The Hunted Page 4

  In Russian, she asked, “How is Vox these days? Or should I ask, who is Vox these days?”

  The guy was panting through his balaclava. She tore it off and sighed.

  She knew this guy. He wasn’t working for Haussler. His name was Thor, and he was a member of the Green Brigade Transnational.

  The attack might have been sloppy, but they’d come dangerously close and were getting better. She’d no idea they were on her back, and perhaps she was the one getting sloppy. How the hell had they found her? Haussler had contacts, resources ... what did they have—

  Unless Izotov had also employed them to catch her and they had access to the GRU’s databases? This development wasn’t good. Not good at all.

  The guy raised his hands. “Nice girl,” he purred in Russian.

  She put a bullet between his eyes. His head bounced off the pavement. She stood, stole a look around the street, then hustled off toward the taxi.

  Within two minutes she reached the still-idling vehicle, tore the dead driver out of his seat, hopped in, and was about to throw the car in gear when her phone rang. She checked the screen: It was Patti. She had to take it. They spoke in English.

  “Can I call you back?” she asked.

  “You have two minutes.”

  “I’ve got a little problem right now.”

  “So do we. Two minutes.”

  She hung up and drove off, eventually heading north up Quai des Bordes along the river. She would continue northwest toward the airport.

  Dr. Merpati “Patti” Sukarnoputri was an Indonesian physician and deputy director-general of the World Health Organization, United Nations, Geneva.

  Patti was also a member of the Ganjin (pronounced gahn-jeen), the group that now employed the Snow Maiden.

  Much of the Snow Maiden’s knowledge of the Ganjin was sketchy, and her efforts to learn more about the group drew serious threats. She had concluded, though, that they were composed of a handful of academics and business professionals whose primary goal was to manipulate the superior powers during this time of war in an effort to benefit the People’s Republic of China. Whether the Chinese government was aware of or endorsed their efforts remained to be seen, but the Ganjin paid the Snow Maiden quite handsomely so that by the time she was forty she would never have to work again. She would get out of the espionage business. She would continue donating money to cancer research and work with children afflicted with the disease. But she would not do this until she saw the federation—and all of its evil—seize up like an old man in cardiac arrest and then ... flatline.

  Once she was on the highway, she returned Patti’s call. Security protocols were in place, and consequently, Patti was the only member of the Ganjin that the Snow Maiden had ever met. Patti was in her fifties and a cunning career woman who never appreciated the Snow Maiden’s sarcasm.

  “That was a minute and forty-seven seconds,” the Snow Maiden said after Patti answered her phone. “Fast enough? Or am I fired?”

  “Shut up and listen to me. I’ll be at the airport waiting for you. I’ll tell you where when you arrive.”

  They met at a Starbucks inside the main terminal. The Snow Maiden ordered a pumpkin spice frappuccino and told the cashier that Patti would pay for it.

  The Snow Maiden always received her mission orders in person, and that was fine by her. Electronic listening and tracking devices had become so complicated that she never knew who was watching or listening. Nanobot technology had developed rapidly in the past decade, and it only took a light dusting for an enemy to be able to track her wherever she went. Countermeasures were necessary, and so they’d both gone into the ladies’ room and “dusted off” before speaking.

  “It’s all on here,” Patti said, handing the Snow Maiden a smartphone whose screen displayed a picture of an Indian man who resembled a professor or business professional.

  “Who’s this guy?”

  “Manoj Chopra. He’s a banker, a finance manager, a genius with investments. He was working for the royal family of Dubai before the war began. One of our people in Italy was tipped off to a transaction involving one of Dubai’s sovereign wealth funds. We’d thought no one had access to them. The funds had been lying dormant since the bombs, but this recent activity has sparked interest.”

  “You want me to kill him?”

  “Of course not. He’ll get us into Dubai’s vaults. Intel we were gathering before the war indicated Dubai was beginning to stockpile oil reserves. The locations of those secret reserves, along with the country’s gold—and the gold of several other nations from the region—will be in one of those subterranean vaults, and Chopra is our key.”

  “You’re positive he can get you in there?”

  “He was one of the most trusted confidants of the royal family. He can get us in.”

  “All right, then. It’s a simple kidnapping. Don’t you have anything more interesting?”

  “That’s rather amusing coming from someone who almost lost her life because of carelessness.”

  The Snow Maiden smirked. “If you guys were watching me, why didn’t you help?”

  “We don’t like to interfere. You know that. You’re merely a subcontractor, but we’ve put a lot of faith in you, and your work thus far has been exemplary. I hope you’re not too preoccupied.”

  She tensed. “Chopra’s location is in here?” she asked, lifting the smartphone.

  Patti nodded.

  The Snow Maiden rose. “Then thanks for the drink. I’ll call you when I have him.”

  THREE

  The Liberator Sports Bar and Grill

  Near Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  Brent sat alone in a corner booth, sipping his draft beer and absently eyeing the flat screens suspended from the ceiling. Several football games, a car race, and a European soccer game barely earned his interest. The Liberator was a requisite hangout for Special Forces guys and those considered a step up from them—the men and women of Ghost Recon, an elite and highly classified group of warriors handpicked from the Special Forces ranks. Ghost Recon soldiers were issued the most cutting-edge, state-of-the-art technology, and it was a great honor to be selected for such an organization—even though you couldn’t tell anyone about it, because the Ghosts didn’t exist.

  From 2016 on the day the nukes dropped to mid-2020, Brent had fought with various Special Forces teams, even traveling up to Canada to fight against invading Russian forces. His work there had gained him the attention of Ghost Recon’s leadership, and, after dragging himself through an intense qualifications process and course, he’d been selected to train and lead a new Ghost Recon team.

  But that glory was short-lived.

  He and his new group had run a couple of small missions in Pakistan that had gone south because Brent was too used to fighting by the seat of his pants instead of sticking rigidly to a plan. He’d had that freedom in the regular Special Forces, and he wasn’t always compelled to keep everyone in the communications loop, but the Ghosts were much more hardcore about their operations, not blindly following orders but executing them with surgical precision and with full disclosure and accountability on the battlefield. His newbie team had run a simple intelligence-gathering operation in the country of Georgia, and that, too, had wound up in the toilet because Brent had second-guessed the plan and had jumped the gun on the operation. He’d also failed to properly communicate with his superiors. Some things were better left in the field, and sometimes his superiors didn’t need to see the uglier side of an operation. Unfortunately, the Ghosts’ equipment had higher-ups breathing down Brent’s neck 24/7, which really unnerved him, and he sometimes took out his frustration on his people.

  As a consequence, Brent went through team members the way he went through beer, some requesting transfers, others simply getting dropped by him. Recent rumors had it that guys who couldn’t hack it on other Ghost teams were being busted down and collected into a group of misfits to be led by Brent. They would get all the crap jobs like guarding oil tankers,
or they’d get some of the most dangerous but least important jobs—since they were the most expendable group in the unit. They would act as “bait” while the other teams swept in and stole the glory. Ironically, even the military’s most elite still had its bottom of the barrel, and though the Ghosts’ least capable operators were arguably ten times more lethal than the average Joe, Brent’s colleagues would never let him live down his mistakes and weaknesses.

  And speaking of one such devil, “Schoolie,” a master sergeant with no neck and a complexion as scarred as a crushed beer can, ambled over to Brent’s table. They called him “Schoolie” because he dreamed of becoming a professor at the U.S. Army War College. Trouble was, he was too inept to ever get his degrees. He was an excellent warrior but more of a kinesthetic guy who did much better with physical tasks than mental ones.

  The drunken oaf shook his head at Brent. “I know why you’re sitting alone.”

  Brent just looked at him.

  “They hate you,” Schoolie went on. “You’ve put ’em back through Robin Sage like they were noobs. You’re talking trash to them. So they hate you.”

  Brent took a long pull on his beer and thought about that. He had forced his entire team to go back through the Army’s hellish and grueling Robin Sage training exercise, normally reserved for Special Forces candidates, not seasoned Ghost Recon warriors. Being forced to go back through the training was humiliating enough, but Brent had deemed it important and necessary because his current group was suffering from a severe lack of morale. He’d hoped that returning to the course might rekindle some of their “beginner spirit” in regard to combat operations. He’d been mistaken. His team had resented the training, though they were respectful enough to keep those feelings to themselves; however, their expressions said it all.

  “Is there a punch line in here somewhere?” Brent finally asked Schoolie. “A sarcastic remark? Or are you auditioning to become my therapist?”

  Schoolie grinned. “That’s pretty good.”

  “Unless you’re picking up my tab, you’re dismissed.”

  “Your people won’t even drink with you.”

  “They’re not here yet. Get lost, before I pull rank and things get ugly.”

  Schoolie snorted. “They’re right over there. They’ve been here for fifteen minutes. You haven’t even noticed.”

  Brent rose slightly so he could look over a small wall between the booths. He realized with sagging shoulders that the bastard was right. His entire Ghost Recon team—all eight operators—had put together two tables on the other side of the bar. They were sitting around, drinking, joking, and getting ready to order.

  “Look at that. Not a one of them came over here to say, ‘Hey, Captain, why don’t you join us?’ ” said Schoolie.

  Brent dropped a few bills on the table, then stood, bracing himself to confront the group.

  “I think you got a situation on your hands, Captain,” said Schoolie.

  Brent threw up a hand, ignoring the man.

  Now Brent’s cheeks began to warm. Yes, they hated him, all right. If they could pick up their game and jettison their bad attitudes, he wouldn’t have to deal with this.

  That he kept forgetting their names certainly contributed to their lack of respect. He’d made himself a cheat sheet just to keep track:Lakota: my assistant. Native American. Wiseass.

  Daugherty: the big guy with the tiny voice.

  Copeland: the New York mafia guy. Medic.

  Riggs: punk chick. Good shot.

  Heston: Texas cowboy, movie nut.

  Park: Korean guy, never talks.

  Noboru: Japanese guy. Uncle was in NSA.

  Schleck: string bean. Sniper. I like him.

  Brent paused a moment, slipped the index card out of his pocket, stole a quick look at the list of names, then tucked it back into his pocket and slowly approached the table. They weren’t just stereotypical soldiers; they were real people with real hopes and dreams. He knew that, but his job wasn’t to stroke them—it was to whip their asses into shape while earning their loyalty and respect. Easier said than done for a man whose patience was already threadbare.

  Conversations broke off, and all gazes fell upon him. He cleared his throat. “What’s up?”

  Lakota, who’d taken her hair out of the usual tight bun, looked rather attractive as she raked her fingers through her locks and said, “Captain, uh, I guess we all really need to talk.”

  “Yeah, about how much we suck,” said Copeland in his New York drawl. “This is a weird place to be—back in noob school. I thought I was done wearing diapers.”

  Just when he’d thought they were respectful enough to keep their complaints to themselves—boom—here they came ...

  “Copeland, right?” Brent asked.

  “Very good, sir.”

  “You’re a good medic and a good machine gunner, but they sent you to me because you’re a wiseass.”

  “That’s what we heard about you, sir,” said Lakota.

  Brent grinned crookedly. “I want to clarify that. I’ve been doing this long enough to realize what works and what doesn’t. That’s all. I’ll do my best to get the job done and keep you alive. That’s why we’re back here, back to the beginning. This is good. This keeps us humble and honest. I’m not trying to be anything I’m not. I’ve been skipped over for promotions. My record ain’t that great. My personal life is nonexistent. But I like to think I got heart. And I’m betting you got heart, too.”

  “Sir, this might keep us honest, but I’d rather keep lying,” said Riggs, wriggling her brows, her spiked hair hard as icicles. “We all know what you’re trying to do, and we appreciate the idea, but the fact is we’ve all just had bad luck.”

  “Well, there you go. I appreciate that honesty,” said Brent.

  “And speaking of being honest, why don’t you do the same with us, sir?” said Heston, his voice coming slowly, musically. “Luck or not, we’re all close to getting busted out of here and sent back down to SF or the regular Army.”

  “That’s not true,” Brent said, tasting the lie. “Look, we get through this, you prove to me you’re ready, and I’m sure something will come along that will ...”

  Brent didn’t finish his sentence. His phone was vibrating in his pocket. The caller ID was blocked.

  His people groaned as he answered. He held up a palm when he realized who was calling.

  On the way over to the isolation chamber, Brent accessed the network on his smartphone and retrieved the declassified bio on Major Alice Dennison, tactical operations specialist, code name “Hammer.”

  When the Joint Strike Force had formed and had better organized all of the United States’ military operations through concentrated global network systems, Dennison had become a key player. She’d been raised in a military family, with a father who’d been an Air Force pilot. She’d attended the Virginia Military Institute and had graduated with the class of 2004. Then she’d gone to the naval academy, received her BS in systems engineering, and had graduated summa cum laude. She’d been in U.S. naval intelligence and logistics and gone on to serve in the U.S. Naval Special Warfare Command. She had been selected by General Scott Mitchell himself to join the JSF.

  Brent’s eyes bugged out as he finished reading the screen. General Scott Mitchell was a former Ghost Recon operator, one of the organization’s best, a living legend who now led the entire Joint Strike Force.

  And Dennison had been recruited by him.

  This was huge. Dennison was a major player with a record that made you hate how good she was.

  Brent frowned. And then he really frowned.

  Why the hell did Dennison want to talk to him, a scrubby-faced gunslinger with a tainted record?

  They reached the base, and the isolation chamber wasn’t a chamber at all but a heavily guarded Quonset hut near the nondescript cluster of small buildings that housed Ghost Recon command. There were no signs, no indication at all that some of the world’s deadliest warriors were commanded from
this post.

  Inside, Brent took a seat before a sixty-inch screen, along with the rest of his team. They were instructed to wait there until Major Dennison called again.

  At the back of the room sat two men, and Brent had to do a double take, pun intended, because they were, in fact, twins, one well dressed in slacks and expensive silk shirt, the other wearing jeans and a T-shirt that read MUCKY DUCK RESTAURANT, CAPTIVA ISLAND, FLORIDA. They were both at least six feet, perhaps slightly taller, as lean as Olympic swimmers, and although they both had the same length blond hair, the jeans guy wore his all shaggy and sticking out, while the slacks guy had gelled his back. They might be twins, but there was a definite and deliberate distinction between them that seemed more on the part of the sloppy guy than the neat one.

  Brent smiled weakly at them. The jeans guy nodded. The slacks guy looked daggers and folded his arms over his chest.

  “Hey, Captain, who’re they?” asked Lakota in a near whisper.

  Just then a burst of static and series of encryption code numbers scrolled across the screen for a few seconds until an image appeared. On the left was Major Alice Dennison, too pretty for her own good and remarkably young for her post. On the right was another woman, much older, with gray streaks through her medium-brown hair. Her narrow glasses suggested she was as much academic as she was intelligence officer.

  Dennison cleared her throat. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. For those of you who don’t know her, I want to introduce Anna Grimsdóttir, director of the NSA’s Splinter Cell program. I know once you were promoted into Ghost Recon, you became aware of the Splinter Cell’s existence, but I’m assuming most of you haven’t met its director. Grim?”

  “It’s a pleasure,” said Grimsdóttir, nodding politely.

  Brent stiffened and began to slide back into his chair. He was a cut-to-the-chase kind of guy and couldn’t wait to escape from the pleasantries. “Hi, my name is Brent and I like piña coladas and blowing stuff up in the rain ...”