The Hunt

by Jack Arbor

  He flicked ash through a crack in the window. “What’s your point?”

  “Maybe that’s Bluefish’s objective too.”

  “Except Brown is good at his job. Walk me through his routine again.”

  Goshawk sighed. “Medium-sized brick house in Odenton, Maryland. Ten minutes from his office at Fort Meade. Lives alone. Drives a maroon Buick. Leaves the house at three am. Usually home after dark. All his meals and PT are done at Fort Meade. Known for early morning runs through the park to the south of the base. That’s about it. If he has a weakness for drugs or women, it’s not showing up anywhere.”

  “What about money? What do his bank accounts tell us?”

  “Nothing weird. He makes $178,988 annually as a three-star general. His house is paid off. He’s maximizing his retirement savings. The rest of the money goes into an investment account. He’s not a wealthy man, but he’s well off and has frugal habits.”

  “Any offshore accounts?”

  “Nothing I’ve found yet.”

  Max flicked ash into the passenger footwell. “Right. What about vacations? What does he do on leave?”

  “Every year he takes a scuba trip to either the Caribbean or the south pacific. He’s been to Okinawa, Hawaii, Belize. All the hot spots.”

  “And no evidence of a female companion? Or a male, I guess?”

  “Correct,” said Goshawk. “Why do you always look for the skeleton?”

  “Everyone’s got one.”

  “What’s yours?” Her voice was a purr.

  Max stubbed the cigarette out in the console between the seats and put the butt in his pocket before starting up the car. “You, of course.”

  For four days Max watched General Brown’s garage door roll up at precisely three am. The maroon sedan rolled to Fort Meade, where the car arrived at the gate at precisely three-ten am. The evening trip was more flexible. One night it was nine forty-six pm, and the next it was seven fifty-two pm. Each night, the light in the general’s bedroom went out at precisely ten pm.

  On the fifth day, a cold, overcast, and blustery mid-November Friday, Max watched as the Buick motored off in the direction of Fort Meade. He followed to ensure the general entered Fort Meade before returning to his hotel for a nap. Later in the morning, he visited Chevy Chase Pavilion to do some shopping before taking another nap. As dusk descended, he drove to General Brown’s neighborhood and went for a jog dressed in a dark track suit and stocking cap.

  The general lived in a sleepy upper middle class neighborhood with classic brick houses set far apart on tree-lined lots. Foreign cars were parked in many of the driveways. The general’s home, one of the smallest in the neighborhood, was bordered by a waist-high hedge of boxwood along his front yard.

  As Max reached the front of the general’s house, he slowed and looked around before vaulting over the hedge. He crouch-ran until he got to the side door, which was hidden in shadows. Using a set of lock picks that his father left among the gear at Rodion’s restaurant, he opened the lock and slipped inside.

  He worked fast, intent on reconnaissance. The faint odor of cigar smoke and dark roast coffee permeated the house. Stepping through a mudroom, bare of any boots or jackets, he entered a kitchen with granite countertops and honey-colored cabinets. The stainless steel sink was empty and clean, and the dishwasher looked unused. A drying rack next to the sink contained a bowl, a spoon, and a coffee mug. The pantry was full of canned beans, vegetables, and boxes of pasta and rice. A fruit bowl contained an avocado and a ripe banana.

  He moved through the formal living room and dining room, both spotless. The walls were covered with reproductions of impressionist artists; there were no pictures of family members or friends. It looked and felt like a safe house.

  In the rear he found a study with a scuffed but plush leather couch, several matching leather chairs, and a mahogany desk. The cigar aroma was strong here, with a large ashtray holding remnants of several cigars. A pair of reading glasses topped a stack of military history books next to a chair.

  So that’s what you do at night, General Brown.

  The general lived in his study. Along one wall, underneath a large Monet print, was a mahogany credenza with more military history books, a stereo system, and a bar service consisting of a silver tray, three tumblers, and a crystal decanter. He opened the top and sniffed the unmistakable peaty odor of expensive Scotch. In the cabinet below the bar service were four unopened bottles of Macallan single malt. The general was a man of habit.

  The credenza held a dozen framed pictures showing the general with groups of his military comrades. Max used his Blackphone to snap a picture of each photo and sent the lot to Goshawk.

  Max checked his watch. Ten minutes.

  He went through the desk drawers, taking care not to disturb anything, but found nothing of interest, and moved to the stairs. When he reached midway, he heard a sound and froze. A gentle tapping came from somewhere up the stairs. He took another step, and the sound got louder before dying off. He removed a compact Glock from his jacket pocket. Another step. The sound resumed.

  The tapping grew louder. Two more steps and he peeked inside a room at the top of the stairs.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  He groaned when he saw the source. A tree branch outside the room’s window was hitting against the glass. He stuffed the gun back in his pocket and resumed his search.

  Two formal guest rooms and the master bedroom made up the second floor. Brown’s bedroom was squared away with an alarm clock, another stack of military history books, another pair of reading glasses, and not much else. Max checked under the mattress and pillows but found nothing. The closet yielded a row of perfectly pressed uniforms on hangers.

  Something occurred to him as he hoofed down the stairs, and he went back to the study. No laptop, no desktop. No printer or other peripherals. Why did the number two guy in the US Cyber Command have no home computer?

  He left the house the same way he entered and locked the door behind him. A moment later he jogged down the street, satisfied he found a way to take the general peacefully. Only a few details to figure out.

  I’m coming for you, General Brown.

  Thirty-Eight

  Fort Meade, Maryland

  Preparations to take down General Brown took most of the day. Despite a midnight black bag job at a local veterinary hospital, Max enjoyed a hot breakfast of eggs, pancakes, bacon, and black coffee. Wearing a hat and sunglasses, with a scarf around his neck to ward off the cold, he paid cash for a bare white panel van, and drove to a parking garage where he swiped a set of Maryland plates from a Honda Accord. To be safe, he took a set of plates from a Toyota and put those on the Honda.

  Next, he stopped at a mortuary, where he paid the son of the funeral director five hundred bucks for a cheap wooden coffin, saying he needed it as a prop for a haunted house. The kid gladly helped Max load it into the van.

  Last on the list was a big box hardware store where he easily avoided the scarce employees as he loaded his cart with zip ties, duct tape, a razor blade knife, a hammer, standard wood nails, a sheet of neoprene plastic, a cordless drill, four opaque plastic bins, and various other tools. He paid cash and loaded his items into the van next to the coffin before making the drive back to Fort Meade.

  By the time he reached the outskirts of Odenton, the streets were full of workers on their way home. He pulled into a Red Roof Inn parking lot a mile from General Brown’s house and backed the van into a spot in the rear next to a dumpster. He found a generic chain restaurant and ate a tough steak and an iceberg lettuce salad while watching a basketball game on the bar’s television. The Wizards were up on the Pelicans in the third quarter, and the lackluster athletic performance made him long for a soccer match.

  As darkness descended, he once again donned his jogging outfit, placed the Glock in a pocket, tugged on the stocking cap, and jumped in the car. He left the rental four blocks from the general’s house and took off for a jog. When he reached the brick ho
use with the red shutters, he stopped to tie his shoe and look around. Seeing no one, he jumped the hedge. A few minutes later he was back in the darkened house.

  This would take two minutes, three tops. From a jacket pocket, he withdrew a small vial of clear liquid and opened the cap while entering the study. He stepped to the credenza and lifted the crystal decanter’s heavy top. Three inches of the brown liquid remained in the carafe. He dumped the vial’s contents into the Scotch, swirled the decanter, and took a sniff. No sign of the drug. After thinking for a second, he emptied half of a second vial into the decanter before replacing the top. He stuffed the vials into his pocket, turned to leave the office, and froze.

  Standing in the doorway was General Brown holding a silver-plated pistol pointed at Max’s stomach.

  Thirty-Nine

  Fort Meade, Maryland

  “Tell me you didn’t just ruin a perfectly good decanter of Macallan.”

  Max held his hands waist high, while General Brown was partially hidden by the doorjamb. “Hello, Bluefish.”

  The general’s baritone voice boomed in the small room. “Yes, your friend the Hawk is exceedingly capable. She managed to dodge my attacks. Got help from that idiot the Monk, and disappeared before I found her. Very resourceful, that one.”

  Working to keep his movements hidden as he talked, Max held the general’s gaze. “Jig’s up, Bluefish. Or should I call you General Brown.”

  The general’s face remained blank. “What jig exactly are you referring to?”

  Max inched his hands lower. “MI6. They’re down the street.”

  With a shake of his head, the general chuckled. “No, they’re not. Your man Baxter is safe inside the British Embassy, royally steamed at how you gave him the slip. The only people down the street are my men parked behind your rental.”

  Max gave a loud sarcastic laugh. “Come on, general. You don’t have any people. You’re a loner. A lonely man with no family and no friends who uses his vast computing networks to fuck with people’s lives.” His hand slid closer to the Glock in his tracksuit pocket.

  Hiding more of his body behind the doorjamb, the general waved his pistol. “Toss the gun. Get down on the ground.”

  Max slid his hand into his jacket pocket as he talked. “Bluefish. Where did you get that name, anyway? Don’t see any Dr. Seuss books around here.” He slipped his finger through the trigger guard and fired through the material of his jogging jacket. The room was filled with a popping sound as the general returned fire with the silver-plated pistol.

  When he started shooting, Max was ten meters from the general’s position but only a meter from the desk. With adrenaline coursing and heart rates elevated, handguns are notoriously inaccurate, even in the hands of experts such as General Brown and himself. Max counted on this and the loud surprise of his gunshots to buy him a split second.

  Max hurled himself at the enormous desk while firing and banged down hard on his shoulder, knocking the breath from his lungs. Gasping for air, he scrambled to kneel behind the desk while holding the pistol in a two-handed grip. A searing burn radiated from his left forearm where blood seeped through his track suit. A yank on his sleeve revealed a thin furrow in his radialis. Grazed by one of General Brown’s bullets.

  Cold air hit Max’s back. The sliding glass door had shattered in the gun fight, leaving a gaping hole to the deck and darkness beyond. He grabbed his Blackphone from his pocket, turned on the camera, and put it against the floor so the lens showed the room. The general was no longer in the doorway.

  Staying low, Max crouch-walked and stopped behind a leather chair, gun pointed at the hallway. When the general didn’t show, Max darted across the room and put his back to the wall next to the door. A glance into the hallway revealed it to be empty, but a dark streak of red blood stood out against the hallway’s white walls.

  Avoiding the glass shards, Max ran through the broken sliding door to the screened deck. He moved through the outside door to the stoop at the rear of the house. The door was unlocked, and he slipped into the kitchen. Empty.

  God damn it. All these years in the field and I never got shot. Now I’m lying in my own house with a bullet… Shit. Where am I hit?

  He scanned his body. Everything hurt. His nerves were on fire. Legs, won’t move. Torso, check. Arms, check. Shoulder, white hot heat. There. This is what a heart attack must feel like. Is there blood?

  His cheek rested on something soft and silky. My Kashmirian rug. That ornate silk thing I brought back from Islamabad.

  Where’s my gun? I better get that and be ready. That damn Russian is around here somewhere. Can’t go down without a fight. I might die, but I’m taking that damn Russian with me. They’re the ones that fucked up Afghanistan. It wasn’t us. Was it? Maybe it was us. The damn CIA and their stinger missiles. I’ve got an idea. Let’s kit out all the mujahideen with weapons they can later use against us. But there was Yugoslavia. Didn’t the Russians kill a bunch of women and children there?

  With a force of will, he moved his arm and cast about the floor. A finger brushed cold metal, and he lunged. The gun. He grasped it and collapsed on the carpet. Now the rug felt squishy.

  Is that blood? Damn, my shoulder aches. Chilly in here. Better call someone. He fished in his pocket. Brought out his phone. It felt slick, slimy. He punched at it. Emergency call.

  A thunk sounded near his head, and he realized he dropped the phone. Damn it. He tried to move his arm, but it was frozen. Where is that damn thing?

  “Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?” The voice was female, cold, and efficient.

  His body was wracked with shivers. “Bullet… Shot… Help…”

  “Sir, can you tell me your location?”

  In halting words, he recited his address.

  The mechanical voice continued. “I’m sending help now, sir. Can you tell me your name?”

  A shadow came over his face, and he sensed the gun plucked from his hand. He wanted to fight, but he was frozen in place. Instead, he screamed as something pressed into his shoulder—like a red-hot iron rod sliding into his pectoral muscle. He couldn’t stop shivering. A voice spoke, but he couldn’t understand it.

  That’s a Russian accent. He’s here.

  Damn you, Russian. Damn you.

  More words. What’s he saying? Blood loss? I’m going to be okay?

  Four words were spoken loudly in his ear. Four words that cut through the pain and fog.

  “I’m Belarusian, you fuck.”

  Everyone has a plan until they’re punched in the face.

  This time, it wasn’t one of his father’s many pithy sayings, but a quote from Mike Tyson, the boxer, someone Max read about during his American indoctrination training at the KGB.

  The one person who knew where Kate was now lay on the floor bleeding out from a gunshot wound and was passing in and out of consciousness. The local police were on their way, and even if he got the general out of the house, the mess left behind would cause a huge manhunt. All he had done so far was staunch the man’s wound with a cloth napkin.

  The house reeked of gunpowder. A large pool of blood sat under the general’s inert body. I need some luck to get out of this mess.

  Speed was his friend. He shoved his gun into the pocket of his track suit and the general’s gun into his waistband and used the silk carpet to make a burrito with the wounded man in the center. He dragged the carpet through the kitchen, into the mud room, and down the three steps of the outdoor stoop until the carpet hit the concrete patio.

  Hearing sirens in the distance, he sprinted to his car, jumped in and drove without lights to the general’s house. Tires squealed on concrete as he jammed on the brakes in the driveway.

  Jumping from the car, he squatted next to the burrito and wiggled both hands under the carpet. Using his leg muscles, he lifted the general and the carpet into the trunk. Hoping he hadn’t dropped anything in the general’s house, he jumped behind the wheel and hit the gas.

  Speeding southeas
t, he stuck to the speed limit, and made a series of right and left turns to take him back to the Red Roof Inn. There he backed into the spot next to the white van. A mother pulling a cartful of suitcases with a youngster in tow was making her way to the hotel’s back door. He waited until she entered the building before getting out and opening the sedan’s trunk and the van’s rear doors. With a heave, he moved the general, still rolled in the carpet, from the trunk to the rear of the van. Another heave got him in the coffin. Blood was everywhere—in the trunk of the car, on the sides of the wooden coffin, and on his hands, forearms, and shirt. He ignored the mess, unrolled the carpet, and felt the general’s neck. Don’t die on me, damn it.

  Nothing.

  Fumbling along Brown’s neck, he found it. A pulse. Faint, but it was there.

  He used duct tape to hold the blood-soaked napkin to the general’s shoulder and put the lid on the coffin. No time to clean any of the blood. After a cursory wipe of the sedan’s interior to remove any fingerprints, he shut the trunk, banged the van’s doors closed, and jumped into the driver’s seat.

  As he wove through city streets to the entrance to the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, a string of vehicles with flashing blue and red lights passed by in the opposite direction. While he dug out his Blackphone, he controlled his breathing.

  Baxter is not going to be happy.

  Forty

  Fort Meade, Maryland

  “You’ve certainly got yourself into a bloody shitpouch.” Baxter’s voice was a low growl.

  “Bloody is the operative word. These things happen. Are you going to help me or not?”

  The silence on the line was so long that Max checked the screen on his phone to make sure the call was still connected. When Baxter spoke, his voice was frosty. “These things don’t happen in MI6.”