Tainted Blood

The asphalt of Highway 1 stretched out like a long, grease-stained belt across the flat, dead belly of Saskatchewan. Under a sky the color of dirty dishwater, the prairie didn’t feel like wide-open space. It felt like a trap. The wind came howling off the northern plains, hard and cold enough to make the rusted frame of the 2008 Ford F-150 shiver as it chewed through the miles. It was a miserable, dry chill that got inside a man’s teeth and stayed there.

Frank Millar kept his hands loose on the cracked plastic of the steering wheel. To anyone passing by, he was Mike Stone. He had the grease under his fingernails, the faded canvas jacket smelling of stale tobacco and cheap diesel, and the hard, empty stare of a man who had spent too many years looking at concrete walls. Underneath the heavy flannel shirt, the jagged scar across his collarbone throbbed in rhythm with the engine’s misfire. The compass tattoo on his right forearm was covered by his sleeve, but he could feel it there, a useless guide in a place where the horizon was just a flat line of nothing.

He adjusted his rearview mirror. The reflection showed a face that had aged five years in the last twelve months. The salt-and-pepper hair was buzzed down to the scalp, sharp and aggressive. Blue eyes, narrow and cold, stared back at him. He didn’t look like a cop. He didn’t feel like one either. The RCMP badge and the ECLIPSE credentials were locked in a steel safe-deposit box three hundred miles away in Winnipeg. Out here, those pieces of plastic were just a death warrant.

The truck’s heater blew a thin, lukewarm stream of air that smelled of burnt oil. Frank reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with a battered brass Zippo. He inhaled deeply, letting the harsh smoke burn his lungs. It was a bad habit he’d picked up during his first deep-cover stint with the highway bikers in Ontario, a habit he’d tried to quit three times. But out here, on the road to Moose Jaw, the nicotine was the only thing keeping the fog from rolling into his brain.

Moose Jaw was a quiet town on the surface, the kind of place people drove through on their way to somewhere better. But underneath the historic facades and the tourist tunnels lay a dark, rotting core. Thomas Bourassa ran the town like a feudal lord. He was a man who traded in heavy caliber rifles, high-grade methamphetamine, and human lives, all while wearing custom Western suits and shaking hands with the local city council. The Winnipeg office had been trying to put a wire on Bourassa for eighteen months. Three informants had gone into his circle. Two had vanished into the vast, empty badlands south of the city. The third had been pulled out of the Moose Jaw River in a zipped canvas equipment bag, his throat cut from ear to ear and his tongue pulled through the wound like a necktie.

Frank flicked the ash out the vent window. The wind whipped it away instantly. He knew the stakes. He’d agreed to the drop because there wasn’t anything left for him back east. His partners were dead, his marriage was a ghost story, and his handler, Agent Jason Ling, was the only man alive who still knew his real name. Ling had warned him before he left. "Bourassa isn't like the bikers you played with, Frank," Ling had said over a lukewarm cup of diner coffee. "Those guys have rules. They care about the club. Bourassa only cares about Bourassa. He's a psychopath with a bank account and a taste for blood. You get too close, and he'll swallow you whole."

Frank had just nodded and taken another sip of his coffee. He was already too far gone to care about the warning.

The truck began to rattle harder as he hit the city limits. Moose Jaw rose out of the dirt, a collection of low-slung brick buildings, grain elevators that stood like concrete tombstones against the gray sky, and neon signs that flickered weakly in the afternoon gloom. He bypassed the main drag, turning down a series of cracked asphalt side streets where the houses had peeling paint and overgrown lawns littered with rusted car parts. This was the underbelly, the place where the working-class grease met the criminal filth.

He pulled the truck into the gravel lot of The Rusty Spur Bar. The sign was a faded piece of plywood with a neon boot that didn't light up anymore. The building itself was a windowless cinderblock bunker, the kind of place where men went to drink away their pension checks or settle scores with their fists. The gravel crunched under his tires as he parked near the back, away from the sputtering streetlamp that was just starting to hum to life in the twilight.

Frank killed the engine. The silence that filled the cab was sudden and heavy, broken only by the ticking of the cooling manifold. He sat for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the shadows of the lot. He checked his side mirrors. He checked the street behind him. Nothing but the wind kicking up dust and blowing an empty potato chip bag across the gravel.

He reached down and patted the small, flat pocket on the inside of his boot. A small, folding blade was tucked against his ankle. No gun. Not yet. A guy looking for work as muscle didn’t walk into a Bourassa joint carrying a clean piece unless he wanted to be searched and marked as a cop or a rival hitman. He needed to look desperate, hungry, and dangerous, but not stupid.

He climbed out of the cab, the cold air hitting him like a physical slap. He slammed the heavy door shut, the metal-on-metal clang echoing off the cinderblock walls of the bar. He took a slow breath, adjusting his leather jacket, and walked toward the entrance. The heavy wooden door was covered in scratches, the brass handle worn down to a dull, oily yellow. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

The air inside The Rusty Spur was a thick, stagnant soup of stale draft beer, fried grease, and the sour sweat of men who worked twelve-hour shifts in the railyards. It was dark, the only illumination coming from a couple of sputtering beer signs and a single, shaded light bulb hanging over a green felt pool table near the back. A jukebox in the corner was murmuring a low, depressing country song about a man losing his farm, but nobody was listening.

Frank stood in the entryway for three seconds, letting his eyes adapt. It was an old tactical habit he couldn’t shake. You never walk into a dark room and keep moving; you stop, you scan, you locate the exits, and you find the threats.

There were maybe a dozen people in the place. A couple of old-timers sat at the bar, staring into their glasses like they were looking for answers they’d never find. Near the pool table, three younger guys in grease-stained coveralls were drinking cheap lager and laughing too loud, their voices carrying a nervous, edgy energy. But it was the corner booth in the far back that drew Frank’s attention. It was shrouded in shadow, but he could make out the massive, barrel-chested silhouette of Thomas Bourassa. Even in the dark, the man’s presence was like a weight in the room. He was wearing a dark western jacket with silver piping on the yoke, his thinning, gray hair slicked back so tight it looked painted on his skull. Next to him sat a lanky, twitchy guy in a stained track jacket—Remy Gagnon, the cook. Remy was leaning forward, his thick-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose as he spoke in a frantic whisper, his hands moving in small, jerky circles.

Frank didn’t look at them directly. He kept his gaze moving, acting like he was just looking for a place to sit. He walked with a slight, deliberate hitch in his stride, the gait of a man who had taken a few bad spills on a motorcycle and didn’t have the money to get his hip looked at. He took a stool at the far end of the bar, three seats down from the nearest patron, and placed his rough, scarred hands flat on the sticky laminate counter.

The bartender, a thick-necked man with a apron that had seen better decades, ambled over. He had a wet rag in one hand that he used to smear the grease around the bar.

"What'll it be?" the bartender grunted, his voice like gravel rolling in a drum.

"Pilsner. Bottle," Frank said. His voice was low, gravelly, and carried the flat, hard cadence of the Ontario highway towns. He didn't offer a smile, and he didn't make eye contact.

The bartender reached into the cooler, pulled out a brown bottle, popped the cap, and dropped it in front of Frank. He didn't bother with a glass. "Five-fifty."

Frank slid a crumpled ten-dollar bill across the counter. "Keep the change."

The bartender took the bill, gave Frank a long, evaluating look, and nodded once before walking back to the other end of the bar. Frank took a slow drink of the beer. It was cold, metallic, and tasted like copper, but it gave him something to do with his hands.

He needed a spark. He needed to get noticed, but it had to look organic. Bourassa was paranoid; if a stranger walked in and started asking questions, he’d end up in the river before midnight. He had to make the work come to him.

The opportunity presented itself five minutes later. One of the guys from the pool table, a broad-shouldered loudmouth with a shaved head and a cheap tattoo of a skull on his neck, stumbled toward the bar. He was drunk, his eyes glassy and wet, and he was looking for someone to look at him wrong. He slammed his empty pint glass onto the counter right next to Frank, the glass ringing against the laminate.

"Hey, old man," the loudmouth barked, directing his words at the bartender but staring hard at the side of Frank's head. "Give me another draft. And make it quick. I got money on this game."

The bartender didn't move fast enough to suit him. The loudmouth spat on the floor, then turned his full attention to Frank. He leaned in, his breath hot and reeking of stale whiskey and onions. "What the hell are you looking at, jacket?"

Frank didn't flinch. He didn't even turn his head. He just took another slow sip of his Pilsner, his movements deliberate and calm. "Nothing worth looking at," he said, his voice flat and quiet.

The loudmouth’s face flushed a dark, ugly red. His friends at the pool table stopped their game, sensing the shift in the room. The jukebox seemed to get quieter. "The fuck did you say to me?" the loudmouth sneered, stepping closer until he was invading Frank's personal space. "You think you're tough because you got some cheap leather? You're a long way from home, boy. I don't like your face."

Frank turned his head slowly, letting his blue eyes lock onto the drunk's. He didn't show anger. He didn't show fear. He just showed an empty, dead coldness that usually made smart men step back. But this guy wasn't smart, and he was too drunk to care.

"I said," Frank repeated, his voice dropping an octave, "you're making a lot of noise for a guy who can't keep his feet straight. Go back to your game before you hurt yourself."

The loudmouth didn't hesitate. He threw a wild, looping right hook aimed straight at Frank's jaw. It was a classic bar-room punch, slow and telegraphed from a mile away.

Frank didn't use his hands first. He ducked his head inside the punch, letting the fist graze his shoulder. In the same fluid motion, he drove his elbow hard into the loudmouth’s ribs. The crack of bone was loud enough to carry over the hum of the beer signs. The drunk gasped, his air leaving him in a wet wheeze as he doubled over.

Frank didn't let up, but he kept it dirty, making it look like a desperate street brawl rather than the precise, lethal close-quarters combat he’d been taught by the military and the agency. He grabbed the back of the loudmouth's shaved head and slammed his face hard into the edge of the bar. The wood splintered slightly, and a spray of dark blood splattered across the laminate.

The loudmouth’s two friends yelled and lunged forward, dropping their pool cues. The first one, a skinny kid with a patchy beard, tried to tackle Frank around the waist. Frank stepped back, throwing his weight into the kid’s face with a short, brutal headbutt. The kid’s nose shattered with a wet pop, and he fell backward into the pool table, groaning and clutching his face as blood poured through his fingers.

The third guy stopped dead in his tracks. He looked at his two bleeding friends on the floor, then looked at Frank, who was standing there with his chest heaving slightly, his fists clenched, and a drop of someone else’s blood slowly running down his cheek. Frank didn't move. He just stared at the last man standing, his face a mask of absolute, violent resolve.

"You want some too?" Frank asked, his voice low and dangerous.

The third guy raised his hands in a defensive gesture, shaking his head. "No, man. No. We're good. We're good." He reached down, grabbed his bleeding friend by the arm, and began dragging him toward the door. The kid with the broken nose scrambled up on his own, sobbing as he stumbled out into the cold night air, leaving a trail of dark red drops on the dirty floorboards.

The bar was dead silent now. The bartender had a short, heavy wooden club in his hand, but he wasn't moving. He just stared at Frank with a mixture of respect and caution.

Frank didn't look at the floor. He took a deep breath, reached into his pocket, pulled out a napkin, and wiped the blood off his cheek. He tossed the dirty paper onto the bar, then picked up his Pilsner and took a long drink. His hand was perfectly steady.

From the shadows of the back booth, a slow, heavy clapping sound began. It was deliberate, mocking, and authoritative.

Frank turned his head slowly. Thomas Bourassa was standing up, his massive frame emerging from the darkness of the corner. He had a wide, predatory grin on his florid face, his small, dark eyes glittering like wet coal. He looked like a man who had just watched a particularly entertaining dog fight.

"Well, now," Bourassa boomed, his voice filling the quiet bar with a false, heavy warmth. "That was a hell of a show. You don't see that kind of efficiency much anymore. Most guys these days just want to yell and push each other around like schoolgirls."

Bourassa gestured with a thick, ring-adorned hand toward his booth. "Come on over here, friend. Let me buy you a drink that doesn't taste like horse piss."

Frank let his shoulders drop slightly, acting like the adrenaline was starting to fade. He didn't look too eager. He took a slow breath, picked up his beer, and walked toward the back booth. Every step was deliberate. He knew this was the moment. The door was open; now he had to walk through it without tripping the wire.

He stopped at the edge of the booth. Bourassa was sitting back down, his massive bulk sliding onto the vinyl seat with a heavy groan. Remy Gagnon was sitting next to him, his twitchy eyes darting from Frank's face to his hands, his fingers nervously picking at a tear in his track jacket. Remy looked like he wanted to run, but he was too terrified of the man sitting beside him to move.

"Sit," Bourassa said, pointing to the empty bench opposite him. It wasn't an invitation; it was a command.

Frank slid into the booth. The vinyl was cold and cracked under his weight. He placed his beer on the table and sat back, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes locked on Bourassa's face.

"I'm Thomas," the big man said, leaning forward and resting his thick forearms on the table. He didn't offer his hand. "This twitchy bastard next to me is Remy. Don't mind him; he's just jumpy because he drinks too much of his own coffee."

Remy gave a weak, high-pitched chuckle that ended in a dry cough. "Yeah. Just coffee. Nice to meet you, man."

"Mike," Frank said simply. "Mike Stone."

"Well, Mike," Bourassa said, reaching down and pulling a bottle of high-end rye whiskey and two clean glasses from a shelf under the table. He poured a generous shot into each glass, the amber liquid smelling sweet and sharp. He slid one of the glasses across the table toward Frank. "You're not from around here. I know every face in this town that can swing a fist like that, and I've never seen yours."

"Just got in," Frank said. He picked up the glass of rye but didn't drink it yet. "Drove down from Ontario. Thunder Bay."

"Thunder Bay," Bourassa repeated, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as he evaluated the information. "Cold place. Rough town. Lots of bikers up that way."

"Too many," Frank said, his voice hard. "And too many cops. The Satan's Choice guys got greedy, started selling to kids, and the RCMP put a net over the whole city. I had a shop there. Custom bikes, fabrication. But when the dust settled, there wasn't any business left, and the bank took the keys. I didn't feel like staying around to watch some kid in a suit sell my tools."

It was a solid lie, one that the Winnipeg office had spent three weeks building. They’d set up a dummy corporation, a fake tax history, and even a shut-down shop on the outskirts of Thunder Bay with a phone line that routed directly to a secure desk in the Winnipeg detachment. If Bourassa had someone check, the story would hold.

Bourassa took a long drink of his rye, his throat moving in a thick, heavy swallow. He let out a satisfied grunt and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Bikers. Greedy bastards. No discipline. They think because they wear a patch, they're kings. They don't understand that a real business needs structure. It needs a head. You can't have ten guys running the show, or everyone ends up in a cell."

He leaned closer, his small, dark eyes boring into Frank’s. "You got a record, Mike?"

"A couple of assault charges," Frank said, his voice casual. "One for dangerous driving. Nothing that stayed on the books for long. I know how to keep my mouth shut, if that's what you're asking."

Bourassa chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that felt like a warning. "I like a man who knows the value of silence. It's a rare commodity these days. Most people can't wait to tell the world everything they know, especially when the cops start asking questions."

He paused, his eyes moving over Frank's broad shoulders and the thick, scarred knuckles of his hands. "What are you looking for out here in the middle of nowhere?"

"Work," Frank said simply. "I don't care what it is, as long as it pays in cash and doesn't involve sitting behind a desk. I can fix anything with an engine, and as you just saw, I don't mind getting my hands dirty if someone gets in my way."

Bourassa nodded slowly, his fingers tapping a rhythmic, heavy beat against his glass. "I might have something for a guy with your skills. The RCMP has been sniffing around my usual transport guys lately. Some young punk got nervous and decided he wanted to talk to the feds. I had to... reorganize my logistics department."

Frank felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He knew what "reorganize" meant in Bourassa's vocabulary. The third informant, the one pulled from the river, had been one of those transport guys. Bourassa had killed him himself, likely with the heavy brass-buckled belt he wore or a short piece of wire, before dumping the body like garbage.

"I don't get nervous," Frank said, keeping his voice deadpan. "And I don't talk to cops. I don't like the color of their cars."

Bourassa laughed, a loud, booming sound that made several people at the bar look over before quickly turning back to their drinks. "I like you, Mike. You got balls. Most guys walk into my town and they're sweating through their shirts before they even see me. You just sit there and drink your beer like you own the place."

He leaned back, his massive chest expanding. "Tell you what. I got a shipment coming in from the south in two days. Heavy stuff. I need someone who knows how to drive a truck through a blizzard without ditching it, and someone who can handle themselves if some local trash tries to get cute at the drop point. You interested?"

"Depends on the numbers," Frank said, playing the part of the mercenary. "I don't work for exposure."

"Two thousand," Bourassa said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Cash. In your hand when the truck is parked in my yard. You do a good job, and there's more where that came from. A lot more. I run this town, Mike. You stick with me, and you'll never have to worry about some bank taking your tools again."

Frank looked down at his glass of rye, then back up at Bourassa. He raised the glass. "Two thousand. Cash. We have a deal."

Bourassa grinned, his gold tooth catching the dim light of the bar. He clinked his glass against Frank's. "To new partnerships, Mike. Don't make me regret this."

"I don't make mistakes," Frank said, and drained the glass in one swallow. The rye was hot, burning a trail down his throat and settling like a ball of fire in his stomach.

They talked for another twenty minutes, Bourassa laying out the broad strokes of the operation without giving away too many details. He was careful, even with a guy he liked. He wanted Frank to meet him at a warehouse on the northern edge of town at eight o'clock on Thursday morning. Remy would be there with the keys and the manifest.

Frank listened, his brain recording every detail, every name, every location. He kept his face neutral, nodding at the right times, playing the quiet, reliable soldier. But inside, his mind was racing. He was in. The first connection was made, and it had been easier than he'd expected. But he knew that ease was an illusion. Bourassa was a predator, and predators didn't trust easily. This was just the bait.

When the conversation wound down, Frank stood up, sliding out of the booth. "I'll see you Thursday, Thomas."

"Don't be late, Mike," Bourassa said, his voice carrying that false, heavy warmth again. "I hate waiting. It makes me cranky. And when I get cranky, people get hurt."

Frank nodded once, then turned and walked out of the bar. The cold air hit him like a physical blow as he stepped out onto the gravel lot, the wind howling down the empty street. He felt a deep, heavy exhaustion settling into his bones, but he couldn't let his guard down yet.

He walked quickly to his truck, the gravel crunching under his boots. He climbed into the cab, locked the doors, and sat in the dark for a moment, letting his breathing slow. His hands were cold, but they weren't shaking. He was back in the game, and the board was set.

He started the engine, the old Ford groaning as it came to life. He backed out of the lot and drove down the empty, dark street toward the highway. He needed to find a place to sleep, a low-rent motel where he could make his report and try to get some rest before the real work began.

He drove for ten minutes, his eyes constantly checking his mirrors. The city was quiet, almost dead, the only signs of life the occasional flickering light in a window or the headlights of a distant car. He turned onto a secondary road that ran parallel to the highway, looking for one of the cheap, run-down motels that catered to truckers and people who didn't want to be found.

He found one about three miles outside of town. The Plainsman Motel was a long, single-story concrete block building with a neon sign that had only three working letters: "M-O-T-E-L." The paint on the doors was peeling, and the gravel parking lot was full of potholes that had filled with dirty ice.

Frank parked in front of room twelve, the furthest from the office. He killed the engine and sat in the quiet cab for a long moment, letting his eyes sweep the dark lot. Nothing but a rusted-out Buick parked three spaces down and the wind whistling through the power lines above.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, heavily encrypted satellite phone. It was no larger than a standard flip phone, but it was linked to a secure network that bypassed the local towers entirely. He dialed a ten-digit number from memory.

The call rang twice before a deep, calm voice answered. "Go ahead."

"I'm in," Frank said, his voice barely a whisper in the quiet cab. "Met the target at the Spur. He bought the story about Thunder Bay. He's got a run for me on Thursday morning. Two thousand cash."

There was a short pause on the other end of the line, the sound of static hum filling the silence. "Any issues?" Ling asked, his voice steady but carrying a trace of worry.

"Had to clean up some local trash to get his attention," Frank said. "Nothing major. Just a bar fight. Bourassa liked the look of it. He's looking for muscle because he had to 'reorganize' his logistics. I think he took out the last guy."

"We know," Ling said, his voice dropping an octave. "The coroner in Regina just finished the ID on the body from the river. It was Miller. He was one of ours, Frank. He’d been in for six months. Bourassa must have made him."

Frank felt a cold spike of adrenaline hit his chest. Miller. He hadn't known the guy, but he'd known his name. Another name to add to the list of the dead. "How did he make him?"

"We don't know yet," Ling said. "But you need to be careful. Bourassa is paranoid. If he suspects anything, you're done. No backup, Frank. You're on your own out there."

"I've been on my own before," Frank said, his voice hard. "I'll handle it. I'll check in after the run on Thursday."

"Keep your head down, Frank," Ling said. "And don't get too close to the flame."

The line went dead.

Frank closed the phone and slid it back into his pocket. He sat in the dark for another minute, his mind spinning. The reality of the situation was settling in. This wasn't just an undercover assignment; it was a survival game. One wrong move, one slip of the tongue, and he'd end up in a canvas bag in the river.

He reached for his keys, ready to get out of the truck and check into his room, when a strange, low hum caught his ear. It was faint, barely audible over the wind, but it was there—a tiny, high-frequency buzz that seemed to be coming from underneath the dashboard.

Frank froze. His military training kicked in instantly, his senses sharpening to a razor edge. He reached down, his fingers searching the plastic paneling beneath the steering column, tracing the wires, searching for anything that didn't belong.

His fingers brushed against something small, hard, and metallic. It was tucked deep behind the fuse box, held in place by a strip of heavy black electrical tape. He pulled it free with a sharp tug.

He held it up to the dim light of the passing headlights of a distant semi on the highway. It was a compact, battery-powered GPS tracker, its tiny red LED light blinking in a slow, steady rhythm. It was a professional piece of gear, but it wasn't RCMP issue. The feds used a different model, one that integrated directly into the truck’s electrical system to avoid detection.

This was something else. A commercial tracker, the kind used by private investigators or... rival gangs.

Frank felt a cold sweat break out on his neck. His truck was bugged. And it wasn't the police who were watching him. It was someone else. A rival syndicate? The Russian mafia that Bourassa was tied to? Or maybe the local biker gang that was looking for a way to get to Bourassa?

He stared at the blinking red light, the silence of the cab suddenly feeling very heavy, very dangerous. The game had just gotten a lot more complicated, and the first move hadn't even been played yet.