The Hunt

by Jack Arbor

  He also worried about his ten-year-old nephew, Alex, and his sister, Arina, and the home in Switzerland where they were confined, surrounded by dozens of guards, virtual prisoners themselves, their lives in constant danger. How can I look for Kate when my own flesh and blood is in constant and mortal danger? “Goshawk has intel on number six. Guy by the name of Leoniod Petrov. Russian oligarch involved in some shady oil deals. I’m heading to her place to start the planning.”

  As they bounced south, and the relentless sun beat down on them, Max ignored the slow burn of Spencer’s glare on the back of his neck.

  Six

  Unknown Location

  The walls in the ten-foot-square room were made from water-stained cinderblock, and the air was heavy with moisture. A loamy, earthy smell of flora laced with citrus dominated. The floor was hard-scrabbled dirt, treated with a chemical to form an impenetrable surface, and was crisscrossed with furrows from dripping water or mad captives digging with their fingernails. The ceiling was far overhead, too high for any prisoner to jump or reach. A dim light flickered from a single yellow bulb set in a corroded fixture halfway up one wall. The socket buzzed faintly, which did nothing to convey confidence that the light would remain lit much longer. Set in the center of one concrete wall was a metal door. The thick floral aroma barely hid odors of mildew, feces, urine, and the stench of decaying flesh.

  A rat the size of a small racoon sat on its haunches near the door holding a hard roll between its paws, working on the crunchy niblet with buck teeth. Resting in the dirt was a tin tray holding a bowl of beige-colored powder and water mixture the guards called God’s Gruel, which the rat ignored.

  A narrow access panel beneath the door’s plexiglass window popped open, and a yellow bloodshot eyeball next to a black eyepatch appeared. The single eye shifted back and forth before the window shut with a bang.

  If the naked woman curled in the fetal position heard the window shut, she gave no indication. She stared through blank eyes partially covered by dirty strands of curly brown hair and rocked, a faint moan escaping her lips, while her arms clutched her knees to her chest. She made no attempt to wipe the dried mucus from her upper lip nor did she try to clean the blood from her mouth or temple. Instead, she rocked and shivered in the damp heat, fighting the madness that had already come.

  Seven

  Somewhere in Bavaria

  Wind howled through the parapets as a flash and crackle in the nighttime sky lit the castle grounds and illuminated the leafless trees surrounding the keep, their crooked branches swaying in the gusts while casting long shadows over the forlorn grounds. A crust of snow from a storm that raged through the valleys and mountain peaks covered the property, while the clouds spit frozen pellets of water and the trees groaned under a coat of ice.

  The castle’s main fortress was a hulking affair constructed of stone by craftsmen who were unaware that their life’s work would withstand the millennia. Despite hundreds of years of harsh northern weather, occupation by tyrants, decades of misuse and vandalism, and the onset of decay, the structure remained stout enough to repel an attack from even a modern army. Narrow windows, called embrasures, looked out over the barren valley. A dozen fortified spires and towers allowed observation for miles in any direction. What was once a deep moat surrounding the castle was now full of detritus, trash, and mounds of decaying brush.

  The man pacing the castle halls resembled the very structure he owned and inhabited. Massive, almost giantlike—he suffered from a pituitary gland tumor that caused his monster proportions. His features looked as though they were carved from the same granite that made up the castle walls. A jutting brow cast shadows over already dark eyes and a proportional nose and a short Caesar cut peppered with gray softened his harsh features. A pair of thick but fashionable spectacles in muted black complemented a modern-cut wool suit and silk shirt. Gnarled hands the size of baseball mitts, strong enough to rip phone books in half, hung from muscled arms. A Bluetooth communication device hung perpetually from his ear—so much so that his aides wondered if he slept with it, if he even slept at all. He went by the name Nikita Ivanov, but his actual name was lost to the annals of time.

  Despite the abrupt impression, he radiated a charisma that women found hard to resist. Early in life he learned that the power of persuasion had little to do with physical appearance and everything to do with making an emotional connection, so he worked hard at combining his strength, power, and wealth with a charm and magnetism that over-compensated for his harsh exterior.

  His work ethic was as legendary as his size. Known to subsist on only four hours of sleep a night, he demanded identical dedication from his staff. Those who struggled to keep up with him were summarily dismissed. To the best of anyone’s knowledge, he never married, he was not known to seek sexual relations with females or males, and he discouraged social chatter in his presence. He followed a strict vegetarian diet and never smoked. He was attended in his personal quarters by a small staff sworn to secrecy. In an attempt to charm a comely chamber maid, a valet once whispered a description of his master’s choice of pajama pattern. The next day the valet’s body was found in a mountain ravine after the brakes on his vehicle mysteriously failed.

  Now his footsteps pounded along the slate hallway as he stalked from his personal quarters to his offices where his staff and guests waited, despite the late hour. His mind churned and calculated, at once pleased with the knowledge of Spartak’s death and the success of his plan’s inception yet troubled by the machinations of those on the consortium who conspired against him. Despite the weight on his broad shoulders, he took smug satisfaction that the traitorous army major was dead, and he permitted himself a moment of amusement at the events he would set off with this next meeting.

  His earpiece buzzed, and he tapped the button to activate the connection. “Go.”

  “Sir. Your second guest has arrived. Shall I show her into—”

  “Put her in the sparring room with Magnus, and leave them alone together. Make sure you’re recording with both audio and visual, and send a feed to my phone.” His pace never faltered.

  “Roger that, sir.”

  He severed the connection while working through the possible outcomes of the series of events he was setting into motion. The operation in Turkey went as planned, and it was only a matter of time before Asimov took the bait. The killer from Belarus was a robot, programmed to follow one set of instructions. All he had to do was issue those instructions, and the killing machine would do the rest.

  His visitor was another matter entirely. The woman was as unpredictable as a toddler but as effective as a Cray computer. He had one lever with her, and the little test he was about to enjoy might prove out his hunch. If his test failed, he would switch to plan B or plan C. His mind, equal to that of a chess grand master, had plotted through endless thrusts and parries. Each move was to be savored but not celebrated. Will final victory bring me peace?

  He stopped at the end of the corridor. Here the stone walls towered overhead while LED sconces cast a soft light and blended in with the medieval décor. Unseen to all but the sharpest eyes were video cameras sending feeds to a data center in the basement that rivaled those at most Fortune 500 companies.

  A few taps on his phone revealed a video feed showing the sparring room. The space was large with shadows that hid a variety of workout equipment mixed with his private collection of ancient torture devices. Spotlights illuminated a large square mat in the center where a young woman with vague Japanese features and dressed in a black leather biker jacket stood with her arms crossed over her chest. On the far side of the room was a broad man in a form-fitted dress shirt, his cufflinks glittering in the room’s pale light, a tattoo on his neck.

  The giant’s skin broke out into gooseflesh.

  Here we go.

  Eight

  Somewhere in Bavaria

  The giant strode into a small command room adjacent to the sparring room where monitors were mounted on three
walls and a one-way mirror covered the fourth wall. Through the glass, the woman in the biker jacket and the muscled man circled each other. Felix, his personal bodyguard—what he called his utility man—sat watching the activity on a monitor with his lanky arms and legs crossed.

  His utility man barely hid the glee on his face. “You sure this is a good idea? Remember what happened last time we used them both on an op?”

  The giant parked himself in front of the glass and ignored his craggy reflection in the window. “No, I’m not sure.”

  “Care to make a wager, sir? I’ll put two hundred on Magnus and give you two to one.” Felix toyed with a ring on his index finger.

  The giant grunted and kept his attention fixed on the action in the room.

  The arched ceiling high overhead the sparring room was covered in aged and fading frescos of medieval violence and war. Walls made from stone dripped with moisture forming puddles on the floor. Arranged around the room’s perimeter was a mixture of barbaric torture machines intermingled with modern workout equipment. A weight rack sat next to bumper plates that were stacked next to an ancient wooden rack with rollers at both ends. A speed bag hung next to a heavy bag, both of which were beside a chair made from cane and covered with spikes and straps. The center of the room contained a large blue mat, similar to those found in a mixed martial arts cage.

  The woman, her arms and back rippling with muscles, dropped her leather jacket to the floor. Underneath, she wore a white halter top and black tights. The male had the broad upper body and tiny legs of a gym rat who liked to skip leg day. As the woman circled the center of the room, he sidestepped away. He deposited his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, revealing arms covered with tattoos in bright colors. A set of hidden microphones relayed their conversation.

  The woman took a step onto the mat. “Hello, Magnus.”

  “Kira. What a surprise to see you here.” Magnus rolled his head around causing a crackle to echo around the room.

  The lithe female advanced another step. “It’s just like our large friend to do this, no?”

  Magnus snickered as he stepped onto the mat. “Just you and me, honey. Mano a mano. Old-fashioned fisticuffs, like it should be.” The fighter bounced on the balls of his feet while shaking out his arms.

  In the observation room, Ivanov cleaned his glasses with a silk handkerchief. She doesn’t stand a chance.

  The woman took two running steps and launched herself at Magnus with a flying kick and struck her target’s chest with two heels. He flew back and performed a summersault while she landed and took three running steps, sprang, and delivered a butterfly kick that connected with his jaw. Blood and saliva flew from his mouth as he spun and landed on his chest with a jarring thump that rattled the glass.

  She’s not fucking around.

  The female executed a series of quick but vicious kicks that sent more blood spattering across the mat. A Brazilian kick landed on his neck while he struggled to stand and a sweep sent him hard to the mat once again.

  Kira bounded away and stopped in a Kokutsu-dachi, a karate stance with her weight on her back foot while Magnus staggered to his feet. He took a tentative step, wavered, almost fell, and caught himself. He wiped blood and sweat from his brow before settling into a front stance, hands low in leopard hand. “Come on. Fight me, you bitch.”

  Felix snickered. “She’s toying with him.” He slapped two green-hued one hundred euro notes on the table.

  “I’ll take those odds.” Ivanov removed a single one hundred euro bill from his pocket and laid it on the table.

  The two fighters traded a series of blows that tested each other but did no real damage. She feinted and slipped, letting the strikes glance off her arms and shoulders, parrying the more direct hits. Magnus moved slowly, but the giant knew better. He’d seen this tactic before after watching countless cage fights where Magnus played possum in the beginning only to emerge later with a vicious energy after his opponent tired.

  As the next strike sailed past the woman’s shoulder, she used Magnus’s momentum to toss him to the ground. Instead of pouncing and closing like her opponent might expect, she landed a series of stomp kicks on his torso and head, sending more blood spattering to the mat. He rolled away and struggled to his feet, shaking his head, sending a spray of sweat and blood through the air in a slow arc. Again he attacked with a series of jabs and punches, which she parried with blocks and a series of kicks, before he backed away on shaky legs while she bounced on the balls of her feet. Kira wore a mask of easy concentration, and she showed no fatigue.

  He’s playing possum.

  A light went on in Magnus’s eyes, and he attacked again with a variety of his own kicks. A strike found her solar plexus, and she barely managed to parry another with her forearm. Off balance, she struck at him with a right jab, which he caught in an arm lock, pulling her close where she had no leverage against his superior strength and weight.

  The glint in Magnus’s eyes grew brighter.

  She kicked out at his shin again and again but failed to dislodge the hold.

  He tightened his grip on her elbow, threatening to break it.

  Behind the glass, the giant’s toe tapped a rhythm on the floor. She’s finally met her match.

  The action on the mat slowed as the utility man joined the giant at the window. The two fighters stood locked in a stalemate, and the female’s face contorted in pain. Felix scooped the bills off the table.

  She’s done. Then Ivanov’s jaw dropped.

  Balancing on the ball of her left foot, Kira angled her right leg back and spun it around until her foot swung around her back, over her head, and the top of her foot hammered her opponent’s forehead in a perfectly executed scorpion kick that released his hold and sent Magnus to his stomach, where he lay stunned.

  Landing on Magnus’s back, Kira hooked her arm around his neck, flexing her bicep so his windpipe was cut off. Veins popped from her neck and forehead, and her shoulder muscles rippled and pulsed as her arm tightened around his neck. Her eyes changed from shimmering with the fight to a clouded faraway stare.

  In a split second the giant sprinted from the control room while drawing a pistol from a shoulder holster. As he threw open the double doors to the sparring room, he cursed his one miscalculation. “Kira!”

  The pistol was in the giant’s hand, but he wavered.

  The woman’s gaze was locked onto the ceiling, her mind somewhere deep in her past. She straddled Magnus’s back while her arms encircled his neck, holding him in a cobra-like position, bent awkwardly at his lower spine. His face was contorted and his eyes bulged as he gasped for air, and he slapped the mat repeatedly.

  The giant halted two meters from the pair. “Kira. Let him go. He’s tapped out.”

  She tightened her grip. One of Magnus’s arms flailed at her shoulder and his eyes grew wide as he ran out of air.

  Goddamn it. “Let him go,” Ivanov yelled. “I command you.”

  Her lips curled in a sneer as her right hand crept around to grasp Magnus’s chin.

  Hands up and palms out, Ivanov realized the significance of the shift in her grip. “Don’t do it, Kira. Felix, get her off him.”

  The utility man strode at the pair.

  There’s no time. “No. Kira. Don’t—”

  With a sharp wrench of her hands, Magnus’s neck snapped with a sickening crunch. She pushed his body into the mat and leaped to her feet to meet the oncoming attack.

  Felix stopped and pushed his stringy blond hair behind an ear before checking Magnus’s pulse. “Dead.”

  The giant clenched his free hand into a fist. “Damn it, Kira. Why’d you do that?”

  She stepped back. “What did you think was going to happen?”

  Felix walked to the end of the room and perched himself on the torture rack.

  Ivanov spread his arms. “I thought you two would work out your differences. We needed him for this operation.”

  She pointed at Magnus’s body. “Now
they’re worked out.”

  Bowing his head, Ivanov gathered his thoughts. He pushed away his anger and holstered his gun. “So be it.”

  The woman remained tense and poised as her eyes darted between Ivanov and Felix.

  Reaching into his suit jacket, Ivanov pulled out a glossy four by six-inch image, which he held out to her.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she snatched the picture and examined it while keeping a wary eye on both men.

  From memory, Ivanov visualized the picture. It depicted a surveillance shot of a fit-looking man in his mid-forties wearing a suit jacket over a casual shirt. His head was shaved, and he sported a pair of aviator-styled sunglasses and held a cigarette in a curled hand.

  Kira’s face remain stoic. If she recognized him, there was no indication.

  “You recognize this man?” He asked with a wry grin.

  Kira handed back the photo. “No. I thought so. But no.”

  Was that a slight shift in her eyes? He shrugged. “Felix, the dossier please.”

  The utility man rose, ambled to the double doors, disappeared for a moment, and returned with a file, which he handed to Ivanov.

  After paging through the folio to ensure it was intact, Ivanov held it out to Kira. “Your next assignment.”

  With her chin up, she grabbed the file and looked inside. “My usual fees apply, you know.”

  Ivanov chuckled. “You’re going to want more for this one. You could have used Magnus’s help.”

  “I work better alone.”

  The file was thin, containing only a few photos of the male subject along with a sheaf of dog-eared papers held together with a paperclip. In the back of the folder were several photos of a curly-haired woman with tan skin. Kira examined each image, and Ivanov knew from experience that she was committing them to memory.