Hunter Killer

by Brad Taylor

  He knew that Domingo had no idea, the thought fanciful. How could a Thai hired to work in Myanmar speak Russian?

  But he did.

  In English, the chosen language between them, Nung said, “What’s the problem?”

  Domingo said, “The problem is I can’t tell what this idiot is asking. We were told to clear out of this camp now that it’s operational but he wants to keep our sensors. That’s not happening. He wants them, he can buy his own.”

  Nung worked for a group of Russians called Wagner, a private military contractor from the Russian Federation that had been hired by the government of Myanmar to help with the repatriation of the Rohingya, a persecuted group who had fled from a genocidal effort by the government to eradicate them from existence.

  They were a Muslim subset of the population of Myanmar, with its own language and customs, and the government had tried to kill them off for years, but really ramped up efforts in 2017, in a concerted attempt to cause them to flee or die, a final solution.

  After the rapes, murders, and burning of villages, the government got what they wanted; the Rohingya fled to Bangladesh, like they’d done for decades before, but this time it had a new twist; the world was more connected, and the atrocities were caught on the internet. It was, in fact, a genocide.

  Embarrassed, the government of Myanmar had begun trotting out a hundred excuses for what had occurred, and offered to repatriate the ones who’d fled. And that was where Nung came in.

  Now wanting to look like the good guys, the government had begun receiving the people back into the Rakhine State, albeit into refugee camps because their homes had been burned to the ground by government troops. Wagner had been contracted to build the camps. And they needed local help.

  Nung, because he spoke the language, had been hired through his father’s contacts to interact with the Burmese. It wasn’t lost on him that even though they’d reached out to his father for help, they were not as respectable as the Red Cross.

  He didn’t mind, though. He could take the insults and the less-than-noble actions he witnessed Wagner conduct. It was all business.

  Until it wasn’t.

  Nung saw Domingo push the man, then said, “What’s the problem? Let it go. Those sensors were paid for by the contract. You’ve already made the money on them.”

  “Bullshit. That’s wrong. They paid for my services. If they want the sensors, then they need to buy their own. Tell him he’s fucked.”

  Nung said some words to the official, and he began waving his arms again, incensed. Domingo slapped the Burmese official’s hands out of the air, and Nung considered translating the wrong way and causing a fight. He’d seen how the Burmese treated the Rohingya, and it wasn’t as pure as the state propaganda machine put out. The man in front of him was just as bad as the man behind him. They were both evil, and it would be nice to see them destroy each other.

  He did not.

  In short order, he had the situation resolved, the Burmese official walking away in a huff. He turned to the Russian and said, “Continue packing?”

  Domingo said, “Yeah. I want to be out of this shithole in the next four hours. Let them deal with it now.”

  Two hours later, Nung finished sealing the rest of the office equipment while Domingo and the other man talked in the shallow office to his left. As usual, they were speaking in Russian, and as usual, Nung was listening. He didn’t really care what they did with the Rohingya, because he was paid for a service, and he provided it. But in his heart he did. He hated the Russians because of what he’d seen. They hadn’t done a damn thing to really help the refugees because the government hadn’t cared. It was all a joke for the press.

  The Rohingya members had been abused and castigated from the moment they’d created the first camp, and nobody seemed to give a damn, least of all the Russians of Wagner—which was the express purpose the Russians had hired him: helping to facilitate the resettlement of the refugees. It aggravated him. He could deal with the blood and violence, because he’d done it himself, but it was always against an enemy who understood the rules. Not a bunch of families that were being persecuted solely because of their heritage.

  He’d called his father only once, and had been told to continue, because the Russian connection was a good one, and he’d been forced to choose. Family meant everything to him. There was no allegiance beyond that. Family was all. And so he’d continued. But he held a growing hatred, and while they treated him as the hired local help, they had no idea of his skills.

  Luckily for them, they’d never see it, and he could finally go home, serving his father and expanding the family business.

  Shoving more bubble wrap into another pelican case, Nung heard Domingo talking on a phone in the next room. He heard discussions about an operation in Brazil, and then Domingo became heated with the man on the phone, saying his men were already there and they couldn’t afford another compromise like the one in France.

  Nung perked up, no longer packing the case. Domingo glanced out the door and said, “No, nobody can hear me. I’m working with savages.”

  Then he said, “Are you sure? The same ones who killed Tagir? They’re in Brazil?”

  Nung worked around the box, pretending to pack but really moving closer to the door. He heard, “Yeah, I got the email. I’m looking at it right now. Are you asking what to do? I’ll tell you what to do. Cut the head off of the snake. You know where he is. You got the information for Grolier Services, right?”

  Nung heard the words and had to physically stop himself from showing a reaction. Domingo continued, “I don’t care who they saw in Brazil, you kill that fuck in Charleston, and it’ll end. Get it done.”

  He heard the phone slam, then Domingo stormed out of the office, looking at Nung and saying, “What the hell is taking so long? Pack that shit up.”

  Nung said, “What’s the rush? We’ve been here for four months.”

  Domingo said, “It looks like I’m going to Brazil, and I need to leave immediately. Get it done.”

  Nung nodded, watching him stomp out of the trailer. As soon as the door had closed, he went into the small office where Domingo had talked. The one with the desktop computer he was not allowed to access. He saw the window on the computer was open, the time-out for the password not yet engaged.

  He went to email. He glanced behind him, seeing the outside door still closed. He pulled up the first email and saw nothing but Cyrillic lettering. He cursed under his breath.

  While he’d learned to speak Russian, he couldn’t read it. He highlighted all of it, then pasted it into Google Translate. The words that came out were a little schizophrenic, like an old telegram, but there was enough for him to make out:

  The group highlight in Switzerland be highlight in Brazil. Two members seen in Salvador. Cannot stop say who else is involved. But military contract people not people might prevent success. Presidential campaign is reaching apex and that though Lulu oilfields are in doubt. Recommend another Operation Harvest. Target Grolier Recovery Services now, before they harvest operation.

  Nung read the words, and inwardly curled. What he’d heard earlier was correct. They were after Grolier Services. He had no idea why, but it made him bristle.

  He heard the door slam open outside, and closed down the Google Translate page. He went outside the small office and saw Domingo glaring at him.

  He said, “What?”

  Domingo said, “What, what? What the fuck are you doing? Pack this shit up. I want to go.”

  “I was looking at preparing the desktop in your office.”

  “Don’t touch that. I’ll do that myself. I have to use the sat dish to get some plane tickets. Those fucks in Moscow want me to fly tonight. It never ends.”

  Nung said, “To Charleston, in the United States?”

  “Fuck no, someone else is doing the easy work. I have to go to Moscow, then Brazil.” And then something clicked in Domingo’s brain. “How the fuck do you know about Charleston?”

 
; Nung reverted to what Domingo knew; a dumb-ass savage. He ducked his head in supplication and said, “When you were on the phone, the only word I heard you say in English was Charleston. I’ll get this packed up soon.”

  Domingo nodded, staring at him for a beat. Nung knew for all his bluster, he was not a dumb man. He’d seen it over five months. Nung bent down to the closest pelican case, packing up office equipment, and waited, feeling his eyes on him.

  After five brutal seconds, Domingo left, shouting at his men. And Nung made his decision.

  He knew the man who owned Grolier Recovery Services. He knew what that man had done for his younger brother. And he knew that only one thing counted in this world.

  Family.

  Something Domingo would learn the hard way.

  Chapter 3

  Amena found me in the bathroom and said, “Why do you pick such fights? This is supposed to be a party.”

  Looking in the mirror, and honestly a little embarrassed at my actions, I said, “Because it’s just some friends coming over. We don’t need to turn this into a New Year’s Eve gala.”

  She caught my eye in the reflection and said, “So you guys are fighting because you don’t want to work? Is that it?”

  I turned from the mirror, and she continued, “I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just trying to learn what to expect here in America.”

  I knew she was toying with me, because she was smart as a whip and had picked up “being American” within a few weeks of arrival, now acting like any other thirteen-year-old teenager.

  Amena was a refugee from Syria who had done some good deeds for America. Well, that’s putting it lightly. She’d saved a ton of lives, all because she thought it was the right thing to do, risking her own life and almost giving it in the process. And because of it, I’d saved hers, bringing her to the United States.

  Taller than an average thirteen-year-old, with tan skin, black hair, and black eyes, she was beautiful in an exotic sort of way. Her looks caused tourists to comment when we were out and about on the peninsula, asking where she was from, which initially aggravated the hell out of me. I was trying to protect her status, and some bloated lady from a cruise ship would act like she wanted to pet the strange animal. I took it as an insult, but Amena never did. She thought it was a compliment, and honestly, she was something exotic. In more ways than one.

  Playacting like she was trying to determine how a man and woman behaved in America, she was really trying to cool the fight, because she was torn between loving me or loving Jennifer. She wanted us both.

  I turned to her and said, “No, this isn’t how it is in America. I’m just being an asshole.”

  She giggled and said, “Then why do you do it?”

  “Because I’m stubborn.”

  She nodded and said, “I know. Now what?”

  I sighed and said, “Now I have to eat crow.”

  And I’d finally said something American that made no sense to Amena. She scrunched her eyes and said, “Eat crow? Like a bird?”

  I said, “It’s just a saying that means I have to go admit I was wrong. How about you go out there and assist? With something too big for you to do? And then you come back here and ask me to help?”

  She caught on immediately and raced out, wanting to end any disagreement between her hero, Jennifer, and me. Wanting to get back to the affection that gave her a blanket of security. Thirty seconds later, she was back, saying, “Can you help me with the tray of shrimp? It’s too big for me to move.”

  I smiled, which brought out a grin of her own, and out we went.

  I entered our living room, saw Jennifer scowling, and Amena said, “He’s going to help me. Because I can’t move it.”

  I looked at Jennifer and said, “I can’t tell her no.”

  Jennifer’s expression softened, and I knew she understood this was my way of giving in. She motioned me over, saying, “I could use some help as well.”

  I went to her, and she put her arms around my neck and kissed me on the lips. “It would be a lot easier if you just did the work, without the fighting.”

  I grinned and said, “I know.”

  Jennifer gave me a radiant smile back, melting any notion of contradicting whatever she wanted, and Amena practically broke the windows with her own beaming face, happy to have solved the dilemma.

  Although deep inside, I still thought this was bullshit. All we should have been doing was packing.

  Jennifer and I were slated for a mission in Brazil in a few days, hunting some Hezbollah financiers at the tri-border region, and normally such preparation would be old hat, but now we had Amena. We were working to find her a permanent home, but that took time.

  Jennifer had come up with a stroke of brilliance, asking Kylie Hale, the niece of Kurt Hale, the commander of our unit, if she would house-sit while we were gone. Kylie had some history with Jennifer—meaning once upon a time, Jennifer had saved her life. She was currently wandering about trying to put her recent degree in English literature to use—meaning she was researching graduate schools—so she’d readily jumped at the chance to travel to Charleston for a salary that involved nothing more than watching Amena.

  She’d arrived yesterday to become acquainted with our routine, and I thought we were set. Then she’d asked if her boyfriend could visit while we were gone. I didn’t have a problem with that, because her boyfriend also happened to be on my team, and he was following Jennifer and me to Brazil shortly, so it wasn’t like he could get in any trouble. I’d said fine, and she informed me he was coming today, suspiciously sounding like it had already been planned. Just to cap it off, later in the day, my commander, Colonel Kurt Hale, called and said he was passing through town and wanted to visit—which I knew was bullshit. Kurt was never just “passing through.” There was an agenda in play, but with all three descending on our house, Jennifer had decided to throw a party, which made me grumpy.

  Jennifer saw I was still less than enthusiastic and said, “Why don’t you head to the store? I forgot a few things that I need for tonight. Amena and I can finish up here.”

  I jumped at the chance, snatching a grocery list out of her hand and racing toward the door.

  “Take the Jeep,” she said, “My car’s blocked in.” And I knew she was punishing me. It was only October, and Charleston should have still been a muggy swelter, but we’d had an early cold snap, making the air temperature about fifty degrees. She knew I hadn’t replaced the top to the Jeep, and would therefore freeze while driving it.

  I didn’t care, because driving that beat-up CJ was better than her little Mini Cooper. It was my pride and joy—and a tax write-off, because it was our company vehicle, the rear quarter panel adorned with an emblem that said Grolier Recovery Services.

  I climbed in, turned the old-fashioned key, and backed out our little drive, inching into the street while praying nobody slammed into me.

  On the surface, Grolier Recovery Services helped facilitate archeological work around the world, and to that end, Jennifer and I made a pretty good living. We did about three jobs to one in the real world, working for various agencies that wanted the best at deciphering the mundane world of geopolitics and antiquities. The remaining job was what we really existed for—finding a bad guy and planting him in the ground, paid for courtesy of the United States government.

  The cover work that facilitated our ability to conduct counterterrorism operations around the world had been pretty lucrative—enough to buy a small two-story row house on Wentworth Street just off East Bay on the Charleston Peninsula. It was a little fixer-upper with a narrow gravel drive on the side just big enough to fit three cars end to end. Jennifer and I were constantly rotating vehicles in and out, but the worst part was getting onto Wentworth Street from the blind alley.

  I made it out okay and shot over to the Harris Teeter grocery store a couple of blocks away, getting out and reading the list. I immediately realized I should have checked it in Jennifer’s presence, because it was full of ins
crutable things that caused me to wander the store like a Buddhist monk searching for the secret to life, texting her questions about each item and sending pictures when necessary.

  I knew she’d given up when I saw a FaceTime call from her. I answered and she said, “I’m not sure how you managed to make it through life not knowing how a supermarket works.”

  I said, “I know where the Doritos and beer are located. Sometimes the milk, but you’re making me find a bunch of stuff with foreign-sounding names like Gruyère cheese. That stuff wasn’t even in the cheese section.”

  She shook her head, saying, “Just come back with what you have. Kurt’s already here. I’ll go back out. You win.”

  I said, “I’m doing my best! I’m almost done.”

  She glanced away from the phone, and then leaned into the screen, whispering, “He wants to talk, so get your ass home.”

  I said, “About what?”

  She glanced away again, making sure she was out of earshot and said, “I don’t know, but I need you here for whatever it is, because I don’t think it’s good.”

  Chapter 4

  As soon as she said it, I knew Kurt was here about Amena. And Jennifer knew that she wouldn’t be able to fight whatever he was going to say, but I sure as shit could. It was sort of my specialty.

  I nodded and said, “I’m on the way.”

  Kurt Hale and I had a unique relationship. On the one hand, he was my direct superior—the commander of Project Prometheus and the one who gave me my operational orders. On the other, we were almost as close as brothers, with a deep friendship that had lasted for decades. We’d first met when I was assigned to his troop in a special mission unit, and we had both been promoted up the ranks, serving together multiple times. When he’d created Prometheus under a previous presidential administration, he’d recruited only the best of the best for the teams, and I was his original hire, the first person to go through Prometheus Assessment and Selection. Kurt trusted my judgment, going so far as to allow Jennifer to attempt A&S as a female civilian when everyone else said he was crazy, and I trusted him as a commander. But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t fight him on Amena.