He emerged from the container maze in time to draw even with Kane. He motioned the shepherd to him. Kane came trotting up and sat down beside him, awaiting his next command, his tongue lolling, his eyes bright.
They were now near the eastern edge of the dockyard. Directly ahead, across a gravel lot, lay a set of train tracks, lined with abandoned and rusted freight cars. Their quarry had vanished among them.
Beyond the train yard, a perimeter barbed-wire fence rose high—and beyond that, a dense pine forest.
Aside from the muffled dock sounds in the distance, all was quiet.
Suddenly Kane’s head snapped to the left. A section of the barbed-wire fence shook violently for a few moments, then went still. In his mind’s eye, Tucker envisioned a second target wriggling through a gap in the fencing to enter the dockyards from that direction, using the cover of the forest.
Why?
Searching farther to their left, he spotted a tall crane tower, once used to load the freight cars. The tower was one of the six potential sniper perches he had marked in his head.
Tucker checked his watch. Fedoseev would arrive in six minutes. Hurrying, he pulled out a pair of small binoculars from his jacket’s pocket and focused on the top of the crane. At first he saw nothing but indistinct scaffolding in the swirling snow. Then a shadowy figure appeared, slowly scaling the ladder toward the high platform.
That’s who came through the fence just now—but where’s the guy I was following?
He considered calling Yuri with the abort code, but even if his message got past that gatekeeper, his boss’s careless bravado would win out. Fedoseev would not back down from a threat. Bullets would have to be flying before the industrialist would consider a retreat.
It was the Russian way.
Tucker dropped to his belly and scanned beneath the freight cars. He spotted a pair of legs moving to the right, disappearing and reappearing as the figure passed the steel wheels. Whether this was in fact his guy, he didn’t know, but it seemed likely.
He reached back and drew the Makarov PMM pistol from the paddle holster attached to his waistband. A decent weapon, but not his preference.
But when in Rome . . .
He looked over to Kane, who was crouched on his belly beside him. His partner’s eyes had already locked on to the target jogging down the rail line, heading away from the man climbing the crane.
Tucker gave a one-word command, knowing it would be enough. He pointed to the target moving on the ground.
“TRACK.”
Kane took off, silently sprinting after the man on foot.
Tucker angled toward the left, toward the crane tower.
Hunched over, he swept across the gravel lot, reached the train yard, and belly-crawled beneath a freight car and down the sloped ballast into a drainage ditch beyond. From the meager cover, he spotted the gap in the perimeter fencing; the cut was clean, recent.
To his left, a hundred yards away, rose the crane tower. Rolling to his side, he zoomed his binoculars and panned upward until he spotted his target. The assassin was perched on a ladder a few feet below the crane’s glassed-in control cab. A gloved hand reached for the entry hatch.
Tucker quickly considered taking a shot at him but immediately decided against it. With a rifle, perhaps, but not with the Makarov. The distance and the scaffolding made a successful hit improbable. Plus the snow fell heavier now, slowly obscuring the view.
He checked his watch. Three minutes before Fedoseev’s limousine entered the main gate. Fleetingly, he wondered about Kane, then brought his mind back to the task at hand.
One thing at a time, Ranger. Work the problem.
Let Kane be Kane.
Kane runs low to the ground, his ears high, picking out the crunch of boot through ice-crusted snow. The command given to him is etched behind his eyes.
TRACK.
He sticks to the shadows of the rusted cars, following the dark shape through the whiteness, which grows thicker. But his world is not one of sight alone. That is the dullest of what he perceives, a shadow of a larger truth.
He stops long enough to bring his nose to a treaded print, scenting rubber, dirt, and leather. He rises higher to catch the wafting trail of wet wool, cigarette smoke, and sweat. He smells the fear in the salt off his prey’s skin; distantly his ears pick out the rasp of a hurried breath.
He moves on, keeping pace with his quarry, his paws padding silently.
As he follows, he draws the rest of his surroundings inside him, reading the past and present in the flow of old and fresh trails. His ears note every distant shout, every grind of motor, every wash of wave from the neighboring sea. On the back of his tongue, he tastes frost and winter.
Through it all, one path shines brightest, leading to his prey.
He flows along it, a ghost on that trail.
10:18 A.M.
From his vantage in the drainage ditch, Tucker watched his target slip through the hatch at the top of the crane and close it with a muffled snick.
With the man out of direct sight, Tucker stood up and sprinted toward the tower, holstering the Makarov as he went. Discarding stealth, he jumped onto the ladder’s third rung and started climbing. The rungs were slick with snow and ice. His boots slipped with every step, but he kept going. Two rungs beneath the hatch, he stopped. The hatch’s padlock was missing.
Holding his breath, he drew the Makarov and then gently, slowly, pressed the barrel against the hatch. It gave way ever so slightly.
Tucker didn’t allow himself a chance to think, to judge the stupidity of his next action. Hesitation could get you killed as easily as bravado.
And if I have to die, let it be while I’m still moving.
In the past, he had pushed blindly through hundreds of doors in countless Afghan villages and bunkers. On the other side, something was always waiting to kill you.
This was no different.
He shoved the hatch open, his gun tracking left and right. The assassin knelt two feet away, crouched over an open clamshell rifle case. Behind him, one of the cab’s sliding windows stood open, allowing snow to whip inside.
The assassin spun toward Tucker. The look of surprise on his face lasted only a microsecond—then he lunged.
Tucker fired a single shot. The Makarov’s 9 mm hollow-point round entered an inch above the bridge of the man’s nose, killing him instantly. The target toppled sideways and went still.
One down . . .
Tucker didn’t regret what he’d just done, but the contradiction flashed through his mind. Though not a religious man, Tucker found himself attracted to the Buddhist philosophy of live and let live. In this case, however, letting this man live wasn’t an option. Odd that he found the necessity of taking a human life defensible, while killing an animal was an entirely different story. The conundrum was intriguing, but pondering all that would have to wait.
He holstered the Makarov, climbed into the cab, and closed the hatch behind him. He quickly searched the assassin, looking for a cell phone or radio; he found neither. If he had a partner, they were operating autonomously—probably a fire-at-will arrangement.
Time check: sixty seconds.
Fedoseev would be prompt. He always was.
First order of business from here: keep the Russian out of the kill zone.
He turned his attention to the assassin’s rifle, a Russian-made SV-98. He removed it from the case, examined it, and found it ready to fire.
Thanks, comrade, he thought as he stepped over the body and reached the open window.
He extended the rifle’s bipod legs, propped them on the sill, and aimed the barrel over the sea of shipping containers and warehouse rooftops toward the main gate. With the cold stock against his cheek, he brought his eye to the scope’s eyepiece and peered through the swirling snow.
“Where are you, Fedoseev?” Tucker muttered. “Come on—”
Then he spotted the black shadow sailing through the white snow. The limousine was thirty feet from
the main gate and slowing for the cursory check-in with the guard. Tucker focused on the limousine’s windshield, his finger tightening on the trigger. He felt a moment of reluctance, then recalled the SV-98’s specifications. The weapon didn’t have enough juice to penetrate the limousine’s ballistic glass—or so he hoped.
He fired once, the blast deafening in the tight cab of the crane. The 7.62 mm round struck the limo’s windshield directly before the driver’s seat. As an extra measure, Tucker adjusted his aim and fired again, this time shattering the side mirror. To his credit, the driver reacted immediately and correctly, slamming the limousine into reverse, then accelerating hard for fifty feet before slewing into a Y-turn.
Within seconds, the vehicle was a hundred yards away and disappearing into the snow.
Satisfied, Tucker lowered the rifle. Fedoseev was safe for the moment, but someone had tried to kill Tucker’s principal. He’d be damned if he was going to let the second assassin escape and try again later.
Tucker ejected the rifle’s box magazine and pocketed it before pulling out his satellite phone. He checked the video feed from Kane’s camera. Between the wet lens and thickening snowfall, all he got for his effort was a blurry, indecipherable image.
Sighing, he opened another application on the phone. A map of the dockyard appeared on the screen. West of Tucker’s location, approximately four hundred yards away, was a pulsing green blip. It was Kane’s GPS signal, generated from a microchip embedded in the skin between his shoulder blades.
The dot was stationary, indicating Kane was doing as instructed. The shepherd had followed his quarry and was now lying in wait, watching.
Suddenly the blip moved, a slight jiggle that told him Kane had adjusted position, likely both to remain hidden and keep his quarry in sight. The blip moved again, this time heading steadily eastward and picking up speed.
It could only mean one thing.
The second assassin was sprinting in Tucker’s direction.
Hurrying, he scaled down the ladder, sliding most of the way. Once his boots hit the ground, he trudged through the thickening snow, his Makarov held at ready, following the rail line. He hadn’t covered thirty feet before he spotted a hazy figure ahead, crouched beside the cut in the fencing. His quarry leaped through the gap and sprinted into the trees.
Damn it.
Kane appeared two seconds later, ready to give chase. But once the shepherd spotted Tucker, he stopped in his tracks, ears high, waiting for further orders.
Tucker gave it.
“TAKE BRAVO!”
Playtime was over.
Kane lunged through the fence and took off in pursuit, with Tucker at his heels.
Though now in takedown mode, Kane didn’t get too far ahead of him. The shepherd wove between trees and leaped over fallen trunks with ease, while simultaneously keeping his quarry and Tucker in view.
Engulfed by the forest, the sounds of the shipyard had completely faded. The snow hissed softly through the boughs around him. Somewhere ahead, a branch snapped. He stopped moving, crouched down. To his right, forty feet ahead, Kane was also frozen, crouched atop a fallen trunk, his eyes fixed.
Their quarry must have stopped.
Tucker pulled out his phone, checked the map screen.
Two hundred yards away, a narrow canal cut through the forest, a part of the dockyard’s old layout when it had belonged to the Russian Navy. His quarry was former naval infantry, smart enough to have planned for an escape route like this, one by water.
But was that the plan?
According to the map, there was also a major road on the far side of the canal.
What if the man had a vehicle waiting?
Decide, Tucker.
Would his quarry flee by land or sea?
He let out a soft tsst, and Kane turned to look at him. Tucker held up a closed fist, then forked fingers: Track.
Kane took off straight south.
Tucker headed southeast, hedging his bet, ready to cut the man off if necessary.
As he ran, he kept half an eye on Kane’s position using the GPS feed. His partner reached the canal and stopped. The blip held steady for a few seconds—then began moving again, paralleling the canal and rapidly picking up speed.
It could only mean one thing.
Their quarry had boarded a boat.
Tucker took off in a sprint, darting and ducking through the last of the trees. He burst out of the forest and into an open field. Ahead, a tall levy hid the canal’s waterway. To his right came the grumble of a marine engine. He ran toward the noise as Kane came racing hard along the top of the levy.
Tucker knew he couldn’t hope to match the dog’s speed. According to the map, the canal was narrow, no more than fifteen feet.
Doable, Tucker thought.
He shouted, “TAKE DOWN . . . DISARM!”
The shepherd dropped his head lower, put on a burst of speed, then leaped from the levy and vanished beyond the berm.
Kane flies high, thrilled by the rush of air over his fur. Here is what he lived for, as ingrained in his nature as the beat of his heart.
To hunt and take down prey.
His front paws strike the wood of the deck, but he is already moving, shifting his hind end, to bring his back legs into perfect position. He bounds off the boards and toward the cabin of the boat.
His senses swell, filling in details.
The reek of burnt oil . . .
The resin of the polished wood . . .
The trail of salt and fear that lead to that open door of the cabin . . .
He follows that scent, dragged along by both command and nature.
He bolts through the door, sees the man swing toward him, his skin bursting with terror, his breath gasping out in surprise.
An arm lifts, not in reflexive defense, but bringing up a gun.
Kane knows guns.
The blast deafens as he lunges.
10:33 A.M.
The gunshot echoed over the water as Tucker reached the top of the levy. His heart clenched in concern. Fifty yards down the waterway, a center-cabin dredge boat tilted crookedly in the canal, nosing toward the bank.
Tucker ran, fear firing his limbs. As he reached the foundering boat, he coiled his legs and vaulted high, flying. He hit the boat’s afterdeck hard and slammed into the gunwale. Pain burst behind his eyes. Rolling sideways, he got to his knees and brought the Makarov up.
Through the open cabin door, he saw a man sprawled on his back, his left arm flailing, his legs kicking. His right forearm was clamped between Kane’s jaws. The shepherd’s muscled bulk was rag-dolling the man from side to side.
The Russian screamed in his native tongue. Tucker’s grasp of the language was rudimentary, but the man’s tone said it all.
Get him off me! Please!
With his gun trained on the man’s chest, Tucker stepped through the cabin door. Calmly he said, “RELEASE.”
Kane instantly let go of the man’s arm and stepped back, his lips still curled in a half snarl.
The Russian clutched his shattered arm to his chest, his eyes wide and damp with pain. Judging by where Kane had clamped on to the man’s forearm, the ulna was likely broken and possibly the radius as well.
Tucker felt no pity.
The asshole had almost shot his partner.
A few feet away lay a revolver, still smoking in the cold.
Tucker stepped forward and looked down at the man. “Do you speak English?”
“English . . . yes, I speak some English.”
“You’re under arrest.”
“What? I don’t—”
Tucker drew back his right foot and heel-kicked the man squarely in the forehead, knocking him unconscious.
“More or less,” he added.
2
March 4, 12:44 P.M.
Vladivostok, Russia
“You owe me a new windshield,” Bogdan Fedoseev boomed, handing Tucker a shot glass of ice-cold vodka.
He accepted it bu
t placed the glass on the end table next to the couch. He was not fond of vodka, and, more important, he didn’t trust his hands right now. The aftermath of the shoot-out at the shipyard had left Tucker pumping with adrenaline, neither an unfamiliar nor unpleasant rush for him. Even so, he wondered how much of that rush was exhilaration and how much was PTSD—a clinical acronym for what used to be called shell shock or battle fatigue, a condition all too common for many Iraq and Afghanistan veterans.
Compared to most, Tucker’s case was mild, but it was a constant in his life. Though he managed it well, he could still feel it lurking there, like a monster probing for a chink in his mental armor. Tucker found the metaphor strangely reassuring. Vigilance was something he did well. Still, the Buddhist in him whispered in his ear to relax his guard.
Let go of it.
What you cling to only gets stronger.
What you think, you become.
Tucker couldn’t quite nail down when and where he’d adopted this philosophy. It had snuck up on him. He’d had a few teachers—one in particular—but he suspected he’d picked up his worldview from his wanderings with Kane. Having encountered people of almost every stripe, Tucker had learned to take folks as they came, without the baggage of preconceptions. People were more alike than different. Everyone was just trying to find a way to be happy, to feel fulfilled. The manner in which they searched for that state differed wildly, but the prize remained the same.
Enough, Tucker commanded himself. Contemplation was fine, but he’d long ago decided it was a lot like tequila—best taken only in small doses.
At his feet, Kane sat at ease, but his eyes remained bright and watchful. The shepherd missed nothing: posture, hand and eye movements, respiration rate, perspiration. All of it painted a clear picture for his partner. Unsurprisingly, Kane had picked up on the anxiety in the air.
Tucker felt it, too.
One of the reasons he had been paired with Kane was his unusually high empathy scores. Military war dog handlers had a saying—It runs down the lead—describing how emotions of the pair became shared over time, binding them together. The same skill allowed Kane to read people, to pick up nuances of body language and expression that others might miss.
Kill Switch (9780062135285) Page 3
