone, I had to try.”
    “Try