Hunt the Lion

by Chad Zunker

  Sam cocked his head. “Don’t you know? They’re all dead. Nearly every member of our team is dead.”

  Mack’s eyes went wide. “How do you know that?”

  Sam explained the tail end of his misadventures from the previous night—his escape from Zolotov’s compound, the bloody carnage he discovered inside the CIA safe house, the meet-up with Luis in Red Square that nearly got them both gunned down, and his fleeing Russia altogether this morning.

  “Besides you and me,” Sam continued, “the only ones that are still unaccounted for are Marcus and Lucinda.”

  “Lucinda is alive,” Mack verified. “We made contact today. She’s hiding out in Le Tréport.”

  “France?”

  Mack nodded. Then he shook his head, cursed, as if the weight of the devastating news suddenly hit him all at once. “I feared they were dead, since I’d been unable to connect with anyone but Lucinda, but I hate to hear it.”

  “What the hell happened? We totally got ambushed.”

  “We did,” Mack agreed, telling Sam about how an assassin had come close to taking him out on the sidewalks outside of Zolotov’s residence the previous night. Right before all hell broke loose on the inside. “I’m still trying to figure this out. Honestly, I thought you were for sure dead. I couldn’t see anyone getting out of that place. So, nice work.”

  “Thanks, I guess. But none of it makes sense. The file turned up empty. No list.”

  Mack’s eyes narrowed. “What? How do you know that?”

  Sam told him about the tablet he’d kept with him and how Tommy had pulled out its contents. “There was nothing in the folder. The list was gone.”

  “You’re right. That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “There’s more,” Sam added. He went on to explain about the security footage that clearly showed Marcus Pelini entering Zolotov’s property.

  “Are you sure it was him?” Mack asked, dismayed.

  “I can show you the damn video. It was him.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Hell if I know. It doesn’t look good, if you ask me.”

  “Wait . . . You think Marcus is somehow behind all of this?”

  “You tell me. You’re closest to him. Could he have stolen the list out from under us? With plans to sell it for himself?”

  Mack took his cap off, ran a hand over his balding head. He seemed to wrestle with his thoughts for a long moment before sighing, saying, “I hate to admit it, but it’s possible.”

  Sam felt like someone had just punched him hard in the gut. It was one thing for him to make crazy accusations. It was another thing altogether to have someone close to Pelini confirm there could be truth behind the accusations.

  “Why do you say that?” Sam asked.

  “Just some offhanded things Marcus said to me in the weeks leading up to the operation. Like this might finally be it for him. The end. How he might disappear, where no one, including the Agency, could ever find him again. Go lie on a private beach for the next twenty years. We’ve said some crazy things like that over the last few years, as we’ve both gotten older, only it’s usually just fantasy talk. Neither of us have gotten rich in the spy game. We can’t just go buy our own private island.”

  “You could if you sold a list like this on the black market.”

  “That’s true. And I’ll admit that Marcus sounded a bit different this time around. But I still have a hard time believing he’d sacrifice his own team to do it.”

  “And his own son,” Sam added.

  “Right.” Mack studied him a moment, shook his head. “Damn, Callahan, we’ve really screwed with your life here, haven’t we? First Mexico, now Russia. I promise it wasn’t supposed to go down this way. I’m really sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Just get me the hell out of this, okay?”

  “I’ll try my best.”

  “Who were you supposed to be meeting with tonight at the restaurant?”

  “A CIA asset. Someone local who was supposed to be able to help.”

  “Why didn’t anyone show up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Alger Gerlach stood in the shadows a half block away from where his target had just unexpectedly ducked into a dark alley. Normally, Gerlach would’ve slipped into the alley right behind the man, to go for the quick and silent kill, but he’d been surprised by his target’s unexpected encounter with a second man. Who was it? What was being discussed? Gerlach had been unable to get a good look at the second figure—the man had a hood up over his head—although it didn’t really matter. The Gray Wolf only had one job tonight. Put a bullet into his target’s head. So he patiently waited.

  His client’s trap had worked to perfection. His target had shown up, as expected, and allowed Gerlach to lock in on him. Even the man leaving the restaurant when his contact didn’t show up for the meeting was part of the plan. Gerlach preferred not to kill his target in a public setting and cause a spectacle. He wanted to do it quietly.

  Standing there, waiting, Gerlach shook his head. These CIA guys had no problem betraying one another. Some of them actually seemed to enjoy sticking the knife in the backs of their own colleagues. Loyalty had its limits. That was why Gerlach had worked alone for the past ten years.

  A minute later, both men reappeared from the alley. His target walked out first. A younger man stepped out behind him. Both were in a hurry. Gerlach only saw the younger man’s face for a fleeting moment, but it was a face permanently seared into his brain. A wry smile moved over his lips. Sam Callahan. He couldn’t believe his luck. It was suddenly two-for-one night.

  The Gray Wolf moved in quickly.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Sam spotted the man before Mack did. At first, Sam had to do a quick double take. Alger Gerlach? Could it really be the same man who had ruthlessly hunted him last month, first in New Orleans, then again in DC? An infamous assassin who had left Sam with a bullet scar in the back of his arm? A hunt that was fully funded by the CIA director? Sam didn’t want to believe it, and yet there was the Gray Wolf, charging down the sidewalk straight toward them at twenty feet, looking like a man on a sinister mission.

  “Mack! Wait!” Sam yelled, but it was too late.

  Gerlach raised his right fist and fired off two muffled shots with his gun. Mack jerked twice, one bullet hitting him square in the chest, the other in the head, sending blood flying everywhere. Before Mack even hit the pavement in front of him, Sam darted dead left, straight through the propped open door of a pizza parlor, feeling a bullet whiz right by his head. Without slowing, he raced past a front counter, where two young girls were fiddling with menus and engaged in discussion. Sam heard both girls scream out behind him, probably at the sight of Gerlach rushing in with a gun. The small pizza parlor was half-full, with booths lining the outer walls and square tables in the middle. Sam threaded the patrons at the tables, headed toward the back kitchen as all eyes in the room turned to watch the crazy man running through the restaurant.

  He then heard the panic set in behind him, knowing Gerlach was still right on his heels. He barged through the revolving door of the kitchen, crashed into an unsuspecting waiter on the other side, sending the man to the floor and a pizza tray flying through the air. The kitchen was loud, with music blaring and several of the staff scrambling all about. Following a map that had flashed through his mind, Sam ran straight toward a back kitchen hallway. As he rushed past, he reached up, grabbed one of the metal shelves, yanked it over behind him, sending it crashing down and cluttering the hallway. Spotting the exit door, Sam barreled into the alley behind the building, stumbled down to the dirty pavement, and quickly got himself up and running again.

  The two-story building directly behind the pizza parlor was new construction and wide-open, with entrances at various points. Sam dashed straight onto the ground floor, nearly colliding with metal scaffolding in the dark. Because the construction was still in the beginning stages, there were few walls or hallways yet
, only the framework of steel and concrete and cables. Finding a set of stairs in the center of the building, he ran up, his heart in his throat. The second floor was just like the first, only concrete and steel with all kinds of construction equipment and materials set everywhere. Because it was night, no one was working in the building.

  Sam paused for the first time since he took off running, tried to listen above the sound of his own heartbeat pounding away in his eardrums. Sweat poured down his face. Where was Gerlach? Had he lost the Gray Wolf? He heard a clanking sound coming from the ground floor, as if someone had inadvertently kicked a bucket or something. Sam cursed. The assassin was nearby. Sam decided to stop running. He’d almost been killed trying to do that very thing a month ago while in Union Station, only to be saved at the last minute by a swarm of FBI agents. Instead, he’d rely on his uncanny ability to remain calm in a highly stressful situation. Gerlach would likely anticipate running. He would not expect Sam to remain still.

  Spotting a thick bundle of cable hanging down from a metal beam over to his right, Sam noted the beam was up near the ceiling, at about twelve feet, and one of the darkest places on the entire floor. Taking careful steps so he wouldn’t knock something over and expose his position, Sam put both hands on the cable bundle and tugged gently. It held firmly. Placing one hand on top of the other, he began climbing up the bundle as if he were on a rope back in gym class.

  Sam paused in midclimb when he heard steps on the stairs. He needed to hurry. He reached the metal beam, maneuvered fully on top of it, and stared back down to the floor. Wrapping both arms and legs completely around the beam, he held it tightly to his body, trying not to move even an inch. He took a slow breath and let it out even slower, trying to summon whatever he possessed inside that kept him unusually calm. As he did, a warm sensation began to flow through him like a slow tide that gradually made his body settle and relax. This was why he’d never panicked when the cops came calling back when he was living on the streets and his buddies were all racing for the hills like idiots and getting caught. Perhaps he got this skill from his father.

  Sam spotted a shadow of movement over by the stairs. The Gray Wolf had arrived on the second floor. The man held his gun out in both fists in front of him, moving about with careful precision, ready to aim and shoot at a split-second notice. Sam watched in silence from his twelve-foot perch. The assassin moved directly beneath him. Only six feet of dark space now separated them. One false move and Sam knew it would be over. He held his breath, not wanting his body to make a single sound. He only hoped that an unexpected drop of sweat wouldn’t fall down onto Gerlach.

  When Gerlach paused, Sam fought off a sudden voice inside that tried to convince him to drop right now, straight on top of the assassin, try his best to fight his way out of there. Although he’d taken some basic self-defense with Pelini’s team, he knew he would be no match for someone like the German.

  Gerlach eased forward, around a column, out of sight.

  Again, Sam fought off an irrational voice that screamed for him to make a run for it right now. That’s exactly what Gerlach wanted him to do. Sirens suddenly filled the air near the building and grew louder with each passing second. Someone had obviously called the authorities. A man had been shot dead on the sidewalk. A man with a gun had chased another man through a restaurant.

  At the sound of the police arriving on the scene, Sam spotted Gerlach move back toward the stairs and quickly descend. Was the assassin bolting? Just to be sure, he waited another ten minutes without moving from his position on top of the beam. There was no reason to take chances. Finally, he climbed his way down the cable bundle and returned to the floor. Moving carefully down the stairs, he searched the ground floor, spotted no movement. Then he slipped back into the alley, found the sidewalk, and poked his head around the corner.

  Several police cars and ambulances filled the street. Sam thought of Mack, again felt heavyhearted. But he didn’t have time to mourn. Stepping out onto the sidewalk, he headed opposite the crowd, took off running, with several new questions now pushing their way into the front of his mind.

  Why was the Gray Wolf in Milan?

  More important, who sent him there to kill?

  THIRTY-NINE

  Stepping up to an ICU room at George Washington University Hospital, Lloyd looked inside to where Agent Michelle Blair was recovering from a bad car wreck the previous night. Michelle had fortunately been stabilized and was now alert. For some reason, she’d immediately called Lloyd and asked for him to personally come see her at the hospital. She said it was urgent. Because Lloyd didn’t know Michelle other than through her role with the FBI, he found her request unusual. He hated hospitals and was having to spend way too much time inside them the past twenty-four hours.

  Standing outside the door, he saw Michelle’s head completely wrapped up in white bandages. What showed of her face was badly bruised. He didn’t know the full extent of her injuries, but he’d spoken to a nurse before coming over to the room. The nurse said Michelle was in bad shape, but the doctors thought that in time, she’d make a full recovery. She was lucky to be alive.

  Lloyd knocked gently on the door, poked his head inside the room. Michelle gingerly looked over, nodded for him to enter. Walking up to her bedside, he offered her a warm grin. “How’re you doing, Michelle?”

  She swallowed. “Okay, I think. Still in a lot of pain.”

  “You need me to get a doctor or something?”

  “No, they’ve already got way too many pain meds pumping through me. Can’t think clearly.”

  “Looks like you took a real beating out there.”

  “Yeah.” She didn’t elaborate.

  Lloyd didn’t know many details. It was a Metropolitan Police matter. He’d heard it was an apparent hit-and-run incident after some idiot stole a car. “Doctors are saying you’re going to be okay,” Lloyd mentioned, still unsure why he was standing there and feeling a bit awkward about it. “But I don’t want you to feel like you have to rush back to work.”

  “That’s not why I asked you here,” Michelle clarified.

  “Okay.”

  “I think something really bad has happened.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “No, not just me in this bed. Something else. I was in the car last night with my friend, Natalie Foster, when all of this went down.”

  Lloyd perked up a bit. He immediately recognized Natalie’s name through his investigation of Sam Callahan. The two were engaged and spent most of their time together. He was suddenly more curious about where all this was going.

  “Is she also in the hospital?” he asked Michelle.

  “No, she wasn’t hurt as badly as me. They sent her home. But she’s missing.”

  “Missing? Why do you say that?”

  “As soon as I woke up after surgery today, I started calling her. She hasn’t answered or returned any of my calls, either. And she knows I’m in serious condition here in the hospital. That’s not at all like her. I’ve been trying her all day, with no response. I even called her editor, who said he hasn’t heard from Natalie since last night—when she apparently left him an urgent voice mail—so he was also concerned. No one at her office knows where she is right now. I think something bad may have happened to her.”

  “Maybe she just needed a personal day, turned her phone off.”

  Michelle sighed, stared off for a moment. Lloyd could tell by the look on the young agent’s face that something more was going on here.

  “Start talking to me, Michelle. Not to be insensitive, but I don’t have all day. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Okay, sorry.” Michelle swallowed again, each time looking painful. “Natalie was working the Dowerson story yesterday and asked me to dig into it for her. She’s a friend, so I try to help when I can—if it doesn’t compromise my FBI work.”

  She hesitated. Lloyd understood why.

  “Speak freely,” he insisted. “What happened?”

  “I discovered s
omething disturbing independent of the Dowerson situation that involves her fiancé.”

  Lloyd inched closer. Now Michelle really had his attention. “What about him?”

  “We came across a video intercept out of Moscow last night.”

  “We?”

  “Lamar was assisting me.”

  Lloyd’s eyes narrowed. Lamar worked on Russian matters. “What kind of video?”

  Another painful swallow. “One that showed Sam standing in a room full of dead bodies who’d clearly been executed by someone.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Lamar thinks it was a CIA feed. He can show it to you. I immediately took the video to Natalie, and she confirmed it was indeed Sam. Natalie had no idea he was in Moscow—she thought he was in London on legal matters. She was confused and obviously horrified. A month ago, she’d asked me to look into something after she and Sam had been interviewed by FBI agents—only I discovered they were actually CIA agents. Natalie was suspicious.”

  “Suspicious of what?”

  “She wasn’t sure. She thought Sam was acting strange, maybe keeping something from her. Look, I don’t know what to make of all of this, but not five minutes after I showed Natalie the video last night, a maniac drives a Suburban at high speed right into our vehicle and tries to take us both out.”

  “Metro says it’s a hit-and-run,” Lloyd challenged her.

  She shook her head. “Last night was no hit-and-run. It was an assassination attempt. And it nearly worked. I’m fortunate to be having this conversation with you. But now Natalie is missing. I’m telling you, there’s no way she wouldn’t call me right back unless she’s in big trouble. We need to find her.”

  “Who else knows about this video?”

  “Just me, Natalie, and Lamar. I never told Lamar about Sam, so he doesn’t know anything about any of this. He doesn’t even know I took the video.”

  “Don’t tell another soul about it,” Lloyd ordered. “Not until I look further into this, you understand me?”