The Hunt

by Jack Arbor

  Blood and mucus dripped from his face onto his bare stomach, and his muscles bulged and strained as he struggled against the strong hands holding him. Despite the cold air in the tent, his skin was covered by a sheen of sweat.

  Come on, is this the best you’ve got?

  The bull-chested figure of Spartak Polzin stood in front of him, stripped to a white tank top and fatigue pants. Sweat flew from his brow and dripped onto his polished combat boots as he put all his effort into rearranging Max’s face.

  Max shook his head sending beads of sweat flying. “You look angry.”

  Spartak wiped his knuckles on a towel and put his face close enough so his spittle pelted Max’s face. “Do you know how much money you just—”

  With a jerk of his forehead, Max connected with the bridge of the major’s nose, spraying blood across the room. Spartak staggered back while flailing his arms. Max lunged, but four strong hands held him down. A sharp kick to the back of his knee made him crumple to the dirt. A gleaming boot whistled at his face. He shifted so the boot glanced off his bare shoulder and pain radiated up his arm and down his spine. He was jerked to his knees.

  The Russian major planted his feet in a boxer stance and struck Max’s face and torso with well-timed jabs, each one feeling like a piston. After the sixth strike caught his jaw, the daylight blinked off, and Max hit the ground hard, out cold.

  The daylight blinked back on as a blast of cold water shocked his system. A spasm throbbed in his neck, and his chest burned near his ribcage. Swollen cheeks prevented his jaw from functioning. Something like rough sandpaper grated against his cheek. A rust-colored mixture of dirt and blood pooled near his face. He struggled to rise, but his body was rooted to the ground.

  Boots crunched in the grit, and a hulking figure knelt near his face, blotting out the light. Through the smell of blood, Max caught the fetid odor of old socks. It reminded him of the locker room at the KGB academy. He forced his jaw to work. “Good morning, sunshine. Still mad?”

  The major’s voice was gravelly. “One of my men reminded me to be grateful. It’s not every day that a man with a bounty on his head lands in your lap.” When Spartak stood, Max braced for a kick. Instead, the major walked away, his hand resting on his pistol holster. “Get him up so we can have a talk.”

  As Max was yanked to his feet, an abrupt kick to his hamstring sent him staggering to his knees. His head swam as the sand rushed at his face. Before his chest hit the deck, he was jerked upright and shoved into a chair where he was held by the soldiers.

  He studied the interior of the tent through eyes hazy from pain and blood. A weak yellow light from an electric lantern faded into shadows at the edges of the room. A long wooden table sat beside one canvas wall, and six chairs were scattered and tipped as if their occupants had made a hasty exit. The crumpled form of a lanky man lay on his stomach in the shadows opposite the table. He wore fatigues that looked like Spencer’s, but Max’s blurry eyes prevented him from telling whether the man was breathing.

  Spartak stalked into the light, his nose covered with a butterfly bandage, the skin around his eyes turning red and puffy. He grabbed Max by the chin to yank his head around. “He’s alive, if that’s what you’re wondering. But not for long.”

  Max worked his jaw to form words, but his mouth was full of marbles. “Surprised to…see us? Since you’re going to kill us... Tell me…how you found us.”

  Someone snapped something under Max’s nose and his surroundings turned to technicolor before his vision cleared.

  Two soldiers stood at attention along the wall, each clutching 9mm pistols in their hands. Those two plus the two men holding him in the chair in addition to Spartak made five.

  Max rolled his neck to loosen the muscles. “Your face is lookin’ good.”

  Spartak planted his feet a meter from Max’s chair. He had donned his fatigue shirt, but the Arab scarf lay on the table. “It’ll heal. You, however, will not.”

  Max groaned. “Good one.”

  The major produced a gleaming chrome-plated pistol from his leather holster, racked the slide and slid out the magazine, examined the visible brass bullet, and shoved the magazine back into the handle.

  Max spit a wad of phlegm and blood into the sand at Spartak’s feet. “Whatever you’re going to do, you better hurry. There’s a German BND tactical squad about a klick away. You don’t want to be here when they get here.”

  The Russian major stole a look at the door of the tent. Max strained against the men holding his arms. “Aren’t you wondering how we knew you’d be here?”

  Spartak stepped in front of Max and swung his arm. The butt of his gun crashed into Max’s cheekbone and sent stars cascading through his vision.

  How am I still awake? Must be the ammonia still in my nervous system.

  The major took a step back. “That’s exactly what I want to know. You’re dead either way, Asimov. You can suffer for weeks as we dismantle you piece by piece or you can tell me what I want to know and end it. You know how—”

  Max spit another wad of blood and snot, hitting the major’s boot. “Yeah, yeah. I don’t know where—”

  Spartak thrust his fist into Max’s abdomen, using his weight to maximize the power of the blow.

  Max doubled over and retched, tasting bile as he gulped for oxygen. When he looked up, gasping, a pistol muzzle was jammed in his face, Spartak’s finger firm on the trigger.

  A deep breath. “Okay…okay. You win.” Max sucked in more air. “It was one…of your consortium partners.” Was that flicker of panic in Spartak’s eyes? “Come on, everyone knows you guys…are fighting among yourselves. Who’s against you?”

  Spartak’s brow furrowed.

  “Think…hard,” Max said. The silence confirmed it. But who on the consortium sent the dossier? Who wanted to interrupt Spartak’s gun deal? He forced his swollen face into a weak smile.

  The major waved his gun at the tent’s entrance and yelled at his men. “Get out. All of you.” When the soldiers hesitated, Spartak bellowed at them, spittle flying from his mouth. “Get out!” Two men glanced back as the group filed out of the tent.

  When they were alone, Spartak held the gun in a meaty hand and pointed the muzzle at Max’s face. “Talk.”

  Fueled by the ammonia, Max ran through the list of consortium members he had long ago memorized. The leader was Nikita Ivanov, a name so common Max assumed it was a pseudonym. The second, third, fifth, sixth, and seventh names on the list were Russian—heads of petroleum conglomerates and senior intelligence officials in the Russian government. The fourth and tenth names were Chinese, while the rest were from former Soviet states like Ukraine and Latvia. Max gambled. “It was the Chinese.”

  This time, the strike was lightning fast but lacked power. Spartak’s left fist bounced off Max’s chin, causing pain but no real damage.

  Spartak laughed, and the gun wavered. “Bullshit. Now I know you’re lying. What I don’t know is—”

  As the major regained his balance from the punch, Max coiled all his energy into his legs and launched himself. His shoulder plowed into Spartak’s ironlike abdomen while his right arm grabbed for the gun hand. When the two men plowed into the sand, Max dug for purchase, trying to gain leverage and control of the gun.

  “V rot mne nogi!” Spartak bellowed.

  As the major brought the gun around, Max found purchase on his wrist and clamped on. With the smaller man gasping for breath underneath him, Max banged the gun hand on the sand repeatedly to dislodge the weapon.

  Spartak held tight, caught his breath, and heaved upwards.

  Max held on and locked his legs around the major.

  “Guards!” The major screamed.

  Running feet and shouts came from outside the tent. Max drove his left elbow into the major’s nose, and Spartak screamed. Max banged Spartak’s gun hand into the sand with a final heave, causing the weapon to come loose.

  Sand flew in a panicked scramble as both men dove for the pistol. Max
closed his hand around the bare steel of the grip, spun on a knee, and pulled the trigger.

  The gun fired just as the butt of a rifle struck his jaw. Bright light exploded, and he crumpled to the sand.

  Three

  Aras Valley in Turkey Near the Armenian Border

  Am I underwater?

  The voices were muddled, the words barely discernible. He strained to hear.

  “Load up, we need to leave.”

  Blackness surrounded him. Grit ground into his cheek, and his limbs were dead weight. Max strained to move a finger, but the effort yielded nothing. A dull ache radiated through his head, and his ears rang. Don’t puke. Keep it down. A few words came through.

  “What do we do with these two?”

  “Bring the Russian. Shoot the other one. He’s dead weight.”

  Panic forced his eyes open. Pain pulsed in his head, and he bit his tongue to keep from crying out. The blurred movement of men made him dizzy.

  I’m Belarusian, damn it.

  Rough hands dragged him through the sand, and more pain crushed his abdomen as his torso was wrenched around.

  At any minute, he’d hear the sharp report from the pistol that meant the end of Spencer White’s life. Visions from his recent operations with the former CIA man spun in his mind. Spencer limping through the dark warehouse until Max grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him into the van. Spencer, wielding an assault rifle, appearing in the basement of the safe house in Poland to free Max from the clutches of Nathan Abrams. Spencer on the porch of his Colorado ranch nursing a bourbon.

  As Max was dragged through the tent door by two men, the morning air was filled with gunfire.

  Crack.

  Heavy caliber. Men shouting. Another shot.

  Crack.

  Max pitched face-first to the sand, free from the strong hands. He rolled, sending pain coursing through his rib cage.

  More gunfire, lighter caliber. The distinctive sound of the M16.

  About time, Sammi.

  Two gray-uniformed men standing next to the lead Humvee went down. Max dug his toes into the sand and propelled himself at the vehicle, adrenaline spiking. Remind me to give you a hug, Sammi. He snatched a rifle from the ground left by a fallen soldier and pushed his back into the cold steel of the Humvee.

  He checked the rifle’s safety, found it off, and whirled to face the tent with the rifle held against his cheek. Two more soldiers lay on the ground, blood seeping into their gray uniforms. He took a step at the tent but froze as more gunfire filled the air.

  Pop, pop, pop.

  The tent doors flew open and a hail of gunfire poured from the interior. Bullet’s sang past Max’s face and plinked into the hood and radiator of the lead Humvee.

  Max hit the dirt, ignoring the pain in his ribcage. He rolled to his right as the sand where he was standing was chewed by bullets. Another burst of gunfire followed him as he jumped to his feet and scrambled behind the lead Humvee. Flinging the barrel of his rifle over the vehicle’s hood, Max aimed at the tent’s door and waited. An eerie quiet settled over the desert as Max kept his finger firm on the trigger.

  Spencer is still in the tent.

  As he counted the seconds, he scanned the camp. Made from thick canvas, the tents looked permanent, each with walls, a frame, and poles resting in their own foundations. They were as large as a medium-sized house. There was no evidence of Victor Dedov or his black-uniformed men.

  I need to get into that tent before they kill Spencer.

  A lanky form in dusty combat boots and a full beard materialized and positioned himself next to him, bracing the barrel of a scratched and dented M16 on the Humvee’s hood. Sammir Hassim, Iraqi and former leader of the resistance against Saddam’s Sunni-led government, wore a knit kufi skull cap covering wild hair and a dirty red thawb over ripped fatigues, giving him the look of an extremist.

  Max knew better. A devout Muslim with a large brood of children and a devoted wife, Sammi hated the taint the extremists put on his beloved faith. Since Desert Storm and Saddam Hussein’s demise at the hands of the Americans, Sammi now sold his services to those fighting ISIS, al-Qaeda, and other militants, and led dozens of missions with Soviet special operations groups, lending local support, translation services, and helping with local connections. Osama bin Laden had placed a fatwā death sentence on Sammi’s head in 1997 for the operative’s activities in aiding and abetting foreign governments.

  Max’s voice was low. “Took you long enough.”

  A guffaw. “I headed for home. Figured you were handling it. What of Agha White?”

  Max yanked the Humvee’s door open. “Unknown. Last I saw, he was lying against the right wall of the tent, alive. Who knows now.”

  Sammi nodded at the military vehicle. “I read your mind, sadiqi.”

  While Sammi followed, Max flung his rifle into the vehicle, climbed over the passenger seat, and plopped into the cracked vinyl driver’s seat. He cranked the starter and the V8 turbo-diesel rumbled to life. Sammi jumped into the gunner’s cockpit, grabbed the big machine gun, and swung the barrel to the front.

  Max ground the transmission into gear. “That .50 caliber is too big for where we’re going. Don’t kill the major. I need him alive.”

  Sammi slammed the lid down on the big gun’s ammunition port and grabbed the two handles. “Shock and awe, sadiqi. Shock and awe. Hit it.”

  Max punched the accelerator while spinning the wheel to the left. The three-ton armored truck bounced over the dead Russians, and the Humvee’s cattle guard plowed into the side of the massive tent. The entire structure swayed before the canvas ripped and the vehicle roared into the tent’s interior. Chairs crunched under his wheels as he scanned the interior for the enemy.

  There. To the left.

  The tent’s interior was filled with the deafening sound of .50 caliber machine gun fire and the lighter pop from the Russian’s AK-74––a newer version of the venerable AK-47. A stinging scent of gun powder filled Max’s nostrils, and brass casings rained down on his head. Smaller bullets plinked off the Humvee’s armored plating and he stomped the brake.

  As he wrenched open the door and dove out, pulling the rifle with him, one of the Russian soldier’s heads exploded into a pink and gray vapor from the .50 caliber. Max crouch-walked around the back of the Humvee, keeping the big truck between him and the enemy, holding the AK against his cheek while looking for a target. A lumpy form lay in the shadows to his right. Spencer!

  The .50 caliber went quiet, and Sammi cussed in Arabic as rifle fire cracked. Shots plinked off metal while the Iraqi slid into the driver’s seat of the Humvee. Notorious for jamming when poorly maintained, the .50 caliber had either run out of bullets or a casing was stuck in the breach.

  Max poked the rifle muzzle around the rear end of the vehicle and squeezed off three rounds to cover his reconnaissance of the tight room. Smoke hung in the air. The Russians had flipped over a heavy table in an attempt at cover, and a large chunk of wood was chewed away by the .50 caliber rounds.

  Two left. Spartak and a guard.

  He remained hidden behind the rear bumper as the Humvee lurched forward with Sammi behind the wheel.

  A soldier darted to Max’s right, firing as he ran, the bullets passing to Max’s right. There was no sign of Spartak as Max nosed his gun from behind the truck and put three rounds into the soldier’s torso. The Russian staggered, dropped his rifle, and fell.

  The Humvee plowed into the table, splintering the wood beneath its heavy tires before its momentum carried it through the canvas side of the tent. As the vehicle ground to a halt halfway through the tent wall, Max whirled, rifle up, and scanned the tent’s interior.

  Nothing moved. The tent was empty.

  Spartak had disappeared.

  Four

  Aras Valley in Turkey Near the Armenian Border

  Max banged his hand on the rear of the Humvee. “Go.”

  The vehicle heaved over the table’s remains and caught on the canvas
wall before it freed itself and lurched through a jagged hole in the tent’s side.

  Rifle at the ready, Max approached the debris and kicked pieces of the table away finding only sand and shards of wood. Sunlight blinded him as he stepped through the ripped canvas. When his eyes cleared, he scanned the immediate area for activity while ignoring the throbbing in his rib cage.

  Sammi appeared from the driver’s side of the Humvee holding the M16 and shaking his head. “Nothing. The khanzir disappeared.”

  Max marched away from the tent and gazed at the horizon. Nothing moved out in the scrub. “He must have used the running soldier as a distraction and cut his way through the canvas.”

  The Iraqi threw up his arms. “But where did he go?”

  A diesel engine roared to life on the far side of the tent, followed by a turbo whine and the sound of wheels crunching on rock.

  Max wrenched the Humvee’s door open and crawled inside. “Motherfucker. Get in, Sammi.”

  Sammi dove in and stuck his long torso out the window as Max spun the wheel in the direction of the front of the tent.

  Spartak, forced by the cumbersome vehicle to make a sweeping turn, picked up speed as Max and Sammi rounded the front of the tent on a collision course with the Russian. Gunfire erupted as Sammi squeezed off rounds from the M16, the bullets bouncing harmlessly off the Humvee’s armor.

  The major’s sweat-covered face was visible through the window while he attempted the wide turn to escape. Max pushed the accelerator to the floor. “Sammi, jump!”

  The rebel commander pushed the door open and leaped, robes flying, and rolled when he hit the sand. The front cattle guard of Max’s Humvee plowed into the side of Spartak’s truck with a grating of metal on metal, lifting Spartak’s Humvee onto two wheels. The force of the collision hurled Max into the steering wheel, sending blinding pain through his body.

  Through the burning agony, he kept the accelerator down, his truck’s wheels digging into the sand and straining against Spartak’s vehicle, keeping it pinned so two tires were just off the ground.