The Hunter

by Gennita Low

  Hawk laughed. How ironic that his enemy was echoing his thoughts from the night before. And look what happened when he was busy thinking about his needs. Someone attacked him and…he was still pissed that someone got that close to his naked body. He pushed his anger away. He would deal with that soon enough.

  “No, my friend.” Hawk emphasized the word so that everyone in the room could hear it. He deliberately added a touch of sarcasm in his voice. “I don’t need you to supply me with boys, either. But if any of your men want to try me out, I’d be happy to tear them a new asshole.”

  Dilaver roared with laughter. For the time being, his rage at the loss of revenue had dissipated. “Must be a new American sport. You come up with the funniest lines.” He reverted into heavily accented English. “‘I am happy to tear them a new arsehole.’ I must remember this one. What was the other one? ‘He sucks’…what…?”

  “He sucks canal water,” Hawk said obligingly.

  Dilaver laughed again and repeated the phrase. His amusement and eagerness at collecting catchy clichés would have made him almost likable, if Hawk hadn’t known firsthand the ruthlessness behind the façade.

  What would his team say if they knew that he spent his days teaching the enemy their favorite insults? He thought of Cucumber, the big SEAL who would have a few choice lines of his own about Dilaver and his kind. And Jazz, his best friend, who would have given Dilaver more than a limp, had he known, at the time Hawk ordered him to shoot, about the punch the bastard had landed on his girlfriend’s face. No, none of his SEAL brothers would understand this charade he was playing.

  Life as a covert agent, Hawk was discovering, was too damn much skirting around the main issue. He had done some undercover work before. A seller looking for some quick cash. A businessman paying for an informant. Fast drug deals to pinpoint drug routes. Even a robbery in bright daylight once to prevent the sale of a bomb. But those were a cakewalk compared to what he was doing now.

  His lips quirked at the term. Cakewalk. Another Americanism he could throw at Dilaver. He must buy a Macedonian book of aphorisms when he got a chance. Sometimes his American phrases didn’t translate very well. Not that any of the usual communication problems around here couldn’t be solved with a big weapon.

  “Actually, there’s a good—how you say it—‘happening’ place right here in Velesta,” Dilaver said. “The peacekeepers love to go there, especially the American ones, and they say it’s the food. I say it’s the owner. She is”—he drew the hourglass outline in the air—“stacked. Just like the Americans like their women. In fact, she’s one.”

  “An American running a restaurant in Velesta?” Hawk doubted that fact.

  “Not just a restaurant, my friend. She pays for my protection, just like anybody else.”

  “How?” Many business owners had to pay so their stores didn’t get bombed or robbed by the different gangs. It was all very old-fashioned. “Is she a friend of yours?”

  Dilaver shook his head. “No, I think she dislikes me, but she is very polite about it.” His laugh wasn’t friendly. “But she’s very intelligent. She’s got my protection so her restaurant gets business, and she’s got the head of CIVPOL’s protection so I don’t get too close.”

  “I didn’t know that you’re afraid of CIVPOL,” Hawk said casually. He had heard that the new man in charge of the drugs and sex-trafficking department of CIVPOL, the UN international police force, was looking for Dragan Dilaver. This woman’s friendship meant she had something over Dilaver that she was threatening to expose if he didn’t play nice. Interesting. He liked someone who could hold the Macedonian by his balls.

  Dilaver made a rude noise. “Afraid? I’m afraid of no one. And unlike in Asia, I’m the one who speaks the local languages around here. You and that UN puppet are the foreigners. He’s like a fly, this new man in town. Not worth my time.”

  “A bothersome one,” one of Dilaver’s men chimed in. “I suspect he’s behind our trouble, boss. He would like nothing better than to have a showdown with us so he can put us out of business.”

  Dilaver nodded, a speculative look entering his eyes. “Yes, I suppose when you’re new, you want to make some big catch, and…” He paused to take a swig from his mug. “I’m the biggest in Macedonia.”

  “So why not kill him?” Hawk asked, curious about how the other man’s mind worked. He had made it a point to study all of Dilaver’s moves and motives.

  “I would, but the UN has done so much for the Balkans,” Dilaver said, with a smile like a satisfied devil. “It’d be ungrateful to start killing their law enforcers when they are all providing such a safe haven for business.”

  His roar of laughter was joined by the rest in the room, mockery-filled and contemptuous. Hawk didn’t join in, but he understood the sentiment, and his heart filled with resigned anger. The Balkan wars had gone on for centuries. In many ways, the recent UN intervention had freed the thugs, arming many of the fighting factions. The Kosovo Liberation Army was one of them, a brutal group of mercenaries that had nothing to do with liberation. Now that they had solidified their power base, the KLA had become the crime syndicate in this part of the world in drugs, sex, and arms trafficking. Dragan Dilaver headed one of its powerful factions.

  And he, Hawk McMillan, was in this nest of human trash. He felt dirty among them because, for the first time, he couldn’t come to the defense of things he held precious. He had to stand by and watch these scumbags hurt women, children, and helpless people. And his anger had expanded more each day till his own self-control was tested.

  He swallowed it in, accepting a mug of beer from one of the men. He waved it at Dilaver. “Maybe you can buy him off?” he asked, affecting a cynical expression.

  “No, he’s still in the fresh stage…has already refused some tactfully worded bribe offers. No, no, this man—his name is Sun—is going to have to learn the hard way. Besides, with him being interested in that restaurant owner, I can keep an eye on him and his activities. Her information has been good so far.” Dilaver shrugged. “She keeps him happy and me happy. Very smart businesswoman. I think you’ll like this American chick.”

  “But an American woman alone in Velesta? What do you think of that?”

  “Suspicious, I know, but she’s still useful. I’m sure you’ve already found out that everyone around here has hidden motives, Hawk.” Dilaver’s eyes narrowed. His lips curled into a sneer. “She’s been here for four or five years, building her little café restaurant into quite a gathering spot for the UN peacekeepers. I guess, like you, they all want real hamburgers.”

  “What’s her name?” Hawk asked. How odd—to have thought of hamburgers and now his wish was granted.

  “Amber Hutchens. The restaurant’s called The Last Resort.”

  The woman on the other end of the line sounded professional and pleasant. “Hallo, dobar dan.”

  “Dobar dan. Jeste li dobili moje pismo?” Hawk asked the question to signal the request to speak to Jed. He had been instructed to dial this number the moment the source established contact. To ask whether the person received his letter was a clue for Jed.

  “Kada ste poslali pismo?”

  “The letter was sent late,” Hawk replied in Serbian. Late. In the dark. Tied to his—

  “Are you positive it’s the right communication?”

  “Oh, quite,” he said, barely keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. The communication was very obvious.

  “Please hold.”

  He knew they were making sure his line was secure before putting Jed through. The man was an enigma—the last time he’d called this number, the woman had spoken Vietnamese. And the time before that, Jed had picked up on the first ring.

  The woman came back on the line. “I’m sorry, but the letter isn’t here. You must have sent it to the wrong address.”

  The line went dead.

  “Shit.” Amber immediately turned off her laptop.

  “Got caught, huh?” Her back against the wall, Llallana
crossed her arms. “Can they trace back to us?”

  Amber shook her head. “Don’t think so.”

  “How do you think they know about the chip you put in our American boy’s cell phone?”

  “It was a gamble,” Amber admitted. “Jed McNeil has some of the most advanced tech toys on his side. But as tests go, we’re getting plenty of answers.”

  Llallana cocked her head, her eyes thoughtful. “They sure were being very careful. Coded conversation. Tracer satellite signals.”

  “Not to mention an intermediary. That woman who answered him wasn’t just some secretary. She was probably at a different location with her own satellite tracer just in case someone was trying to locate Jed’s current position.” Amber reactivated her laptop. “So even if he’s been compromised, no one would have found him.”

  “But now he knows someone has bugged their man’s phone. Now what?”

  “He’ll know it’s us,” Amber replied dryly. There was very little that escaped Jed.

  “No, everything points to you, my dear,” Llallana retorted. Straightening from the wall, she sauntered to the door. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you. You’re the one who wanted to test the guy.”

  Amber swung her chair around, watching her friend as she headed for the door. Lily was in a strange mood. She had been reluctant about this particular operation since Amber hatched the idea of testing the new man in town. “So you just want me to help him and then what? What do I get for my generosity?”

  Llallana stopped and turned back, combing her hands through her short jet-black hair as she stared at the computer screen for a few seconds. Amber let the silence draw out. Something was definitely troubling her friend.

  “It’s up to you,” she finally said. “Why do you want to help this man out?”

  “It’s Jed’s man,” Amber explained. “Jed did me a favor and I owe him one. Besides, I’m curious…what’s the hot stuff this time that is so damn secured?”

  “Hot stuff” was their code for a wanted item, be it goods or information. It was their way to finance their own personal operation. The non-CIA-sanctioned one, that is.

  Amusement entered Lily’s dark eyes. “Are you sure it isn’t because you saw this man’s hot stuff?” Her voice was teasing. “You practically felt the entire package.”

  Amber felt her cheeks heating up. She was never going to live that down. “I don’t need that kind of hot stuff.”

  “Oh yeah, I forget. Your love life’s so full. How’s Mr. Sun?” There was a studied casualness in Llallana’s voice.

  Amber raised an eyebrow. Bradford Sun, a powerful man working for the UN peacekeeping department, was a friend, nothing more. But sometimes it helped to let the local thugs think she and the tall striking man had a closer relationship.

  “Brad’s fine. Busy as always. Anything else you want to know?” She studied Lily closely, but her friend was very good at hiding her true feelings. “You can join us for a late dinner tonight if you like.”

  Llallana shook her head. “I’m busy.”

  “Uh-huh. Why do I get the feeling you’re avoiding Brad?”

  Llallana gave her a bland look. “Me? Let me get the facts right. I just came into town, remember? You called to tell me about the new CIA guy.”

  “I also called to tell you that Brad has found a few more girls in need of help,” Amber reminded her soberly. “You have to find time to talk to him about them.”

  Without warning, Llallana swung around again and headed for the doorway. “Get some info for me at your dinner tonight if I don’t show up, Amber,” she called over her shoulder.

  Amber settled back in her office chair, biting her lower lip thoughtfully. Llallana steadfastly avoided Brad. If she didn’t know her friend, she would think Lily was afraid.

  Hawk frowned. That had never happened before. Being cut off so abruptly could only mean one thing. He had been compromised—someone was tapping into his conversation with Jed’s personnel. Dilaver? He dismissed the suspicion.

  No, it had to be last night’s assailant, of course. Leaving that note was just a distraction. The real intent had been to tap his phone. Hawk looked down at the small cell phone in his hand. Radio frequencies were easy to capture, but his had a built-in voice modulator that automatically changed frequencies to avoid being captured on radio. To trace calls from his cell, one would need a microchip specifically made to send wireless frequencies to a satellite source that would then send the signals back to the motherboard. Not an easy thing for the layperson, which meant his attacker from last night was not only good at martial arts but at electronics and, no doubt, computer programming.

  Hawk unscrewed the top of the antenna, pulling it out of the phone. He inspected it closely for a minute and slowly, with thumb and forefinger, lifted a sliver of hairlike material attached to it. Some kind of fiber optics. His lips quirked, part of him filled with astonished admiration. That was one small delivery guy. Where would the tracer chip be hiding?

  Carefully laying the sliver onto a piece of white paper, he returned his attention to the cell phone, flipping it open and closing it, trying to figure out what was done to it. For the tracer chip to copy and relate the dialed numbers to the thief-antenna, it would need to use energy for power. Stored memory. Of course, the battery.

  He turned the phone over and pressed on the release button to the backing. Pulling out the battery, he found another, longer sliver of fiber optic, following it to the SIMM chip which stored the information for his phone. They had his number now, of course, and perhaps the number he had dialed. He wasn’t sure whether Jed had pulled the plug quickly enough to escape being traced.

  Hawk cursed softly. His fault. He had let his guard down somehow and could have put Jed in danger.

  He had been in Macedonia for a few months and hadn’t been challenged mentally or physically quite this cleverly till now. Being a friend of the top gangster had given him a measure of freedom that few foreigners here had—he had gone in and out of places that would have gotten other people into trouble with local KLA members.

  This was his first visit to Velesta and he had been warned, even by Dilaver, to be on his guard. And look what had already happened on his first night here. Not only was he attacked at night, in his own bedroom, but he’d been assaulted and compromised. He thought of the note in his pants pocket. Sexually assaulted, he corrected grimly. He was damn lucky it wasn’t more than a note tied to his dick. Except that it was.

  Fuck. Disgusted at his own carelessness, Hawk stared at the pieces of fiber optics, barely visible against the whiteness of the paper, weighing his options. He could get to Jed from another phone; that wasn’t his immediate problem. What he really wanted to do was get out of Dilaver’s crowd for a day and track down this problem and exact revenge. Hell, he was alone in Macedonia. He didn’t have to follow team protocol and wait for instructions for every move.

  What happened last night made it downright personal. Hawk pinched his chin thoughtfully. He was looking forward to making it even more so.

  3

  Bradford Sun unclipped his official badge as he exited the UN security offices. He walked at a quick pace, unruffled by the knowing side glances and questioning looks from those outside the meeting who had heard the muffled but obviously heated exchange of words between the head of CIVPOL’s Trafficking and Prostitution Investigation Unit, the operations chief of CIVPOL’s Terrorist Unit, the general accountant of CIVPOL UN funds, and various other department heads.

  “Too many damn heads,” muttered Brad. Speaking too many damn languages, he silently added. The trouble with assigning personnel from different countries to be in one department was that there was no way to achieve the world peace the United Nations hoped for. Too many different opinions, too many ideological motives. Everyone was still working their own agenda to move up the diplomatic rung of their government. After all, no one wanted to be stuck in Macedonia. Not his predecessor, for sure.

  His lips twisted wryly as he punched t
he elevator button for the garage level. He was the new head of the drug-and sex-trafficking department and technically held quite a bit of power. But he was also considered the new boy in town, and had to be “shown the way.” Words like “protocol” and “procedure” had the same meaning in English, French, and German. He spoke all three languages like a native, and he knew meaningless shit when he heard it.

  He gave a short bark of laughter. Meaningless shit indeed. Four hours of debating whether to take down the biggest piece of human garbage in town, and his hands were tied because three out of five votes were against him. All he needed was one more person on his side, and he’d thought he would get Cezare’s, but something had happened between the meeting and the last time they’d talked at his office. Something had frightened the man badly.

  Brad sighed. Probably a threat. Everyone was living under a threat of some kind in these parts. The man he himself replaced had survived two car bombs during his tenure.

  The elevator doors opened and he stepped into the underground garage, half filled with cars. Out of habit, he looked around, checking for signs of trouble. One couldn’t be too careful, especially in this war-torn climate.

  The vote against action forced his hand. He wasn’t going to sit back and let those animals continue any longer. He was going to call the newspaper reporter first thing tomorrow morning and give that interview. It would be interesting to see what happened after that.

  He strode toward the section where his car was parked. He needed some food and drink. Having missed lunch today, he was hungrier than usual, and a few glasses of wine sounded like heaven right now. Good conversation, with classical music playing in the background, a friend and confidante he could trust—all very rare things in Velesta. He smiled for the first time that day as he climbed into his vehicle. He knew where to find good company and excellent food.

  Once he passed the security booth, he activated his car phone’s remote dial, which allowed him to speak hands-free while he negotiated his way around the notoriously fast traffic in town. The evening sun was almost gone, and he turned the heater on higher.