Hunter Killer

by Brad Taylor

  Brett took off the aft moorings and I did the same to the stern, and Knuckles fired up the impeller, a jet of water goosing us forward. He put some distance between them and the dock, then slowed down, pointing at the island a thousand meters away, a speck of green on the water.

  He said, “That’s it. You boys ready?”

  Everyone in the boat knew what he was asking. We’d done as much of a data dump as we could on the island and found that there was no way to attack from the land side. There was only one entrance for vehicles—trucks bringing in supplies for the various club amenities—and a single pedestrian gate manned by a local national guard.

  We had no idea if he was part of the plot, but it didn’t matter. Even if we got past him, we were looking at a fight. The island was only two-hundred meters deep, but in a gunfight it might as well be a million. And once the alarm was raised—if we made it to the house—we’d have to fight our way back out, shooting at a police response that had no idea what we were doing. It was a nonstarter.

  We’d decided to attack from the water side, where the house butted right up against the lagoon. If we were successful, we could control the outcome, but worst case, if things went bad, we could flee on the boat, dumping it at another dock on the lagoon.

  And make no mistake, we were all thinking about the worst case.

  Thumping a target in daylight was always a risk. Hitting one that held Russian Spetsnaz mercenaries who were spoiling for a fight was something else. It was insane.

  There was only one way to succeed, and that was through violence of action. Luckily, if I were asking God for the best at that skill, he would have put the same three men in my boat.

  I pulled out a plate hanger holding level III body armor and seated it over my torso, then withdrew an integrally suppressed AR-15 chambered in 300 Blackout. The rest of the boat did the same. I seated a magazine and said, “We’re wasting time.”

  Willow Radcliffe saw the tattooed man grow antsy, fidgeting in his chair and staring at his watch. Whatever they were going to do, it was going to happen soon. And she felt the press of death hovering over her.

  She said, “May I see my son?”

  He said, “No. Not now.”

  “Please. Let me see him one last time.”

  “Look, this will be over soon. In a few more minutes. Just wait.”

  She felt the blade underneath her sheet and decided. She would not be the only one to die today. She said, “Can you help me with my drainage tube? Please? Or get the nurse?”

  Distracted, he said, “The nurse is gone. Just wait a minute, I’m listening.” And she realized he was glued to his radio.

  She said, “It’s starting to overflow.”

  He said nothing, and she heard a shouting from the other room in Russian. The tattooed man jumped up and clapped his hands together like he was enjoying a show. She showed confusion and fear, and he said, “He’s on the way. He actually got into the car.”

  She had no idea what he was talking about, only wanted to find a way to get him to move closer to her. She said, “My drainage tube. Please.”

  He began to walk toward her and she curled her hand on the handle of the folding knife, silently releasing the steel from its hold in the handle, the flick making a small noise.

  He reached the edge of her bed, hovering over her, and she tensed, preparing for an act of violence she’d never contemplated. Someone shouted in Russian outside of the room, and she heard a flurry of footsteps. He leapt back and slammed against the wall, drawing his pistol.

  Jennifer surveyed the mass of people, all waiting to hear the next president of Brazil, and said, “We have to get out of the crowd. Get the drone up.”

  Shoshana said, “This way,” and led her through the throngs until they were on the far side of the pavilion, the smaller peak to her front, the cables for the car dropping steeply away.

  She glanced left and right, then scooted over the wall, landing softly in the dirt next to the cable car station. Jennifer followed, and they scuttled into the woods, leaving the noise of the crowd behind them. Shoshana threaded through the trees until they reached the barren edge of the mountain, the stone falling away into the valley below. She found a rock shelf and said, “Here. Launch it from here.”

  Jennifer dropped her backpack to the ground, pulling out a two-foot tube with legs on the bottom. She extended them, then laid the tube on the stone over the edge of the valley, it now perched at a forty-five-degree angle. While she was setting up the launcher, Shoshana had extracted the control mechanism from her own pack, a small tablet with two rubber joysticks on either side.

  She said, “Do we arm it?”

  “No. Not yet. Just get a flyover. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  The UAV was a Taskforce development based off the Switchblade loitering munition. In essence, it was a flying bomb, but it had some special modifications. One was an increased loitering time of thirty minutes instead of ten, which came at a cost of explosive power. While the Switchblade could take out a vehicle, the Taskforce version could only take out a human or two. But it had some special modifications to make that occur.

  Called—tongue in cheek—the Nailclipper, it had one purpose: find and kill a human who had been loaded into its software. Using the latest facial recognition technology on the planet, Jennifer had loaded every single picture they’d ever taken of the Russians they’d tracked.

  Shoshana worked the tablet, then said, “Ready for launch.”

  Jennifer hit a switch at the back of the tube, and a pneumatic pump threw a little bundle in the air. It spread its deadly wings and began to fly.

  Jennifer heard a cheer go up from the crowd, incongruously thinking they’d seen her. Then she realized what it was. The candidate was on his way.

  Chapter 75

  Knuckles hit the engine and we raced across the lagoon, streaking toward the island. A passing boat waved at us, and he returned it, looking like a surfer out having fun, bringing a grin from me.

  If that family only knew what the hell we were about to do.

  He came within one hundred meters of the dock jutting out of the back of the house and cut the engine, drifting in. All in the boat pulled out binoculars and began searching the shore, looking for a threat.

  We’d studied the layout and found a small structure at the beginning of the dock for storing whatever maintenance stuff was needed, just inside the compound fence—an eight-foot-tall iron structure that looked like something a zoo would use to keep in the tigers. From the left side of the dock, the shack blocked the view from the house, and we intended to stop there, then get over the fence behind it, but before we did, we needed to make sure nobody was patrolling the back lawn.

  After a few seconds, I said, “I got nothing. Anyone else?”

  Knuckles said, “Nothing.”

  Brett and Aaron echoed the sentiment.

  I glanced around the boat, looking each man in the eye. I said, “Okay. Let’s take it in.”

  The comment was more final than it sounded. We were now committing to an assault against a hardened target in broad daylight.

  Knuckles guided the boat forward faster than necessary, sliding against the dock hard enough to gouge the fiberglass. Before it had even stopped moving, I leapt out on the wood, saying, “That’s not going to look good on the rental voucher.”

  The rest of the team piled out behind me and we sprinted down the dock hunched over, using the building to hide from view. We reached the iron fence and I grabbed the bars in two hands, offering my back. I felt one set of boots, then two, then three, and sprang up, climbing the fence like Koko and dropping to the far side, my adrenaline starting to pump.

  I saw Aaron on the left side of the building and Brett on the right, both pulling security and waiting on the call to launch. Knuckles was against the wood, furiously building a breaching charge from his rucksack. I slid in behind him, took a breath, and said, “Bottom of the ninth. Time for a home run.”

  He grinned, workin
g the Nonel tubing into the initiator, and said, “Good thing Babe Ruth is at the plate.”

  I heard a whirring in the air and looked above me. There was a quadcopter drone fifteen feet over my head, the lens of the camera staring at me.

  Oh, shit.

  I raised my rifle, lined up the sights, and blasted the thing out of the sky.

  I jumped up and said, “Game on.”

  Alek saw the cable car leave the station far below and said, “Here he comes. Radio Nikita.”

  Kolva did so, then smiled, saying, “He says don’t fuck this up.”

  Alek said, “All we have to do is push a button. If it doesn’t go off, it’s his fault.”

  He watched the cable car rise, slowly coming to meet the death he offered. It reached the station, and then docked. He waited for the transfer to the second car, the one that would take the future president of Brazil to the top of Sugarloaf.

  The one with the explosives.

  After an interminable time, he saw the second car lift off, rising rapidly in the air. Right above the wheels rolling on the cable he saw a small bundle, and knew what it was. Once initiated, it would sever the cable holding the car in the air, and plummet all to their death in the valley below.

  He turned on the transmitter and checked to make sure he had a green light, meaning the device had connected to the detonator on the cable car. It was still red. The car rose higher and higher. He waited.

  Finally, the car reached the midpoint of the trip to the top of Sugarloaf, and he could wait no longer. He jammed his finger into the detonating button.

  Nothing happened.

  I rounded the edge of the building, took three steps to the large double doors at the back of the mansion, and a window shattered. I saw a barrel come out and engaged it, suppressing the incoming fire.

  Another window exploded, and a second gun began raking rounds across the lawn. Sprinting forward, I heard Aaron scream next to me, and saw him go down. We were now in a buzz saw of death, with only one way out: we needed to get inside the structure and off the killing field.

  I dove into the prone, trying to dig a fighting position with my buttons alone, hearing the rounds rip next to my head. I aimed into the window, squeezing off round after round and shouting, “Knuckles! We need inside!”

  Brett was at the corner of the maintenance shack, on a knee and shooting into anything he could see, but he was driven back by the volume of fire. Knuckles sprinted through the volcano, carrying his breaching charge, and I knew it was our final chance.

  Out on the lawn, we were exposed. Get us inside, and there was no way they could survive our ability to destroy them. But we needed off the lawn.

  I saw Aaron roll over and shouted, “Stay down!” Brett rounded the corner of the shack following Knuckles, and I saw a bullet crease his thigh, knocking him to the ground. Knuckles made it two more steps before he was hit, a round striking the faceplate of his armor and another hitting his bicep, and I knew we were in deep shit.

  I leapt up, sprinting to him, firing all the way but honestly doing nothing more than wasting bullets. I saw him holding his arm, snatched the breaching charge out of his hand, and was through the cone of fire, inside their ability to target me. I slapped the charge against the door, rolled backward, and capped off the Nonel. I heard an enormously satisfying blast split the air, pieces of wood and metal flying everywhere.

  I turned into the shattered breach point and began looking for death, knowing we were on the cusp of victory. Like the breakout on Omaha Beach, the end state was now preordained. But only if I could clear the gap.

  I entered a foyer, moving through the smoke, and saw a man right in front of me, stunned by the explosion. I put two rounds in his chest, saw him twitch, and he went down.

  Brett ran up behind me, limping on his wounded leg. He shouted, “Door!” and a man exited. A towering mass of muscle with a ponytail, the Russian collided with Brett, throwing him against the wall.

  Brett bounced upright and I heard him say, “You’ve got to be shitting me.” The man drew down on him with a rifle and Brett knocked the barrel aside. I raised my own and put two bullets into his skull, killing him outright.

  Knuckles came sprinting inside, blood running down his arm, but he could operate. At that point, I knew we’d won. I asked, “Aaron?”

  He said, “He’s okay. Got an in-and-out of his thigh. He’s coming.”

  Two men charged from a room on the left, and we cut them down with surgical precision, still racing forward. Aaron joined the stack and we started clearing, looking for threats. None appeared, and we slowed down, adjusting our pace, now knowing it was a cat-and-mouse game. Somewhere, someone was waiting for us.

  I reached a door and held up. I tested the knob, finding it unlocked. I nodded my head, felt a squeeze on my shoulder, and burst in, seeing another empty room. We regrouped on the entrance leading back to the hallway and I whispered to Brett, “What was that comment about the ponytail guy?”

  “He’s the guy whose ass I kicked in Switzerland. The one who tried to kill Amena.”

  Which explained a lot. Knuckles hissed, “Willow. We need to find Willow,” and I exited the doorway, moving down a hall, my barrel leading the way.

  Chapter 76

  The one-eyed man entered Willow’s bedroom dragging Beau by the neck. She shouted, “What are you doing?”

  He hissed, “Shut the fuck up.”

  She struggled to get her wounded body out of the bed, and he raised his pistol, pointing at her head. She ceased movement. She’d heard the gunfire and the explosions, knowing something bad was happening. Someone else was in the house, and they probably wanted to kill her, too. For thirty seconds it had sounded like a war movie, but now it was quiet.

  Nikita hissed at the tattooed man in Russian, and he began to back up, hiding behind her bed, squeezing himself between the headboard and the wall. She realized what they were doing. They were setting up an ambush.

  She said, “Stop. Stop right now.”

  Nikita put the barrel of his pistol against Beau’s head and said, “If you utter another sound, he’s dead.”

  She sagged into her pillow, the terror ripping through her. Whoever the one-eyed man was afraid of, it had to be worse than him, which made it bad indeed.

  She heard soft footsteps outside her door, then the doorknob turned slightly. It grew still, just like in a horror movie, and she knew the beast was outside. She saw Nikita lock eyes with the tattooed man and nod. Then he stood, holding her son as a shield.

  She screamed, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! There’s a child in here!”

  Nikita turned his pistol on her, the barrel a gaping maw, and she waited on the bullet. The door burst open like a dam splitting from a swollen river, men piling inside the room. Nikita turned from her, aiming toward the entrance.

  She saw the predator from the ferry, his eyes feral and dangerous, looking to kill. She shouted, “No!” and he recognized the child. He held up, the men behind him halting their movement, taking in this hostage situation. The tattooed man rose from behind her bed, standing between her and the Americans, now aiming his weapon at them.

  She raised her son’s blade and jammed it between his shoulders to the right of his spine, burying it as deep as she could, bringing out a scream. The last man in the room, the black man from the ferry, whirled and fired, splitting his head open.

  Her tormentor dropped to the floor and a man she didn’t know, another apex predator, said, “Put the pistol down and let the boy go.”

  Nikita said, “No. You leave, or I kill him.”

  The predator’s face turned grim, and Willow felt the death he held, knowing her child was in the balance.

  Aiming his pistol at Nikita’s head, he said, “You killed a friend of mine in Charleston, didn’t you?”

  He said, “I’ll kill you, too. I promise.”

  Knuckles took two steps forward, jammed the barrel of his pistol into Nikita’s head, and pulled the trigger, spraying the
wall with brain matter, the action so fast that it stunned everyone in the room.

  Everything went still for a moment, and then the boy began rolling on the floor. Knuckles helped him to his feet. He jerked his hand away and leapt across the bed, cowering in his mother’s lap.

  She was nearly catatonic, clearly stunned by all that had just happened. She hugged her son and waited on the men to say something, unsure if she’d left the frying pan and had entered the fire.

  The apex predator said, “Start searching this place. Find an attack point for Sugarloaf.” The men spread out, leaving the room to her and Knuckles.

  She kept her arms wrapped around her son, her eyes wide, wanting to believe, but not wanting the pain if she was wrong. She said, “What do you want? Are you going to harm us?”

  Knuckles came forward and peered at the injuries to her face. He brushed her cheek, taking in the IV bag and the damage to her chest. He said, “Harm you? We’re the rescue.”

  She wasn’t convinced, wondering how he had known to come here. Wondering if he wasn’t just one more enemy hunting her. He pulled her card out of his shirt pocket, laying it on the bed. He said, “You helped me once. And now I’m helping you.”

  She recognized the card, and then remembered giving it to him. The relief washed over her like a wave, leaving her at a loss for words. He said, “Can you move? Get out of here?”

  She squeezed her son fiercely and said, “Yes, I can move. I can go wherever you want. I just can’t walk.”

  Knuckles said, “That’s not an issue.” He unhooked her IV bag and handed it to her, then slid his arms under her body. She let him, giving in to his protection, succumbing to the stress of the last week. He lifted her off the bed and stepped over the man on the floor. He saw the knife sticking out next to the spine.

  He looked at her and said, “That blade is turning out to be pretty handy.”

  And she smiled for the first time.