COLD FRONT by GIC
Chapter 1: THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM
Vancouver had always been a city of contradictions. Towering glass skyscrapers reflected the surrounding mountains and ocean, a constant reminder of nature’s dominion. Yet, beneath the polished veneer of bustling markets and overpriced cafes, the city seethed.
Alex Chan walked the rain-slicked streets of East Van; his coat pulled tight against the cold drizzle. The faint stench of garbage lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of spray paint. A fresh mural loomed on the brick wall of an abandoned bookstore: a red maple leaf with a snarling wolf at its centre, the emblem of the True North Front.
Alex stopped and snapped a picture with his phone. He’d seen the insignia everywhere over the past six months—on street corners, overpass pillars, and even scrawled across the doors of immigrant-owned businesses. Each sighting gnawed at him like a splinter lodged deep under his skin.
“Another one?” asked a voice behind him.
Alex turned to see Aisha Patel, a community organizer and an old friend. She was holding a box of canned goods destined for the nearby community centre, one of the few places offering refuge to families targeted by TNF sympathizers.
“Third one this week,” Alex said, showing her the photo.
Aisha frowned. “It’s not just graffiti anymore. Last night, two Tamil families were attacked in their homes. They won’t even report it. They’re too scared of the police doing nothing—or worse.”
Alex nodded grimly. The Vancouver Police Department had grown disturbingly apathetic. Whispers circulated that TNF had infiltrated precincts, with officers quietly endorsing their rhetoric. The same officers who’d shrugged off vandalism now paid no heed to assault.
Aisha shifted the box in her arms. “You coming to the rally tonight?”
“Can’t. I’ve got a lead to follow.”
She arched an eyebrow. “About David?”
Alex’s chest tightened. “Maybe.”
David had disappeared three weeks ago after attending a TNF rally in Burnaby. It wasn’t just any rally—it was a full-blown recruitment event, complete with flags, chants, and speeches from Malcolm Frost, the movement’s enigmatic leader. Frost had a way of twisting fear into fervour, preaching about a “return to Canadian values” while stoking hatred against anyone deemed un-Canadian.
Alex had tried calling, texting, and even visiting their parents’ house in Richmond, but David had gone silent. The only clue was a cryptic message left on Alex’s voicemail the day after the rally: “You wouldn’t understand. But you’ll see soon enough.”
Back in his cramped apartment, Alex stared at his laptop. The leaked document sat open, its blacked-out lines and bureaucratic jargon making his pulse quicken.
The file had come from an anonymous source, someone claiming to work in Ottawa’s Ministry of Public Safety. It outlined a cover investigation into TNF’s infiltration of federal agencies, including the Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.
Alex’s stomach churned as he read the words for the fifth time: “There is credible evidence to suggest that members of the True North Front have established a significant presence within government institutions. Several high-ranking officials are suspected of complicity in their activities, including the facilitation of ‘Operation Northern Dawn.’”
Operation Northern Dawn. Whatever it was, the file didn’t explain. And now his source was dead.
Peter Huang had been a mid-level analyst in Ottawa, someone Alex had spoken to only through encrypted chats. His last message had been frantic: “They know. This goes deeper than anyone thought. If you don’t hear from me by Friday, it’s because they got me.”
Friday came, and so did the news. Hunag’s body was found in a parking garage near Parliament Hill, the victim of an apparent mugging. His wallet was untouched.
Alex leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. He wasn’t naïve—he’d seen people disappear before, especially those who poked too hard at the wrong stories. But this felt different. The scale of it, the coordination—it was suffocating,
A ping from his phone jolted him. It was a text from an unknown number: “They’re coming for you next. You need to leave.”
The words sent a shiver down his spine.
Night fell, and the city took on an eerie stillness. Alex wandered to his window, gazing out at the rain-soaked streets. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, fading into the damp air.
His phone buzzed again, another message from the unknown number: “Westminster Bridge. Midnight. Bring the document.”
Alex’s first instinct was to ignore it. Meeting strangers in the middle of the night wasn’t exactly his idea of journalism. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was his only shot at finding answers—about David, about TNF, and about Operation Northern Dawn.
He grabbed his coat and stuffed the printed document into his bag. Sliding his apartment door shut, he hesitated.
A faint sound reached his ears like boots scraping against concrete. He turned sharply, but the hallway was empty.
Forcing himself to breathe, Alex stepped into the elevator. As the doors closed, a shadow moved across the far end of the corridor, and the faint gleam of a wolf-emblazoned badge caught the dim light.
The rain hammered down as Alex stood on Westminster Bride, his heart pounding against his ribs. Midnight had come and gone, and still, no one had arrived.
He tightened his grip on the bag, scanning the empty streets: a single car rolled by, its headlights cutting through the mist.
“Alex Chan?”
The voice came from behind. He spun around to see a woman in a black raincoat, her face obscured by a hood.
“Who are you?” Alex demanded.
The woman stepped closer, her voice low. “You don’t have much time. TNF is accelerating their plans. Operation Northern Dawn starts next week.”
“What is it?”
“Purge,” she said flatly. “Coordinated attacks in major cities. They’re targeting activists, journalists, immigrant communities—anyone they see as a threat. Vancouver will be first.”
Alex’s throat tightened. “How do you know this?”
“Because I used to be one of them,” she said. “And trust me, they don’t leave loose ends.”
Before Alex could press further, headlights flooded the bridge. The woman cursed under her breath. “They found us.”
A black SUV screeched to a halt, and men in tactical gear spilled out, their badges bearing the wolf insignia.
“Run,” she hissed.
Alex bolted, the rain blurring his vision. Behind him, boots pounded against the pavement, and the crack of a gunshot split the air.
As he disappeared into the labyrinth of Vancouver’s street, one thought consumed him: the wolves were no longer at the door—they were inside the house.