The Hunter

by WOOD TOM

  Reed had one hand on the wheel, the other firing the Glock, eyes flicking between Victor and the road. Victor returned fire when he could – eight rounds left, six, four – but the angle was bad, he couldn’t get a good shot.

  He didn’t have the ammunition to waste, so he dropped the Browning into his lap and swung the wheel to the right, slamming sideways into the Land Rover. Metal shrieked. Bullets raked the Jeep.

  Victor pulled to the left and then back right, hitting the Land Rover hard, then again, and again. The firing ceased. Victor stared into the assassin’s unblinking eyes.

  Both vehicles sped down the road, door to door. Victor’s arms were locked on the steering wheel, muscles taut, teeth clenched, gaze alternating back and forth between the road ahead and his enemy.

  Victor waited until the assassin had his gun back up to fire and then released the accelerator, dropping back sharply, Jeep scraping alongside the Land Rover. Rounds punctured the hood. Steam hissed through the holes.

  Victor swerved right, moving directly behind the Land Rover. He controlled the wheel with his left hand, took the Browning in his right, and fired his last four rounds, straight through his own windshield. Two holes appeared in the Land Rover’s rear bumper, dust blew out from the road, but the fourth bullet hit its mark.

  The driver’s side rear tyre exploded.

  The Land Rover swayed erratically, spun around, kicking up dust, going onto two wheels for a second before tipping and rolling off the road and into the brush.

  Victor discarded the empty Browning and took the pressure off of the accelerator. The Jeep didn’t slow down. It started to shake, steam pouring from the engine. Victor tried the brake, but the acceleration was locked. The brakes squealed, brake dust clouding from the wheels, but the Jeep was still doing fifty. Smoke spewed out from under the hood. Followed by flames. He hurtled toward a T-intersection, going too fast to take the corner. The hood blew open, covering the windshield.

  He tried to guess the corner and swerved to the right, the Jeep shooting off the road and into the vegetation. He wrestled with the wheel, unable to see with the hood up, travelling fast, tall grasses and trees rushing past the door windows.

  Victor jerked in his seat as the Jeep’s suspension fought the uneven ground. Without warning the earth seemed to smooth out perfectly for an instant until the Jeep tipped forward and Victor realized he was falling just before everything went black.

  CHAPTER 77

  17:34 EAT

  Alvarez used the truck for support to help himself stand back up. His right arm swung uselessly at his side. Blood stained his shirt and made it cling to his skin. With the pain and the nausea Alvarez didn’t have the energy to collect the Beretta from where it had skidded under the truck, but, one hand held against his head, a cut above his left eyebrow, he saw Sykes approaching it.

  Sykes knelt down and picked up the gun.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Sykes asked him.

  ‘I was going to ask you the same thing.’

  Sykes didn’t answer. He wiped the dust from the Beretta with his T-shirt. Alvarez watched.

  Dalweg rounded the back of the truck, limping, his left calf red with blood from where the bullet had grazed his flesh. He held the Uzi casually in one hand.

  ‘Unlucky shithead,’ he said to Alvarez. ‘Got you with my last round.’

  Dalweg’s face was a bloody and swollen mess. He walked up to Alvarez and hit him in the stomach with the butt of the Uzi. Alvarez sank to his knees and Dalweg smirked.

  ‘Now we’re even,’ he said. He looked to Sykes. ‘Who the hell is this guy?’

  ‘He’s agency,’ Sykes explained. ‘It’s a long story.’

  It took a few seconds before Alvarez had stopped coughing enough to see the barrel of the Beretta aimed straight at his face.

  Alvarez’s eyes locked on Sykes’s. ‘You don’t want to do this, man.’

  ‘Well, I am doing it,’ Sykes said. ‘And don’t blame me. You didn’t have to come here; you didn’t have to get involved.’

  ‘Yes I did.’

  ‘Then you don’t leave me much choice.’

  ‘You know what’s in that truck?’ Alvarez asked, looking first at Sykes and then at Dalweg.

  Dalweg spat blood out from his mouth.

  ‘Of course I know,’ Sykes said.

  Alvarez pulled himself back onto his feet and wrapped his good arm around the truck’s side mirror for support. He looked to Dalweg. ‘You’re really going to help him do this?’

  ‘That’s what he’s paying me for.’

  ‘I see that navy tat on your arm. You going to say that after we lose a thousand sailors when one of our carrier fleets gets blown up?’

  Dalweg scowled. ‘Fuck the navy. I got kicked from my team just because some hooker ended up with a few shitty bruises.’ Dalweg smiled. ‘I’m owed some payback.’

  ‘Those things—’

  Dalweg stepped toward Alvarez. ‘Shut up.’

  Alvarez looked back to Sykes. ‘I always thought you were a patriot, Kevin. You really going to sell out your country just to fatten your bank account?’

  Dalweg slammed the Uzi into Alvarez’s gut, and Alvarez dropped back to his knees, gasping. ‘Did I stutter? I said shut the fuck up.’

  Sykes frowned and sighed. ‘I’m too deep in this to get out now.’

  Alvarez stopped coughing enough to say, ‘There’s always a way out.’

  Dalweg spat more blood out of his mouth and stepped away. He gestured to Sykes. ‘Just shoot the prick so we can get the fuck out of here.’

  Sweat glistened on Sykes’s face. He levelled the gun down to where Alvarez was kneeling.

  ‘Hurry up and do it,’ Dalweg said, stepping closer.

  Sykes lined up the iron sights over Alvarez’s left eye and took a deep breath.

  Dalweg stood next to Sykes. ‘Shoot him.’

  Sykes held his breath.

  ‘Do it,’ Dalweg said.

  When Sykes released the breath from his lungs it came out as the word, ‘No.’

  ‘Fucking do it.’

  ‘No.’ Sykes lowered the gun. ‘I’m not crossing that line.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind? You can’t just let this guy live. This time tomorrow you’ll have the whole CIA gunning for you.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Sykes said to Dalweg without looking at him. ‘Get in the truck. We’re going.’

  When Dalweg didn’t move or answer, Sykes turned his head. He was just in time to hear Dalweg say, ‘Well, I care,’ a second before a big fist hit him square on the cheekbone and he crumpled to the ground.

  ‘Pussy-ass faggot. I knew you didn’t have no balls the moment I met you. I’m not having this boy and his crew coming after me.’ Dalweg stepped over Sykes’s writhing body to retrieve the Beretta. ‘Want a job done, you gotta do it yourself.’

  He faced Alvarez, raised the gun.

  ‘Any last requests, hombre?’

  Alvarez stared up at Dalweg, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, no fear, only hatred. ‘Go to hell.’

  Dalweg sneered, showing cracked and bloody teeth. ‘Ladies first.’

  Dalweg cried out as Sykes kicked his heel into the back of Dalweg’s injured calf with as much strength as he had left. Dalweg didn’t go over but stumbled towards Alvarez, who sprang up from his knees, launching his forehead into Dalweg’s unprotected face. Bone, cartilage, and teeth gave way, and Dalweg lurched backward, hitting the side of the truck, falling to the ground and into the pool of diesel, conscious but dazed, Beretta still in hand.

  ‘You’re fucking dead,’ Dalweg screamed.

  His arm extended in Alvarez’s direction, and the gun went off. The bullet buried itself into the wall to Alvarez’s right, a wide miss, but Alvarez didn’t hang around until Dalweg recovered his senses enough to shoot straight. Alvarez hurried away while Dalweg writhed on the fuel-slick road and Dalweg took another three shots in rapid succession. Alvarez flinched but wasn’t hit. He headed down an alleyway, left pal
m pressed over the exit wound on the back of his shoulder. There were no more gunshots or sounds of pursuit, so he paused to lean against a wall and catch his breath. He tugged an incisor from the skin between his eyebrows.

  He heard the truck’s engine start up a moment later and shuffled back to the corner where the alley met the street, glancing out. Sykes was still lying prostrate on the road surface, his left cheek bruised and probably fractured. He wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

  Fume clouds rose from the exhaust and the truck tried to pull away from the kerb. There were vehicles parked in front and behind it, making the manoeuvre tricky. The blown-out rear tyre slowed it down further. Diesel continued to spray from the ruptured fuel tank.

  Alvarez knew that if he didn’t do something soon, the truck would be gone and the missiles with it. He pictured them being sold on the black markets of the Middle East within days. He took a breath. Last-chance time.

  Alvarez wiped the blood from his left hand onto his pants and ran out into the road, staying on the driver’s blind side. He moved round to the back of the slowly turning truck and, with his good hand, grabbed the tailgate. With a grunt he jumped up and tumbled over into the cargo deck.

  He already knew what he was looking for and where to find them. He quickly opened the box and took a flare. He lost his balance when the truck stopped sharply, knocking his injured shoulder against one of the dive tanks. He cried out and lay for a few seconds, trying to force the pain from his mind while the truck started to reverse slowly. Move.

  Alvarez sucked air into his lungs and put the flare between his teeth so he could unlatch the tailgate and drop out onto the road.

  His knees took the impact, and his face contorted against more pain. He twisted onto his back as the truck reversed over him, stopping with the rear tyres at either side of his shoulders. The air stank of diesel fumes.

  Alvarez grabbed the flare in his mouth, used his teeth to hold on to the cap while he pulled the flare from the grip tube. The truck changed gear into first above him. He unscrewed the cap with his teeth and spat it away, reserved the flare so that he was holding the bottom with his teeth, hooked the ignition cord with his index finger, and pulled.

  The flare ignited and thirty thousand candela’s worth of light and heat poured out from the end that was pointing away from Alvarez’s face.

  The truck started to move forward again, and Alvarez rolled onto his right side, accepting the agony in his shoulder so he could thrust the burning end of the flare into the pool of diesel collecting on the road.

  The fuel set alight instantly, and Alvarez’s face was flooded with heat. He lurched backwards away from the fire. It quickly spread up to the fuel tank and both ways along the road. The diesel-soaked tyres started burning, leaving a strip of molten rubber on the ground.

  A second later the truck had passed over Alvarez, leaving him lying on his back on the road, choking on thick tyre smoke.

  Alvarez knew that although diesel wasn’t explosive like gasoline, it burned much more fiercely. In seconds, flames engulfed the truck’s entire right side and the vehicle stopped abruptly.

  Still on his back, Alvarez used his feet to push himself away from the ever-growing fire. His face felt as if it was sunburned, and he smelled burned hair. He saw locals edging closer to check out the burning truck. He shouted at them to get back, but they didn’t understand him. A compressed-air tank exploded, and the resulting bang and fanning of flames convinced the crowd to back off. Sykes had managed to get back to his feet and was stumbling down the road.

  The driver’s door opened and Dalweg leaped out, landing on his hands and knees before frantically scrambling away from the burning truck. When he was at a safe distance, he looked back at the flames licking high up the sides of the canvas backing and screamed in anger.

  Alvarez didn’t have the strength to move but raised his head for a second to see Dalweg turn towards him.

  ‘You fucking happy now, ese?’

  Alvarez wanted to say yes, but instead he coughed. Dalweg strode closer, menace etched into his smashed-up face. His fists were tight at his sides.

  ‘I may not get my money now,’ he spat. ‘But I’ll settle for cutting your fucking heart out.’

  He pulled a dive knife from a belt sheath. It glimmered in the light of the burning truck.

  Alvarez looked up again to judge the angle, raised his left hand, and tossed the flare.

  It hit Dalweg in the centre of his diesel-soaked chest.

  CHAPTER 78

  17:38 EAT

  Victor’s eyes opened, and for a few seconds he couldn’t understand what was happening. Everything was wrong. Colours and sounds didn’t make sense. The world was brown, blurry, strange. His head hurt. He took a breath but breathed in only water through his nose.

  He leaned up, coughing, raising his eyes and nose out of the river. He hung upside down for a moment, gasping. He didn’t know for how long he had been unconscious, but he guessed it could only have been a few minutes. He did a quick assessment of his body, flexing his hands, arms, legs, toes and moving his head, feeling stabs of pain as he did, but his limbs performed as he had commanded. No major injuries.

  He unbuckled his seat belt, dropped onto the ceiling – now the floor – going underwater and then scrambling out of the smashed driver’s window. Glass sliced his arms and legs. The river was slow moving, shallow, two feet deep. He struggled to his feet, staggered a step away from the upturned Jeep, soaking-wet clothes clinging to him. He held his arm up to shield his eyes from the low sun.

  Victor felt a sharp pain on the top of his head as he squinted. He reached up and pulled a long sliver of metal from his scalp. Blood mixed with water and ran down the side of his face. He leaned against the Jeep while he tried to get back his bearings. He felt shaky, senses all over the place. He breathed heavily. His left leg especially was in pain where the car had hit him, and in response he kept his weight on his right foot. The many minor knocks and scrapes didn’t seem to hurt that badly; the adrenaline surging through him was a perfect inhibitor. If he survived until the morning, he knew he was going to feel terrible. He looked forward to that feeling.

  Looking around, he saw the far bank of the river was maybe twenty yards away, the near side less than half that. Victor could see crushed shrubs and small bent-over trees, the path where the Jeep had smashed through the foliage before shooting off a high section of bank. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

  He couldn’t see where the assassin had crashed, and maybe he was dead, but if Victor had survived, then so could his enemy. He had to be sure. He needed to see the body. After a few moments of rest, he pushed himself off the Jeep and headed for the near riverbank, wading through the knee-deep water. It was thick and dark with soil, growing shallower the closer he made it to the shore. He felt naked without a gun.

  He’d taken two steps up the muddy bank when he saw a Russian emerge from the tree line, half-crouched, movements confident, Bizon in hand.

  No 9 mm bullets ripped through Victor, so he stopped and waited. The Russian smiled at Victor and gestured for him to come forward. They were five yards apart.

  The Russian said, ‘You’re lucky he wants you alive. For now.’

  Victor said nothing.

  There had been two Russians in each pick-up. Where was the second? Victor approached slowly, shuffling, acting more injured than he was. He glanced around. He couldn’t see the road through the trees and vegetation, but he knew it was there, maybe a hundred yards farther back at the top of the slope. Despite the sun it was dark beneath the canopy. Three yards.

  The Russian motioned for Victor to come closer still, and he continued to walk forward, grimacing with every step as though he could barely stand. He needed to be close to try anything, but as soon as he was within range he knew the butt of the submachine gun would slam against his skull. He didn’t control his breathing, letting the adrenaline surge, heightening his senses, supercharging his muscles. Two yards.
r />   Another step and Victor would charge, trusting the Russian had bought the pretence of weakness – a slim chance, but his only one.

  From behind the Russian a chill voice said, ‘No one kills him but me.’

  Suppressed gunshots. Two. A double tap.

  The Russian splayed forward, his features contorted into shock, fear, and pain for a single second before his body went limp and he collapsed face-first into the mud, directly in front of Victor. Two holes side by side in his spine so close together they touched.

  No more than ten yards away Reed stood motionless in the undergrowth behind the body. He was holding the Glock in a two-handed combat grip, aiming straight at Victor’s chest. Reed didn’t speak. He didn’t blink.

  Victor took a breath, realizing he was a dead man. Killing the Russian might just have been possible, but this enemy didn’t want to take him alive. At such close range Victor wouldn’t miss, even injured, and he knew the assassin wasn’t going to either. The only cover to run to meant heading closer still in order to get into the tree line. Even without a leg he could just about walk on, he wouldn’t get close. Moving back into the river to try and reach the Jeep would be even more hopeless. Even if he could somehow make it to the vehicle without getting shot, what would he do next?

  Nothing was the answer. There was nothing Victor could do to stay alive.

  He supposed there was something fitting to be killed by one of his own kind. Norimov had told him for someone so careful to stay alive he lived as though he had a death wish. If he did have such a wish, it was about to come true.

  Victor stepped forward and stood up straight, showing his enemy he wasn’t going to cower or beg. It wasn’t much, but it was all Victor had left as he waited for the bullet to the heart or brain. He didn’t have to wait long.