Relentless

by Jonathan Maberry

  Kuga said nothing. He wished he’d brought a fresh bottle and some ice with him to bed.

  “Moreover,” continued Sunday, “if Santoro hadn’t forgotten about the golden rule of ‘not taking things personally,’ he’d have never tried for revenge against Joe Ledger. Killing Ledger’s family was Santoro giving a consolation gift to Eve for losing her family. Adam. And what’s the result? Ledger has slaughtered his way up the food chain looking for him and for you.”

  “I…,” began Kuga, but he had nowhere to go with it.

  “Santoro used to be the king of subtlety, the author of the best long-range plans of manipulation and coerced control. Now what is he? An emotional wild card. A liability who is endangering the American Operation, our entire operation, and you personally.”

  “I thought you were taking care of Ledger. Is that what your mumbo jumbo Lord Voldemort crap was all about? The Darkness bullshit?”

  “You talk as if that is as certain as a bullet fired from point-blank range,” said Sunday. “I’ve done real damage to Ledger—and even if he survives, he’ll never recover—but the rage Santoro awakened in him has its own power. There is a war for control of his soul, and what Santoro did is in danger of canceling what you wanted me to do.”

  “Fuck…”

  “But the real reason I called was to suggest that you take steps.”

  “If you think I’m going to put a contract out on Rafael, then you’re out of your—”

  “No, no, no. Nothing like that,” laughed Sunday. “I’m suggesting something more immediately practical. I think you need to make sure that someone else has access to the overall network. Command, I mean. I think you need to delegate some of the responsibilities.”

  “Oh, sure. To whom? To you?”

  “That’s not what I’m suggesting,” said Sunday. “Perhaps to a kind of board. Under your authority, but clearly sharing the responsibility for plans drawn and actions taken.”

  “Why the hell would I want to do that?”

  “Because you have enemies, my friend,” said Sunday. “Ledger may be out there crashing and burning because that level of madness isn’t self-sustaining … but Church undoubtedly sees you as the principal threat. And, let’s face it, he’s not at all above sending assassins out to take you off the board. He believes that if he cuts off the head of the dragon, the whole empire will collapse into infighting. I doubt he’s wrong about that. I mean, if—god forbid—something happened to you, can you see Santoro, as emotionally compromised as he’s become, running your empire? On the other hand, if there is a clear infrastructure in place, you stop being a critical winner-take-all target.”

  Kuga sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I’m listening,” he said.

  CHAPTER 136

  HOTEL TIMIȘOARA

  TIMIȘOARA, ROMANIA

  After the shower, I got dressed and then sat at the small desk in the suite and hacked into the hotel security channel and the local police frequency. Things were hysterical for a while, but by four in the morning, things were settling down.

  I looked at Cruella and Woodpecker, but they were still sleeping. I wondered what their dreams were like. I considered shooting them, too. Just in case.

  Thought about it but didn’t do it.

  So far, the Darkness was there—moving within me, fighting for dominance—but hadn’t totally overwhelmed me. So far, the three other aspects of my broken mind were in control. Barely, but there.

  So far, I wasn’t in the same room with Rafael Santoro or Kuga. When that happened, I knew the Darkness would own me, own the moment, own the world.

  I both feared and prayed for that moment.

  I wiped down every surface, packed up my equipment, buckled Ghost’s service vest in place, put on dark glasses, and we made our way carefully from the hotel.

  CHAPTER 137

  HOTEL TIMIȘOARA

  TIMIȘOARA, ROMANIA

  The street outside was busy, with dozens of official cars and news vehicles parked at crooked angles to the front of the hotel. It was dark—dawn wasn’t even a rumor. A crowd of people were gathered to rubberneck. In the lobby by the front door, a worried-looking hotel official flanked by two stern cops was checking everyone’s ID, matching it against the guest registry and—in some cases—taking individuals away for pat-downs.

  My credentials were unbreakable. The identification they scanned was not associated with the room near where the exchange happened or the room where I’d interrogated the three black marketeers. I’d been very thorough when I’d set this up. My ID was attached to a room with no particular view, and I was an Italian national on a lecture tour of Central Europe. I taught computer keyboarding for the vision impaired.

  The cops opened my suitcase and checked through clothes, books, toiletries. They searched my laptop case and found a computer with a braille keyboard and other devices that you’d expect to find. None of these were brand-new but obviously well used, even down to some muffin crumbs stuck between keys. One of them actually waved a hand in front of my eyes. They also checked the service animal serial number on Ghost’s vest, ran it through their system, and finally repacked my stuff for me.

  The R-33 materials were sealed inside the shell of the laptop, and some of the cash was wrapped in plastic and rolled up inside two cans of dog food, with the smelly glop on top in case they opened the cans. The rest of the cash was on the floor with the three people I’d interrogated. I’d taken a roll of bills and shoved them in each of their mouths. Sure, it was a juvenile and cruel thing to do. So what? It was a kind of mobster gesture that would likely send the cops off in the wrong direction.

  The search was done well, but they weren’t looking for someone like me. They probably figured that whoever hit that room was long gone. They hadn’t even knocked on my door. There would be a street-by-street search and then a national manhunt.

  “Thank you,” I said in Italian-accented Romanian as I took my papers back. Ghost sat there the whole time, staring into the middle distance. He really can act, and I foresaw some treats and belly rubs in his near future.

  “Do you have a driver?” asked the hotel official.

  “I was going to take a taxi,” I said.

  “It’s beginning to rain, sir,” he said. “I’ll have someone fetch you a cab.”

  He handed me off to a doorman, who, indeed, flagged a lemon-colored taxi, put my bag in the trunk. Very polite, very considerate of the poor blind guy and his docile service dog.

  CHAPTER 138

  TRADE UNION BUILDING

  STRADA MĂRĂȘEȘTI

  TIMIȘOARA, ROMANIA

  The sniper had the perfect vantage point, and the weather gods were being kind to him.

  The building across the intersection from the hotel had a low wall around the roof, with the big metal housing for the air conditioner snugged over to one corner. The correct corner. In the niche between the AC and the wall, there was a comfortable place to wait, and he’d waited for hours. That was fine. The sniper was a very patient man.

  His name was Sydänkäpy. Only that. It meant “heart pine cone.” A nickname whose significance was lost to time because the group of fellow soldiers who’d hung it on him were all dead. Long dead, each lost to this war or that. Or to this covert job or that.

  Only Sydänkäpy remained. He did not consider himself a fighter. His hand-to-hand skills were only ever okay. He did not like humping eighty pounds of equipment through deserts or windy mountain passes. Sydänkäpy always joked that he was the world’s laziest man, which was why he’d picked sniping as a profession. You got to sit around a lot. Relax. Wait. Watch.

  As he was watching now. It was one of the skills that his mentor—his master—Michael Augustus Stafford had taught him. Watching. Being patient. Letting the target come to him. Letting the target prove through incaution that he wanted the bullet.

  He’d arrived before the meeting between the local black market chaps and Kuga’s team. His brief was simple—if a man fitting
a certain description and accompanied by a large white dog left the hotel at any point, Sydänkäpy was to take him out. That order had been reissued with a stern demand that it be done with extreme prejudice. Apparently, the meet had gone south and the players taken off the board. That meant the package Kuga’s agent was to hand over to the Romanian had been taken. The target would likely have it.

  The target would be in disguise. That didn’t matter to Sydänkäpy. He had the eyes of a predator bird—a hawk or falcon—and was not distracted by false mustaches, wigs, or a phony limp. He’d studied this man, seen footage of him. And would know him in a snowstorm.

  Sydänkäpy spent time setting up his equipment. A small laptop fed real-time information to him through earbuds. A folding stool kept him comfortable, so he didn’t have to kneel for hours. And, of course, there was the rifle. A Finnish gun that Sydänkäpy had used many times. Not the same gun but one like it. He tended to use one of three or four different weapons for jobs like these. Guns he knew intimately. His pick for tonight was a Sako TRG 42 long-range sniper rifle. Without a doubt one of the finest sniper rifles in the world. It was a much-improved version of the old Sako TRG 41 on which Sydänkäpy had learned his trade.

  The TRG 42 had a new and very comfortable stock design. And the weapon was designed to handle more powerful cartridges with a maximum length of 95 mm. It was a manually operated, bolt-action rifle chambered for .338 Lapua Magnum cartridges. That gave him an effective range of fifteen hundred meters. During daylight hours, he used the Picatinny-type scope, but as a coming storm darkened the day and night fell, he switched to a night vision scope, the kind adjusted to accept some artificial light—streetlights and the neon around the hotel entrance—without blinding him. Very expensive and very subtle technology.

  The other bit of tech he added was a sound suppressor of a kind that also reduced muzzle flash. Sydänkäpy liked things nice and quiet.

  As the hours passed, he watched the arrival of police and crime scene units. He saw ambulances appear and then vanish. He saw crowds gather to watch, dispersing only a little as the first raindrops fell. He listened to police chatter via his coms unit and got updates from his handler. He knew everything that took place inside the hotel.

  Almost.

  The target had vanished, presumably to a bolt-hole within the place. The computer team working logistics and intelligence did pattern and keyword searches on the guests booked into each room. Only one of them had a dog.

  A blind man. And one whose credentials were beautifully constructed, even down to small details on social media platforms. Very sophisticated.

  That made Sydänkäpy smile. He appreciated good tradecraft.

  It was full dark when the blind man and his white service dog stepped out of the hotel. Sydänkäpy shifted into position. The rain was blowing toward the hotel, which meant that the air conditioner housing blocked it from splatting on him. The angle of the wind kept almost all droplets off his scope. Nice.

  The blind man was blocked for a few seconds by a helpful member of the staff and the driver of a cab. A suitcase and laptop case were put into the trunk. No bags that resembled the ones taken from the meeting room, but he didn’t expect to see those.

  He tested the wind and made very slight adjustments to his sights.

  Ready. Patient.

  The man then moved away from the hotel staff member and the driver and the shot was clear and easy. Sydänkäpy slipped his finger into the trigger guard, took a breath, and exhaled as he pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER 139

  THE PAVILION

  BLUE DIAMOND ELITE TRAINING CENTER

  STEVENS COUNTY, WASHINGTON

  Bunny was out walking.

  He and Top took turns strolling around, making sure that they were never directly looking at anything important, but letting their button cams pick up details.

  “Turn just a little bit to the left,” said Andrea, who was somewhere in the woods processing the intel. “Gorilla balls! What is that?”

  Bunny, of course, said nothing.

  Forty feet away, a group of Pavilion technicians were using a forklift to place K-110 fighting machines into huge crates. There was a line of nine such crates, and three more on the back of a stake-bed semi. Other techs were busy securing the loaded crates to the truck bed with canvas straps and chains. The crates were marked: MEDICAL EQUIPMENT—C-19.

  “Accidenti!” cried Andrea. “What clever bastards they are. Che palle!”

  Bunny lingered for as long as he could—no more than a few seconds—and then moved on to complete his daily morning walk. Later, Top would go jogging through here.

  CHAPTER 140

  HOTEL TIMIȘOARA

  TIMIȘOARA, ROMANIA

  But just as I was about to step into the car, I heard a strange sound. A soft whisk of air past my cheek and immediately a light thunk of something striking asphalt nearby. There was so much hustle and noise on the street that no one else seemed to have heard it. I ducked my ass immediately into the car and shifted to the center of the rear bench seat, pushing Ghost down on the floor.

  “Hurry, please,” I said to the driver, “I need to make my flight.”

  He pulled away, and then we were gone.

  My pulse was hammering because I knew both of those sounds.

  The first had been a bullet passing within inches of my face. How many inches? Hard to say, though I’ve been in enough firefights to know that’s what it was. Four inches? Less? There is a distinctive way the lead cleaves through the air. And the other sound was that same bullet hitting the blacktop on which I stood. It had been a very solid impact, too.

  A rifle bullet.

  Which meant there was a sniper positioned in some high, hidden elevated shooting position. He’d tried to shoot me—which meant he knew who I was—but something had caused him to miss with that first shot. He hadn’t taken another. Snipers are fast, so maybe his angle was obscured, or maybe I was lucky enough to have been getting into the car already when he fired.

  But luck was a funny thing. I don’t have that much of it, and I don’t trust it worth a hollow damn. So, why had the shooter missed?

  I sat tense as fuck, crouched as low as I could—pretending to adjust Ghost’s harness—expecting the rear or side window to implode with the next shot as the sniper corrected the angle.

  However, there was no next shot. He’d missed his shot and hadn’t tried again. Why not? He could have extrapolated where I was once I was in the car. Three spaced shots in a line, twenty or so inches apart and at that angle, would have hit some part of me, no matter how I hid in the back.

  “Hurry, please,” I snarled, and the car pulled out into the street.

  I crouched, breathless, terrified, trying to block Ghost. The dog whimpered softly in fear and frustration. He was always in tune with me. He knew we were in trouble. Very bad trouble.

  We sped through the rain-swept darkness.

  The cab headed to the airport, and I don’t think I started breathing for three full blocks. At the airport, I went into the terminal and straight to the closest men’s room. I changed my clothes, then went to a coin locker to retrieve a different set of travel documents and ID and headed to security, and—as an Austrian music historian traveling with his emotional support dog—boarded a jet for Innsbruck Airport. Below us, the land fell away, and we rose above the clouds and vanished into the night.

  CHAPTER 141

  ROOF OF THE BELVEDERE RESTAURANT

  TIMIȘOARA, ROMANIA

  The woman knelt there, a figure wrapped in darkness, lost in shadows. Invisible.

  She studied the rooftop across the street through a Nightforce Optics 5.5–22×56 NXS Riflescope mounted on her Accuracy International’s L115A3—the best .338 rifle on the market. Finding the other sniper had taken time and patience, but she knew he had to be there. Somewhere.

  All her intel and all her instincts said he must be there. In the dark. A ghost, like she was.

  He was good, tho
ugh. No rookie errors of allowing the metal or glass of his weapon to reach into the path of any stray light. Finding an expert is one of the most challenging and frustrating parts of the game. Snipers know how not to be found.

  But in the end, the sniper needs to take a shot. The woman calculated the best angle for the kill and balanced it against the sniper’s need to escape. In daylight, at a distance of eight to twelve hundred meters, the muzzle flash is minimal unless they are looking right at it. Bullets travel faster than sound, so the target never hears it, and the report is difficult to echolocate. However, the woman followed the sniper’s line of sight to the street, where a man in an overcoat and black glasses—a blind man—was getting into a cab with his dog. The man was big and had pale hair. The dog was white as snow.

  The woman tucked the stock of the rifle against her shoulder and fired.

  The timing was very nearly tragic. The sniper was more prepared than she’d thought, and he fired at the same moment.

  Or … the tiniest fraction of that moment.

  Her weapon fired a bullet at the approximate speed of sound—340.3 meters per second—and it struck the sniper in the eye as his finger pulled the trigger. The difference was one ten-thousandth of a second. At that angle, at that distance, with the reduction of the sound suppressor, that was enough. His bullet hit the asphalt twenty inches from the blond man’s right shoe.