Endwar: The Hunted

by David Michaels

  The first salvo of gunfire—originating somewhere outside near the security checkpoint—sent his head jerking back. The second drove him toward the wall and reaching for his pistol as the three men Schleck had spotted burst into the room, brandishing snub-nosed machine guns.

  They opened fire.

  With a gasp, Brent dove onto the floor and looked up, trying to get a bead on the shooters, but the party guests were scrambling in all directions, legs shifting and blocking his view. He had no time to check on Eskov, Riggs, or Voeckler and only seconds to try to stop these bastards.

  Finally, Brent had a shot as a heavyset man took a bullet in the chest and tumbled, exposing the shooter behind him. All three men had donned green balaclavas, and one cried in French, “We are the Green Brigade Transnational! We are your doom!”

  Brent took out the lead terrorist with a single head shot and was about to shift fire to the next guy when a wave of rounds exploded from the French security guys, so much fire that their wider shots were striking guests cowering just behind the terrorist.

  Another terrorist flailed under all that fire, dropped his weapon, and thudded to the floor as the screams and groans lifted and the sulfur stench of gunfire overpowered the room.

  The third guy suddenly ducked around a table and bolted, vanishing past the doorway.

  “Lakota, we got fire, two Tangos down. I’m chasing a third. He might be coming your way!”

  “Roger that. Lock and load. Schleck? Get ready!”

  “Ready!” cried the sniper.

  Brent stole a quick look back, trying to find Riggs and Voeckler, but he couldn’t see them. He darted outside the hall and saw the thug bounding up a stone staircase just ten yards off to his left.

  He scissored past dazed and frightened guests, reached the stairs, and took them two at a time, hearing the thumps of the terrorist above as the staircase jogged left. At the same time, he tugged out his Cross-Com and jammed it over his eye and ear.

  On the next landing, Brent spotted the terrorist, who turned back and raised his pistol.

  Brent fired a shot, missing the guy, even as the terrorist raised his machine gun. Brent dove back out of the guy’s bead as rounds stitched into the stone behind him and ricocheted wildly. Dust swirled as Brent rolled back and squinted.

  More footfalls. The thug was still ascending. Something crashed to the steps above, and as Brent rounded another corner, he saw his prey ripping art and tapestries from the wall and dropping them down across the stairs to block the path. Brent slid his way past a tattered painting, its frame splintering across the stone, and kept on.

  Meanwhile, the security guard earpiece still jammed in Brent’s other ear crackled with Lakota’s voice. She had taken over the rest of the team, as she was trained to do, and they were collapsing back in on the castle; however, Schleck would remain in his perch for overwatch.

  Brent reached what he believed was the fourth-floor landing, where he found a narrow door hanging open. He dodged past it, coming into one of the circular towers.

  He glanced up at the spiral staircase constructed of heavy oak planks. Thud, thud, thud. His boy was heading up, and unless he’d grown wings or had some other escape plan on the roof, Brent figured he had him. You never run up into a building to escape—unless the chopper’s up there waiting for you . . .

  And that thought made Brent prick up his ears, listening for the whomp-whomp . . .

  More gunfire rained down from somewhere above, and Brent crouched and returned fire, just to keep the bastard looking.

  Then he resumed his charge upward, growing breathless now, the dress shoes hurting. He longed for his automatic rifle and a little Kevlar to catch stray rounds.

  As he climbed, he popped out his near-empty magazine and slapped home a fresh one. Twenty steps later, a cool breeze filtered down toward him, and as he finally reached the top, he kept low, paused, saw the area was clear, then came into a small room whose single window hung wide open.

  Brent spoke into the Cross-Com: “He’s on the roof.”

  The window was barely wide enough to fit a person, and Brent resisted the temptation to stick his head out first to steal a look. The guy could be waiting just on the other side, out of sight and ready to blow Brent’s head off.

  Instead, Brent came at the window from a sharp angle, able to see if anyone was standing just beside the edge. Then he dodged across it and checked the other side. Satisfied he was clear, he leaned forward, pushed the window all the way open, and looked down.

  He lost his breath. The guy had leapt some four meters to the angled roofline and was working his away across it toward the adjoining curtain wall. He would leap down just a couple of meters to run across the wall walk—a place from where ancient bowmen had lined up to defend their home and from where modern-day scum-bags ran to escape.

  “I have a shot,” said Schleck.

  “Hold your fire,” Brent snapped. “I think I got him, and we need some answers.”

  “He has a machine gun and you want to take him alive?” asked Schleck.

  “Oh, I do love a challenge,” Brent quipped.

  Cursing, he hauled himself through the window, slid out his legs, hung on for dear life, held his breath ...

  And jumped.

  He hit the next roofline solidly and turned back, lost his step, and fell onto his rump, nearly dropping his pistol. But at least he wasn’t rolling off the roof. He got back up on his hands and knees to spy the thug leaping down to the wall.

  Brent followed him, reached the edge of the roof, took aim, and fired, striking the thug in the right calf. The guy screamed, rolled back, fired a wild salvo, then kept on, now limping.

  Gritting his teeth, Brent levered himself off the roof and jumped to the wall. Now he raced across the stone, the moonlight picking out the guy ahead, and for a moment, Brent thought he had another shot until he realized with a start what was happening.

  The guy had reached the door to the next tower, but it was locked. Seeing he had no time to try shooting it open, he whirled back and brought his machine gun to bear.

  Brent dropped to his gut as the guy opened fire from about twenty meters away, but after only three shots that struck within a meter of Brent’s head, the gun fell silent.

  Knowing that either the guy’s weapon had jammed or his magazine was empty, Brent launched to his feet.

  The thug could have another weapon, but that didn’t occur to Brent until after he began his charge. He cursed and was about to fire when the guy did something quite extraordinary:

  He dropped his machine gun, raised his hands, and tore off his balaclava, revealing his short, black hair and chiseled jaw. If he was twenty-one, that was being generous.

  “All right, don’t move,” Brent ordered in French.

  The guy responded in French: “You’re meaningless to me.”

  “You came here looking for her, didn’t you.”

  As Brent neared the guy he suddenly raced to the wall—

  “No, no, no!” screamed Brent as the thug simply threw himself off.

  Brent darted to the wall and watched as the guy plummeted toward the mounds of weed-encrusted rocks below.

  “Oh, man, Captain,” called Schleck over the network. “He’s on the ground. No movement yet.”

  “Of course he’s not moving. He just took a god-damned nosedive off this castle.” Brent winced. Everybody back home had just heard him say that.

  And he might as well have cued her. Major Dennison appeared in Brent’s HUD. “Captain, Voeckler reports from inside that Andrei Eskov was shot and killed. We’re not sure if the Green Brigade Transnational thought the Snow Maiden would be here, but I’m certain they were targeting her cousin for payback. You’re sitting in the middle of an international incident, and I want you out of there right now, lest the JSF be implicated in this mess.”

  Brent was already heading toward the tower door. “Ma’am, you’ll get no argument from me. Would’ve been nice to take one of them alive—or at
least question Eskov.”

  “Just get to the airport.”

  “Roger that.”

  Brent shot out the lock on the tower door. Still locked. He fired again. Still locked. He swore. Dead bolt, maybe. “Schleck, I’m stuck up here. You see another way out?”

  “Sir, the blueprints are available via your Cross-Com.”

  “Schleck, I don’t want to think right now. Just find me a way out!”

  FIVE

  Banyan Tree Seychelles Resort

  Mahé Island

  Republic of the Seychelles

  The Banyan Tree Seychelles was a five-star resort situated on the southwestern coastline of Mahé and offering breathtaking views of the Indian Ocean. Chopra had reserved one of the sixty pool villas perched on the hillsides. The brochure had described the rooms as combining contemporary, colonial, and plantation décor with sweeping ceilings; large, open verandas; and ethnic woven textiles, and every villa was equipped with all the modern conveniences.

  Although Chopra hadn’t seen them yet, he’d read about the indigenous arts and crafts gallery, the spa, the health club, the library, the tennis courts, and the mountain-biking trails. Upon first glimpse, it was easy to see why this place was worthy of the young sheikh’s presence.

  Within an hour of his arrival, Chopra met up with Harold Westerdale in the Banyan Tree’s La Varangue for an afternoon cocktail. The private investigator’s tropical-print shirt was soaked, his short, gray hair plastered to his head. The breeze had died off, and stepping onto the veranda was like stepping into a loaf of warm bread. Chopra took the bar stool beside the man and ordered a drink while staring out into the turquoise waters.

  “It’s been a long search,” Chopra muttered.

  “And we’ve had a lot of false leads,” the man grunted in return.

  “But this time you’re certain.”

  “I’ve already spoken to Warda. She knows you’re coming. She’s willing to meet with you.”

  “You made contact?”

  “I did.”

  “You fool. They’ll run now. We’ll lose them.”

  “No, she’s scheduled a meeting for later today.”

  Chopra recoiled in confusion. “Why aren’t they scared? Why aren’t they running? They scheduled a meeting? I’m confused ...”

  Westerdale pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dragged it across his brow. “I don’t know why they did this.”

  “You should’ve asked.”

  “It didn’t occur to me. I guess I was too shocked.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t like this place. Bloody hot here! Maybe the heat has gotten to this family.”

  Chopra shrugged.

  Hussein Al Maktoum had three older sisters: Ara, Kalila, and Warda. Hussein’s father, it seemed, had kept having children until he’d produced a son. Warda was the oldest of the group, twenty-four now, and the woman with whom Westerdale had made contact. They, like their brother, had done a remarkable job of hiding themselves from the powers that be via a well-trained and well-paid staff.

  So what had changed? Maybe they were running out of money? Or perhaps the young sheikh had just grown tired of hiding? That seemed more likely. Was he aware of the dangers of revealing himself, especially now? The Russians would want to capture him, influence him, take control of the oil. There was already a huge price on his head as the sole heir to Dubai.

  The more Chopra thought about it, the more tense he became. “I need to meet with Warda right now.”

  “They said no.”

  “Because now they’re running, you fool. Why do I pay you? Where is she?”

  “She said she would come down to my villa. We’ll wait for them. Do as they say. I trust them.”

  Chopra stiffened in anger and glowered at his drink. He remembered an eighteen-year-old Warda arguing with her father over her extravagant spending on clothes and jewelry and her father’s grief over the massive phone bills she was incurring by calling friends all over the world, all the time, at all hours. Chopra smiled inwardly; the family had more money than they could ever spend in a thousand lifetimes, but her father had been trying to teach her responsibility, and it seemed that their world of lavish homes and exotic cars had made it nearly impossible to do that, unless he became much more of a disciplinarian. Nevertheless, Warda’s father was a push-over when it came to his daughters. They’d beg, and he’d give in.

  Chopra took a sip of his drink and felt a little better. Let the alcohol relax you, he told himself. If it was meant to be, it would happen.

  Across the bar sat a lean woman with short, dark hair. She wore a low-cut sundress, and when he looked at her, she averted her gaze and checked her watch. Women that beautiful were always waiting for someone—a man twice as handsome as Chopra, no doubt. He sighed and took a longer pull on his drink.

  It was nearly sundown when Warda arrived at Chopra’s villa. She was accompanied by a large black man whom she did not introduce and whose job was obvious. After exchanging a tearful hello, they sat on Chopra’s veranda and spoke for a few minutes about the war, the bombs, the loss of her parents, and Chopra expressed his most sincere condolences. The children had been smuggled out of the country during the first indication that missiles might be launched. Their parents had been trying to escape not long after, but the sheikh’s plane had been targeted by Iranian fighter jets and blown out of the sky.

  Warda nodded and pulled back her long, black hair. She was a painfully beautiful woman, a flower who’d sprouted up from the heaps of debris that was now her country. “My father trusted you very much, which is why I agreed to this meeting. He once told me he loved you like a brother. He told me he had never met a man as smart or as loyal as you. He told me I should marry you.”

  Chopra blushed. “That’s rather shocking.”

  “Because of the age difference?”

  “Because I’m a Hindu.”

  She nodded her understanding. “He’d had some wine. I think he meant that I should marry a man with your qualities.”

  “Well, I hope you find him.”

  “Given the way I must live my life now, that is very, very difficult.”

  Chopra nodded. “You’ve done a remarkable job of hiding. It’s taken me this long to locate you—and all I want to do is help.”

  “There are so many who want to manipulate us, especially my brother.”

  “I need to speak to him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s time for him to lead your country back from the ashes. I want to return to him what is his, and I want to help him rebuild your nation. It’s the least I can do to thank your family for all you’ve done for me. That’s all I want. I have no other motivation. I have all the money I could possibly need. This is not about that. This is about restoring a family, an ideal ... a country.”

  Warda began to choke up. She grabbed his hand. “I believe you, Manoj. I believe you.”

  “Then take me to him.”

  “Unfortunately, he’s not here.”

  Chopra sighed deeply in disappointment. “According to the information I had—”

  “He was only here for a few days. A short holiday. He just returned to London. He’s been attending a private prep school there, at my insistence. My other sisters have a place nearby.”

  “Excellent. He must continue his education.”

  “He doesn’t exactly agree. I think you’ll find him an interesting—and challenging—young man. That’s all I can say about my brother. We disagree over many subjects.”

  “I understand. Well, then, can you give him my contact information? I’ll leave for London in the morning.” Chopra reached into his wallet and withdrew his card.

  She rose and accepted the card. “I will. I’ll have him call you. It was wonderful to see you again, Manoj. And I hope this dream of rebuilding our country comes to pass. I’m tired of hiding.”

  He glanced around. “It’s not entirely unpleasant.”

  “No, but the
company ...” She glanced at her bodyguard and rolled her eyes.

  He smiled wanly. “I see.”

  She offered to have dinner with him, but he declined. It would be a form of torture he could not endure. He left and returned to his villa, where he sat in the living room, computer balanced on his lap, and began the process of chartering a private jet back to London.

  A short time later, Chopra had dinner with Westerdale and shared the good news. The Brit reminded Chopra of the bonus attached to his contract, and Chopra assured him that he’d receive it. Westerdale had been scanning the news, and by his second glass of wine he’d launched into one of his trademark tirades about world events.

  Argentina’s new offshore oil discoveries, with the aid of Russian technology, were a windfall of the highest magnitude for the Russian Federation. The thick ooze pumping out of the Argentine ocean bed wasn’t the sweet crude of the Middle East, but in a world starving for oil, the industrial world’s lifeblood, there’d be no difficulty passing the excessive refining costs on to the Europeans. So yes, Westerdale, said, the Russians had found yet another way to screw over the Brits. The new fields kept product moving through the world markets, filled Russia’s coffers, and reduced the demands on Russia’s own oil production and reserves.

  The Russian Federation’s growing financial power unnerved Westerdale and Chopra and increased Chopra’s sense of urgency in helping the young sheikh put Dubai back on the map. The Russians had no idea how vast Dubai’s secret reserves were, and Chopra wished he could see the look on President Kapalkin’s face when some of his European clients began to turn away oil sales in favor of doing business with Dubai and the other emirates.

  Westerdale and Chopra finished dinner, and as Chopra was about to leave, he spotted that same woman again: lithe, muscular, short black hair. She was eating alone this time. Oh, how he wished he had the nerve to go over and speak to her. But he was leaving in the morning. And nothing would come of it, of course. She was probably a full head taller than him, and he was at least ten years her senior. He sighed as she took a phone call, then bid Westerdale a good evening. With a full belly and a renewed longing for female companionship, Chopra began the uphill hike for his villa.