The Hunted e-2 Read online

  Heston, Park, and Noboru fanned out to the left, while Lakota, Daugherty, and Copeland shifted right. The plan was simple: Guide Thomas through the center of their flanking positions, toward the trucks. Once he passed, they would squeeze the belt on the approaching Spetsnaz and catch them in a crossfire — which was, in fact, a diversion that would allow Riggs and Schleck — the sentinels positioned in the trees — to shoot them from their overhead snipers’ perches.

  How much of that plan survived the first enemy contact was a question they had no time to pose—

  Because in less than two minutes they’d have their answer.

  Lakota cursed.

  “What?” Brent asked.

  “Check southern perimeter. Got some armed officers from Sandhurst moving into the woods. They must’ve spotted the Russians.”

  Brent saw them, too. “Aw, man…”

  “I know,” she said.

  “Cross-Com, this is Ghost Lead,” Brent called into his mike, activating the Cross-Com’s new artificial-intelligence feedback control.

  “Go ahead, Ghost Lead,” came the automated voice of a tactical computer aboard a satellite hurtling some 220,000 miles over Brent’s head.

  “Lock on to foes. All others in the area are IDed as friendlies, over.”

  “Roger. Foes locked. Friendlies identified. Four additional combatants moving into operational zone. Are these the contacts you wish IDed as friendlies, over?”

  “Roger!”

  “Designating.”

  At least Brent’s people wouldn’t misidentify those officers from the academy; they would appear as green blips in the team’s HUDs. However, those academy personnel could easily mistake a Ghost Recon troop for a Russian — after all, both groups wore nondescript black, with only the design of their helmets being different, along with their communications devices. The Russians had a headset resembling a pair of sunglasses, whereas the Cross-Com was monocle-based.

  Of course, you had to think like a young military man whose country was being invaded: Any guy with a gun who didn’t look like British military was an enemy. Shoot first. Apologize later.

  Brent notified the rest of the team about the academy officers as he and the other group advanced toward their flanking zones. Their jobs were threefold now: rescue Thomas, ensure that the Brits did not interfere, and try to shield those officers from the Russians. If they had to neutralize one of the Brits, they would do so with less-than-lethal fire, and his team members carried an assortment of such weapons.

  Amazingly, the initial plan was still in place despite one unforeseen complication.

  He grinned darkly to himself and jogged on behind Heston, Park, and Noboru. They reached their positions, and he sent his three men ahead while he dropped behind a pair of trees and listened as Lakota instructed Thomas to begin turning northwest along a line that would take him directly between them.

  “Riggs, Schleck, you up there?”

  “Almost,” said Schleck, his voice tense.

  “What’s the delay?”

  “Sorry, Ghost Lead,” said Riggs. “My fault. I needed his help. I’m up now.”

  “And so am I,” Schleck reported.

  “Stand by…”

  Brent lost his breath as he eyed the HUD and saw the Russians closing in on Thomas, coming within thirty meters. Automatic weapons fire broke the still, damp quiet.

  That fire had come from the Russians, and through Thomas’s goggles Brent noted the trees splintering on Thomas’s right side.

  At nearly the same time, more gunfire echoed from the south — this from the academy officers who were closing in behind the Russians.

  Not good. One of their stray rounds could catch Thomas.

  Brent watched now as two Russians broke off from the chase to circle back on the Brits.

  He broke from his cover and ran parallel behind Heston, Noboru, and Park. “Ghost Team, I’m heading south after those two break-off guys. Once Thomas is through the gap, Lakota, you put the snipers to work, over?”

  “Roger that,” she replied.

  “Keep running, Thomas, you’re almost there,” Brent cried.

  Only the Splinter Cell’s panting came through the mike. He was at his top pace now, his heart rate in the red zone, and he was probably scared as hell as another salvo of gunfire boomed.

  Brent ducked and cut through another twenty meters of forest when, off to his right, about fifty meters away, he spotted Thomas dashing forward. Then he saw the Russians. He was tempted to draw fire away, but he knew his people were in place. He kept on toward the two troops that had doubled back.

  “Ghost Lead, this is Hammer,” called Dennison. “I think we’ve got her!”

  * * *

  The Snow Maiden was gritting her teeth as they reached a wall of traffic on the outskirts of Ashford. They were only about thirty or so kilometers away from Dover and she had kept them on the smaller country roads, but now there was a mass exodus toward the coast and Europe. Chopra turned on the radio, and a newscaster reported chaos at the coast. The citizenry feared that Russia was launching a massive ground invasion of the country.

  Chopra slumped toward the steering wheel. “There’s nothing else we can do but sit here. The traffic must be backed up all the way to the coast.”

  “This is a brilliant escape plan you have,” said Hussein. “I guess you hadn’t thought of this.”

  “Shut up, both of you,” she snapped. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and cleared her head.

  Then she got on her smartphone and searched for the business she had in mind. “Get out of the car,” she cried.

  “Right here?” asked Chopra. “We’re just leaving it right here?”

  “Get out!”

  They complied, and she hid her gun beneath her jacket as others began to follow suit, stepping out from their cars to stretch and have a look down the narrow road.

  She ordered them forward toward the next corner, then made them begin to jog. The old man protested. She barked back. He ran for a block until he was winded.

  Within fifteen more minutes they reached the shop. “Oh, you can’t be serious,” Chopra said, his mouth opening in awe.

  “You’re damned right I am.”

  “I don’t want to watch,” he said.

  “That’s all right, you can close your eyes,” she said.

  They stepped into the bicycle shop, and she took care of the owner and his two technicians. They picked out hybrid bicycles with straight handlebars and rode out the back door. They took the alley up to the main road and began moving parallel with the long line of gridlocked cars. Riding the bike got her choked up. Andrei had won the Tour de France, only to be executed because of her. Perhaps his ghost had whispered the idea in her ear: “You’re not far from the coast, just a few hours by bike…”

  For some reason, the hair stood on the back of her neck and she felt compelled to glance skyward.

  THIRTEEN

  Forest near Royal Military Academy

  Sandhurst

  Brent’s HUD was lit up like a Christmas tree.

  No, it better resembled the lights of Times Square, New York, with enough color and flash to make him blink hard and imagine an elaborate advertisement — WWIII sponsored by your favorite cola or sports shoe.

  He looked again and realized he didn’t fully comprehend what the computer was showing him. A data bar below indicated the obvious:

  Target acquired.

  Guidance system nominal.

  “Do you wish to neutralize the target?”

  Okay, he got it now. His race to this part of the forest had stolen his breath and blurred his vision. Data overload wasn’t uncommon.

  As he gained back control of his breathing, the computer’s voice purred in his ear, repeating the question, and with a sudden rush and shiver his senses connected with his brain and he saw it all:

  The trees ahead—

  The pair of Russians beginning to fire on the four officers from Sandhurst who’d sprea
d out along a slight depression—

  And the wire frame targeting vector superimposed over it all that fed him the round’s projected trajectory, replete with scrolling numbers that marked precise angles and distances.

  Old-schoolers argued that this was more information than Brent ever needed, but it was impressive nonetheless. The real and virtual worlds had blended into a battlefield of mathematical relationships and ever-fluctuating calculations based on thousands of variables.

  He took the shot.

  The round that exploded from his rifle’s XL7 underslung grenade launcher was an advanced prototype of a Less Than Lethal (LTL) weapon developed by the NSA and engineers at Third Echelon. Based upon the old “sticky shocker” that rendered targets unconscious via an electrical impulse, the new LTL Track-Shock was a homing dart that used heat, infrared, and acoustical means to locate the target’s heart and deliver the shock with surgical precision, increasing or decreasing current as required to render the target unconscious without killing him.

  These weren’t your grandmother’s tranquilizer darts to bring down wild elephants. And your grandmother would keel over from a heart attack if she knew how much each round cost her and the rest of the taxpayers…

  The Track-Shock sped away, trailing a single ribbon of thin smoke. It banked, turned, and wove through the trees as though it were being steered by an alcoholic cabdriver on the last hour of an all-night bender.

  But the round knew exactly what it was doing, and it sewed a remarkable if not chaotic course through the forest, only swooping down at the very last second to strike one of the officers dead-on in the chest. The man was racked by electricity for a second, shaking violently and involuntarily before he simply collapsed.

  “Target temporarily neutralized. ETA to consciousness approximately eleven minutes. Warning clock initiated.”

  It had been a while since Brent had played with LTL ammo. He wasn’t used to his targets coming back from the “dead” like zombies, but it was nice to have a computer that reminded you when the zombie clock ran out.

  Without wasting another second, he loaded another round and lifted the rifle. “Computer, acquire target.”

  “Stand by. Target acquired.”

  The HUD no longer resembled a skyline of neon billboards. The second officer was there, at the end of the round’s trajectory, and what had once been a dizzying kaleidoscope was now a perfect math equation within a fluctuating grid.

  The launcher thumped. The round shot hungrily away, and that eerie smoke trail stitched the trees together for a moment before the second man shook like he’d been playing golf during a lightning storm.

  Nice.

  As expected, the other two Brits, noting that their brothers in arms had been “taken out” (and Brent was certain they assumed their friends were dead), broke from their positions and rushed off to the east.

  What they didn’t realize was that the pair of Russians had done likewise.

  Those dumb-ass Brits were now rushing directly toward the Russians.

  This was the part where Brent came in.

  He swung around and started tracking back toward those Spetsnaz troopers, when—

  “Ghost Lead, this is Hammer. Repeat, we’ve located her. Are you there, over?”

  Brent had barely heard Dennison call the first time and had been so swept up into the moment that only now did he realize he hadn’t responded to her, which was damned ironic — since his entire career was now riding on her intel.

  “Hammer, this is Ghost Lead, stand by!”

  “Brent, I need you out of there.”

  “I need me out of here. I understand. Where is she? At that bar the colonel told us about?”

  “Negative.”

  “All right. Stand by.”

  Brent raced through the woods, foliage dragging across his arms and legs until he spotted the two Brits about forty meters to his right, with the Russians charging toward them another forty or so meters out (36.57 according to the tactical computer, but Brent ignored that detail at the moment, understandably so).

  The one troop to the far left darted behind a pair of trees and dropped down to one knee, while the second forged on, cutting loose with two salvos meant to draw fire on him, while his buddy cut down the unsuspecting Brits from his more concealed vantage point.

  This was a rather unoriginal gambit that made Brent snort. He reached into his web gear, drew his favorite model grenade, and let the bird fly home to poop on the Russian crouched behind the trees.

  As the Brits opened fire on the first troop, the second one exploded in a flash of light backfilled by a shower of blood.

  Both of those British officers dressed in digital pattern khakis turned in unison to spot Brent, just as he swung around, lifted his rifle, and fired on the second Russian, who’d dropped to the leaf-covered forest.

  Brent was pretty sure he’d missed the guy, so he knifed off as though he had a 500-horsepower engine in his gut, covering the gap between him and his prey in all of a half dozen heartbeats.

  When he arrived, the guy was gone.

  He spun around, crouched. Looked up.

  Son of a—

  Brent glanced beyond the small clearing to the stand of trees from where the trooper had emerged, the Russian’s rifle aimed squarely at Brent.

  Only the troop’s eyes were visible, his mouth covered by his balaclava. But if eyes could smile menacingly, his did so.

  A flurry of gunfire boomed in the distance.

  That sound was enough to distract the troop, and all Brent needed was that fraction of a second, that mere flick of the Russian’s glance.

  He fired at the guy while falling backward, knowing the troop would return fire simultaneously, and yes, Brent’s instincts paid off. The trooper’s rounds punched the air no more than three or four inches above Brent’s chest as he hit the ground. On impact, Brent glanced up, never losing control of his rifle, and fired again, riddling the soldier with a full salvo. If the guy wore Dragon Skin or other forms of Kevlar, Brent’s rounds had found the seams. The troop did not move.

  Brent sighed deeply.

  “Who are you?” screamed one of the Brits, rushing up behind Brent. He was long-limbed and gaunt-faced, with a nasty set of crooked yellow teeth.

  In truth, the Brit hadn’t been that polite. He’d prefaced his question with a string of epithets that might’ve impressed the devil himself — and what kind of British hospitality was this? The guy held his rifle high and aimed it at Brent’s head.

  The Brit’s partner ran up beside him. This guy was shorter, with a slight paunch and jet-black crew cut. Neither man was older than thirty, both still a tad baby-faced.

  “Do you speak English, comrade?” cried the second guy.

  “Don’t you mean Yank?” Brent asked.

  “You’re an American?” cried the first guy. “You’re lucky you’re not dead.”

  “Then I guess this is my lucky day,” Brent answered, wearing a silly grin.

  “Oh, a wiseass, huh?”

  “Go back to your buddies. They’ll be waking up soon. We got it from here.”

  “Who’s we?” asked the shorter guy.

  “No one, really. Just a bunch of ghosts.” With a groan, Brent hauled himself to his feet.

  The first guy’s eyes swelled. “You tell your Yank friends that the British government will be lodging a formal complaint regarding your unauthorized actions here. In this regard, you are trespassers!”

  Brent shrugged. “We won’t be staying long. See ya.” With that, he turned and raced away, stealing one last look at the dumbfounded men. “Lakota, how we doing?”

  “Awesome, Boss. Dropped the Russians. Thomas is back with us. Suggest we collapse on the trucks. Inbound rotary aircraft, still unidentified…”

  “Gotcha. On my way!”

  * * *

  The bike was old and rusty, the rear fender barely attached, the handlebars loose, the chain grinding as Chopra pedaled through the rut-laden street. The other
kids stared at him in envy. This bicycle had been the last thing his father had given him before he’d been killed, and so in Chopra’s young mind the bike had become the man. He would park it near his small bed and stare at it, well into the night.

  He turned the corner and headed down into the alley, where he would meet his old boss who would give him the list of deliveries. The front basket would be filled with bidis, and Chopra would make his stops and collect the money. It was a lot of responsibility for a twelve-year-old.

  When Chopra reached their usual meeting place, the old man was lying on the ground, bleeding from a gaping wound to his forehead. The boxes of bidis were empty. Chopra got off his bike, rushed to the man, and tried to comfort him, but he was scared that the people who had attacked the old man might still be around. He got back on his bike, raced home, and told his mother, begging her to send help. She did.

  The next morning, Chopra returned to the alley, hoping the old man had recovered and the deliveries would happen as usual. The old man was gone, the empty boxes still lying there. Before Chopra could climb back on his bike, he was stopped by two boys a few years older than himself. They’d been watching him from across the street, half hidden in the shadows of laundry lines crisscrossing the alley in a thick canopy of multicolored fabric.

  The larger one with bushy eyebrows glanced at Chopra’s bike. “It’s mine now,” he said evenly.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Chopra.

  “Your bike.”

  “You’re not taking it,” said Chopra, lifting his voice and seeing his father smiling and saying, “Take good care of it. Don’t let anyone borrow it.”

  The boy shifted up to Chopra and stared down at him. He was a full head taller, his eyes narrowing. “What are you going to do anyway?”

  Chopra took a deep breath. His mouth went dry. “You can’t have my bike.”

  “I’m doing you a favor. You’re just making the old man rich. You can’t work for him anymore. Do something else.”

  “You know I can’t.”