Hunt the Lion

by Chad Zunker

  Spinning around, Sam raced back to Zolotov’s office, shut the door behind him, and locked it. He then pushed the heavy bronze statue of Tolstoy over in front of the office door. Anything to buy him a few seconds. Turning, he stood still a second, closed his eyes, began to scroll through several escape maps that were now flashing through his mind. None of them seemed like good options. He opened his eyes and stared straight ahead at the glass wall. With guards likely on him at any moment, it was perhaps his only way to get out of the building. His only chance to survive. The only way he’d ever get back to Natalie.

  He grabbed the handheld blade device he’d used earlier while hanging inside the glass cylinder. Stepping up to the glass wall, he knelt and pressed the blade against the thick glass at the bottom near the hardwood floor. He quickly cut a jagged line six feet straight up, then across three feet, and finally all the way back down toward the floor.

  Sam paused when he heard a pounding behind him at the office door. The guards had arrived. He stepped back and kicked at the glass with the heel of his shoe. It took three strong kicks before the glass cutout broke free and toppled over to the outside. Poking his head through the opening, Sam watched as the glass pane shattered into a thousand pieces on the patio directly below him. He quickly calculated the distance from where the glass hit the patio to the edge of the massive resort-style pool. Maybe ten feet. He’d have to get a running start.

  He heard gunshots outside the door, saw holes splintering around the doorknob. The guards were shooting their way inside. It was now or never. Rushing back over to Zolotov’s desk, Sam turned, said a prayer. Then he sprinted toward the cutout in the glass wall and, like a long jumper at a track meet, took a flying leap out of the building. As he rapidly dropped toward the pool water below, he braced himself for impact, hoping the pool was deep enough so he wouldn’t break his legs on impact.

  He hit the water feetfirst and plunged into the pool. His entire body went under at an angle, shooting him forward like a torpedo, until his back collided painfully against the bottom of the pool, jarring his body and knocking out his breath.

  Pushing himself off the bottom of the pool, he swiftly swam to the surface just in time to gulp in a breath of air and keep himself from swallowing gallons of pool water. He looked left, right, saw no guards in the immediate vicinity. He quickly made his way to the side of the pool, pulled himself out of the water. His right knee felt wobbly as he stumbled away behind a set of bushes and sprinted through the grass toward the ten-foot wall around the property.

  He was only five feet from the wall when he felt the Doberman somewhere close behind him. He knew he couldn’t even turn to look—the dog would be on him like a silent missile. Lunging for the wall, Sam reached up with his wet, gloved hands, grasped the top, began frantically pulling his body up. He swung his legs around just before the dog nearly ripped him to shreds.

  Looking back down, he could see nothing but sharp teeth. Then he heard the familiar loud popping of an assault rifle from inside the compound. The wall directly beneath him began to spark with the impact of bullets. Sam didn’t even try to get his grip; he didn’t have time. He just jerked back, rolled, and allowed himself to fall off the wall onto freedom’s side.

  He landed hard on his right shoulder on the cold sidewalk. He could still hear the dog snarling on the other side of the wall, men yelling in Russian.

  FIVE

  Sam made it ten blocks before he finally collapsed to the pavement in a dark alley behind an old commercial building. He tried to catch his breath, examine himself, see if he’d been shot or badly injured. He could hear multiple sirens in the general area and figured the police were on their way to Zolotov’s place. He wondered if he’d been caught on security camera during his escape. He had no time even to think about that; he just had to run his ass off. Would his picture soon be planted inside every Moscow police car?

  His lungs on fire and his body still dripping wet, Sam could now feel sharp pains running up and down his right arm. Was it broken? The fall from the ten-foot wall had clearly done some damage. But how much? He squeezed his fist, slowly moved his arm back and forth. It hurt like hell, but he didn’t think anything was broken. Although his knee throbbed, he could still move around on it. Everything else seemed to be in decent shape, all things considered. He was still alive—though he wasn’t sure about the rest of his team.

  The earpiece remained dead, so he’d tossed it while running away, along with the high-tech glasses. He took a moment to think again about what he’d heard before he’d lost complete contact and everything went dark. It sounded a hell of a lot like an ambush inside the safe house. There was a lot of suppressed gunfire and enough yelling and cursing to make Sam fear the worst. Was it one shooter? More than one shooter? He thought about Roger, Jabber, and the others. He didn’t know any of them too well, but it was still shocking to think about the possibility that they might all be gone. Just like that.

  His mind flashed on Marcus Pelini, and he felt a sudden catch in his throat. Was his father also dead? Was the man gone before Sam had ever had the opportunity to know anything more about him? Had this all been for nothing?

  Shaking his head, Sam didn’t even want to think about that just yet.

  Gradually catching his breath, he began to wonder about Luis and Mack. His supposed backup men on the streets. Where the hell were they? Had both of them also been taken out? Was this apparent ambush more coordinated than he thought? If so, by whom? Zolotov’s security assassins? Had the powerful Russian somehow discovered their secret operation? The Russian was well connected, both politically and militarily. He was also corrupt as hell, according to the CIA. Pelini said Zolotov liked to dabble in the illegal international arms trade. The CIA had also tied Zolotov to several terrorist organizations. The wealthy Russian was apparently willing to shed the blood of American intelligence agents for his own financial gain. A dangerous top-secret list had somehow fallen into Zolotov’s possession—a list that could potentially jeopardize dozens of covert operations around the globe and expose hundreds of agents and informants. Their intel suggested that Zolotov was about to put the list up for sale on the black market. The CIA desperately wanted the list back.

  Or was it someone else? Sam thought about the supposed intelligence mole. Was that a possibility? The recent discovery of a mole deep in their network had hamstrung the Agency’s pursuit of the lethal list. That’s why Pelini’s unit had gone to extremes to recruit him from the outside. They needed someone with no official ties to the Agency. Someone who had never been in its system. An individual who not only possessed the rarest of skill sets but who could be trained quickly. Someone they felt they could trust to succeed against seemingly insurmountable odds because he’d already passed an incredibly daunting test.

  Sam thought of the Gray Wolf, an infamous international assassin he’d somehow repeatedly evaded last month, and shook his head.

  Sitting in the cold alley, Sam felt completely alone. Maybe more alone than he’d felt in his entire life, which was saying a hell of a lot, considering his tragic youth. He again thought of Natalie, grimaced, and cursed himself repeatedly. How could he have been so stupid as to jeopardize his future with her? For what? Pelini, his estranged father who may now already be dead?

  Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself off the pavement. He couldn’t let it end this way. Not tonight. Stepping toward the head of the alley, Sam tried to get his bearings. He felt like he had a good grasp of his current location. He could see a map of the city in his mind. If he was visualizing things the right way, the CIA safe house was four blocks to his left.

  He needed to go there, see what had happened for himself, if possible. He peeked out both ways. Everything looked clear. There were no men with assault rifles running up the sidewalks, no sleek black dogs, no police cars with lights flashing. Hitting the sidewalk, Sam moved under the protection of as much night shadow as possible. Every hundred feet or so, he’d duck next to a building, check behind him,
survey the landscape. When he felt safe again, he kept moving.

  Crossing in front of an ornate building labeled the EMBASSY OF THE REPUBLIC OF BELARUS, Sam knew he was close. They’d passed the same building on the drive to the safe house earlier.

  He cut through another alley and stepped out onto a quiet street lined with nearly identical redbrick one-story homes. The safe house was in the cul-de-sac at the very end of the block. He’d wondered if he’d find police or emergency services on the scene, but he saw no such thing. The house looked completely undisturbed. There were no cars of any sort on the curb.

  Was anyone alive inside? What was he about to find?

  Sam watched the house for several minutes, looking for anything suspicious. Any movement on the property. Anyone out on the sidewalks. Any approaching cars. Anyone who may be watching or waiting for him. He noticed nothing unusual. Finally, he stepped out of the shadows and hurried across the street. He hustled up the empty driveway to the side door, where he’d been ushered inside only a couple of hours ago. Before entering, he tried to peer through the square window in the door, but it was blacked out. He listened as closely as he could for any signs of life inside. Voices. Movement. But it was eerily quiet.

  Putting a timid hand on the knob, he slowly cracked the door. The lights were still on inside the small kitchen. He listened again, heard nothing from deeper inside the house. Whoever had ambushed them either was sitting perfectly still or had already left. He stepped through the kitchen, poked his head around into the living room. He immediately felt nauseated and had to fight to keep himself from vomiting. Although Sam had seen dead bodies before—way more than he’d ever wanted—this horrific scene took his breath away. Multiple bodies lay haphazardly sprawled on the carpeted floor and in chairs where Pelini’s team had set up their operations.

  The first dead body belonged to Vita, a fiftysomething woman with brunette hair who was wearing a black windbreaker. Lying on the floor with one leg awkwardly cocked behind her, Vita had blood pooling around her body. She looked like she had a bullet hole in her head and several more in her chest area. Just awful. His heart racing wildly, Sam stepped around Vita, careful to avoid the blood on the floor, surveyed the other carnage. Juan, a man in his forties with black hair, was facedown on the floor, the rear of his head exploded and his back also bloodied with bullet holes. The young hacker, Jabber, was slumped over one of the foldout tables. Most of the computer surveillance equipment looked like it had also been shot up in the ambush.

  Finally, Sam stepped over to Roger, who was still sitting in the same chair where Sam had last seen him in front of a wall of computer screens. The headphones and head mike were still on the man, only his head was now slumped all the way back, and blood was streaming down his neck. Sam cursed, feeling overwhelmed. He’d had the most rapport with Roger, since they’d spent so much time communicating through the earpiece during practice drills over the past month. Roger was both funny and kind. He seemed to appreciate that Sam had signed up to do this with them, even after everything they’d put him through last month.

  Sam reached down and tugged Roger’s right pant leg up, where he knew the man usually kept his cell phone in an ankle wrap. He’d learned these CIA types carried guns, phones, and other tech gadgets in odd places. He found the phone, pulled it out. It was locked. Taking Roger’s right hand, careful not to get blood on himself, Sam placed the man’s thumb on the Home button of the phone. The phone’s thumb scanner read it and allowed Sam access. Sam went straight to the settings and turned off the security feature. He then shoved the phone into his pants pocket, took another look around the room. There was no movement from any of his team members. This wasn’t some hocus-pocus the CIA had concocted to trick him again, like they had back in Mexico City. This was the real deal. No one was breathing. However, Sam was breathing so hard, he nearly hyperventilated.

  He said a quick prayer for each them. They all surely had families of some sort and people who would miss them. Parents. Children. Wives. Girlfriends. They all had someone out there who would grieve over this—if those people even found out what had actually happened to them. For all Sam knew, the CIA might simply make them vanish.

  Sam went to each body and carefully checked pockets for cash or any other resources—anything that might help him survive the night. Most of Pelini’s team had been in Moscow for the past few days. They would have had to use something to meet their basic needs. However, he knew none of them would have their own wallets with personal credit cards or any other such legit IDs. The operation was completely clandestine. They’d all been given new aliases. They all had to be ghosts, with nothing that could legitimately tie them back to the CIA. Fortunately, Sam was able to gather a few hundred dollars’ worth of Russian rubles, although he felt like a callous thief pilfering the dead on the battlefield.

  Moving to the corner of the living room, he found his small black leather travel bag exactly where he’d left it earlier. He quickly swung the bag up over his shoulder, stepped back through the carnage. He hated leaving them all there, but what choice did he have? If he didn’t keep moving, he could be next.

  As he stepped out the side door, Sam could think of only one thing.

  Where the hell was Marcus Pelini?

  SIX

  Sitting in her office cubicle, Natalie Foster squinted at the words on her laptop screen with the same intense focus of a heart surgeon who’d just opened up a chest in the operating room. After all, she believed her job was just as important, so she needed to get the words down as fast as possible. Not only was her potential story piping hot, she was close to nailing it and sending it out tonight. Timing was everything in her business. In a day when breaking news was measured by mere seconds, Natalie had to be ready to release her story at a moment’s notice if she was going to win.

  And Natalie lived to win. Losing just wasn’t in her blood.

  Natalie came from a family of winners. Her father had won a World Series while playing with the Cardinals in ’82. Her mother had won an NCAA tennis championship while attending Ohio State. Growing up, Natalie had watched her four older brothers all win big in a variety of sports. Her own bedroom at Foster Farms, their homestead back in Glendale, Missouri, was chock-full of trophies. Soccer, tennis, track and field, and literally dozens of softball championships. Tonight, Natalie’s adrenaline was pumping just like it had when she’d been an all-state second baseman at Glendale High. At four different points during her senior year, she’d come up to bat with the winning runners on base in the bottom of the last inning. All four times, her team had walked away in celebratory victory. She’d always thrived under the pressure of the moment.

  Tonight was no different—except for the playing field.

  Natalie had a trusted source who earlier that morning had claimed that Henry Dowerson, a new foreign policy adviser to the president, was about to go under official investigation by the FBI for a recent trip to Russia, where he’d given a Russia-friendly talk at the New Economic School. According to her source, several higher-ups at the FBI believed Dowerson—a former decorated navy veteran and now a successful investment banker—might have actually turned Russian spy. Apparently, there were surveillance photos and hidden recordings. Natalie was working desperately to get her hands on them. Because Dowerson was so well connected politically on both sides, the story was packed with firepower, and, if confirmed, it could set off a bomb that would seriously rattle DC. Natalie hoped to get that confirmation tonight.

  Her eyes growing blurry, Natalie grabbed her empty coffee mug and walked over to the office’s mini kitchen. It was a few minutes after eight, and most of PowerPlay’s news team had already headed home for the night. The only other reporter still with her inside their fourteenth-floor DC news office was Nelson, who exclusively covered the Hill. She could hear him arguing with a source on the phone four cubicles over, although she wasn’t paying too much attention. After refilling her coffee mug, she stepped inside the large conference room, where the
office had a splendid view. She took in the Capitol Building, smiled. She never grew tired of what it felt like working inside the power circles of this town. Her job had never felt more important. In an age where fake news had become so commonplace, Natalie considered her role as a legit investigative reporter willing to come hard at both sides more vital than ever.

  She fiddled with the engagement ring on her left hand, like she’d been doing ever since Sam had placed it on her finger weeks ago. Her fiancé was currently in London on business for a few days. She hoped he was feeling better. When they’d talked earlier, he’d said he thought he might be coming down with a stomach bug and was going to crash in his hotel room for the rest of the night.

  Staring at the engagement ring, she shook her head. It still felt surreal to be engaged to Sam, especially after the roller coaster of ups and downs they’d ridden over the past two years. Just a month ago, Natalie had been abducted in a DC parking garage, before she’d eventually escaped a remote warehouse, and Sam had barely survived an infamous international assassin hunting him.

  In the aftermath of that ordeal, Natalie had strong suspicions that there was more to the story behind Sam’s crazy trip to Mexico City. Something hadn’t settled well with her. She was sure Sam was hiding something. She’d been digging around a little but still hadn’t found anything. Because she’d made a promise to Sam that she wouldn’t personally pull him into another one of her news stories, Natalie felt obligated not to stir up too much trouble. Besides, she loved Sam deeply and didn’t want to do anything to put up new barriers between them. They’d both committed to a fresh start. Still, there was something there—she just couldn’t put her finger on it yet. Something was still off between them. Was he cheating? She didn’t want to believe that, but she’d overheard a few hushed phone calls in the middle of the night and noticed a couple of strange text messages from random numbers showing up on his phone when he’d left it sitting out. Sam had also acted unusually anxious about his travel plans to London. He’d seemed jumpy and distracted. When she’d pressed, he’d claimed it was simply stress from the drama of his last trip to Mexico City.