Kodiak Sky

by Stephen Frey

  The key to this afternoon’s mayhem: The Fed’s move had caught the market by surprise—most of it, anyway.

  Jack Jensen sat calmly in the middle of the chaos, gazing at two photographs he kept tucked into his cramped position between the bank of phones he used to trade his nine-hundred-million-dollar bond portfolio.

  Traders didn’t have cushy offices like their investment banking counterparts at the firm. They operated from tight quarters, with other traders a few feet away on all sides. More than six hundred people packed this room, and many of them were going manic right now.

  Jack gazed at the photo of his wife, Karen. She was a pretty, slender brunette with delicate features and a lovely, symmetrical smile. Well, it used to be lovely and symmetrical. Nine months ago she’d been shot in the head. Even after all the rehab, she was still having problems walking. Her speech had been affected as well, as had that lovely smile. She could no longer control the left side of her face, so the smile was crooked most of the time.

  Jack had married her two months ago on a summer morning in a church outside Greenwich, Connecticut. He loved her so much—still.

  His eyes shifted to the photo of his brother, Troy, standing before a crab boat christened the Arctic Fire as it lay at anchor in Alaska’s Dutch Harbor. Two years younger than Jack, Troy was a tremendous athlete who’d conquered the Seven Summits and circumnavigated the globe in a sailboat alone—all by his late twenties. Perfectly proportioned, he had dirty blond hair that fell to the bottom of his collar in the back as well as laserlike blue eyes and a killer smile women adored.

  He and Troy were different in many ways. Troy acted on impulse and feared nothing. Jack analyzed everything and acted deliberately. Hell, they didn’t even look alike, Jack thought to himself wryly with a soft chuckle. He was taller and darker and not nearly as well proportioned as Troy, with a smile in photographs that seemed forced and less charismatic.

  Of course, there was a glaring reason they didn’t look alike. Cheryl was their mother. But only Troy was blood to Bill Jensen.

  Jack’s eyes narrowed as he stared. Despite all the differences, they were close as hell. They always had been, even though Troy was the star of the family and Bill’s favorite while they were growing up. Jack hadn’t spoken to Troy in nearly two weeks, and he knew what that meant. The kid was in some far-off shadow of the world, protecting a population who’d never be able to thank him because they’d never know he was there.

  “Jesus Christ! What am I gonna do? I mean, what the hell am I going to do?”

  Jack’s gaze darted toward Russell Hill, who occupied the position immediately to the left on this bulkhead, which ran down the spine of the huge room. The red-haired young man, who always wore flashy suspenders along with an arrogant attitude, was not himself.

  “Easy,” Jack urged loudly above the roar. “Stay calm. Calm always wins the day.”

  “Fuck you, Jack.” Russell slammed the bulkhead counter in front of them so hard the lunch change lying on it jumped for the air. “Maybe you’re okay, but I’m down twenty-seven million in the last ten minutes.”

  It sounded like a lot, and it was for any individual trader, but not for First Manhattan as a whole. Last year the firm had surpassed a trillion dollars in assets and reported more than fourteen billion in profits. Twenty-seven million was nothing in the grand scheme. Of course, it might mean Russell wouldn’t get a bonus this year, and bonuses were everything for bond traders. A trader’s after-tax salary barely covered his commute to and from Manhattan.

  “I’m gonna lose my house when I don’t get shit at the end of the year,” Russell muttered desperately, burying his face in his hands. “I got nothing saved. I’m gonna lose everything.”

  Until a few minutes ago, Russell had been bragging every chance he got about the ten-thousand-square-foot monstrosity he’d built last year in a ritzy area of Long Island—complete with beachfront and pool. Jack lived with Karen in a small apartment in Greenwich. The needle on Jack’s sympathy meter was barely registering.

  “Cut your losses,” he suggested, leaning over so Russell could hear him above the din. “Close out your worst positions.” Russell was long on many of his trades, Jack knew, way long. If rates kept rising, Russell’s losses would continue to pile up as well. It was that frighteningly simple. “Hedge yourself.” They sat so close together Jack couldn’t help but overhear how Russell had positioned his portfolio during the last month. There were no secrets on a trading floor. “You have to.” Plus, Russell had one of those inescapable, obnoxious, foghorn voices. “You can’t risk losing any more.”

  “My father wasn’t CEO of this place for thirty fucking years,” Russell snapped. “I can’t just eat twenty-seven million bucks in losses. The hell with a bonus, I’ll be fired tomorrow morning when they sort through this shitstorm. I’ve got to let it roll. I’ve got to hope this thing turns around in the next hour. But you,” he said, stabbing the air at Jack, “you don’t have to worry about a thing.”

  “Oh, yeah, I do.”

  “Your father got you this job. You’re safe even if he is missing. He’s still a legend around here.”

  Last December Bill had left the Jensen compound—set in the countryside outside Greenwich, Connecticut—to “get some things at the store.” He’d never returned.

  No one had heard anything from him in nine months, and state and federal law enforcement officials assigned to his high-profile disappearance still had no leads as to his whereabouts. People were starting to whisper that he was dead. A few months ago First Manhattan’s board of directors had replaced him as CEO.

  “I’m just like you, Russell. I’ve got to make this work every day. No one cuts me any slack because of my last name.” Jack gestured at the phones in front of them. “Stop the bleeding. Make the trades. Don’t be an idiot.”

  “Fuck you!” Russell screamed at the top of his lungs. He slammed the bulkhead again, reached into a drawer, grabbed a huge nickel-plated Colt .44 Magnum lying inside, and pointed it at Jack. “I’m done here. And I’m taking you and everyone else I can shoot with me!”

  CHAPTER 3

  “HOLD UP,” Troy called ahead to Pablo.

  They’d just moved into a small clearing covered by smooth rocks. The jungle canopy was thick, and this was the first time Troy had gotten a good look at the sky since leaving the campground. It was becoming overcast as evening approached, he saw as he gazed up. Torrential rains were on the way, but that was good. They needed as much cover as they could get tonight.

  “How far to the compound?”

  “Four kilometers,” Pablo answered, “maybe five.”

  For the last two hours the five men had walked, climbed, and crawled through the rugged jungle terrain in a single file with Pablo leading the way, Troy second, Bennington behind Troy, and Bennington’s two subordinates at the back, Heckler & Koch MP5s out and ready. All five of them were covered in perspiration after their grueling up-and-down through the reptile- and insect-infested jungle, and it was time to hydrate. There was nothing more important in these jungles than staying hydrated, Troy knew. It was even more crucial than steering clear of the snakes and jaguars, though not by much. Fortunately they hadn’t encountered any serious wildlife problems—yet. Of course, the animals were much more active at night.

  He glanced over his shoulder at Bennington. “We take ten here. It won’t be dark for another two hours, and I don’t want to start anything until at least midnight. So we’ve got time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Troy moved to the edge of the clearing where he pulled out several creased pictures from his pants pocket. The first was of his girlfriend, Jennie Perez. He and Jennie were going through a rough time, and he grimaced as he thought about what he’d done back at the tent. Despite the troubles, he and Jennie hadn’t broken off the relationship. They weren’t married, they hadn’t even talked about it yet, but they’d made a pled
ge to each other over the summer, in better times. So, technically, he’d cheated.

  He shook his head. And there’d been that woman in Spain six weeks ago.

  He moved on to the other pictures—his mother, Cheryl; his brother, Jack; and his father, Bill—so Jennie’s photograph wouldn’t keep reminding him of what he’d done back at the campground—and in Spain. But the mental images of the interludes began haunting him even as he gazed at the photos of his family. That exotic young woman in the tent looked a lot like Jennie. So had the woman in Spain.

  Troy pulled a lighter from his pocket, set the photos ablaze, held them until the last possible second by the corners, and then allowed them to fall to the rocks.

  “What are you doing, sir?” Bennington had moved away from the others to where Troy was standing.

  “Burning pictures of my family, and you’d be wise to do the same if you have any on you.”

  “Why?”

  “If you’re caught by the man we’re going after tonight, he’ll use those pictures to find your family.” For the first time Troy caught a blink of fear in Bennington’s expression. “And he won’t care if they’re women or children. And he’ll make you watch what he does to them before he finally kills you.”

  Bennington’s eyes narrowed. “Who is the target tonight, sir?”

  Troy had to give the man credit. He’d waited longer to ask that question than most people would. “Daniel Gadanz.”

  “Holy shit. He’s the most powerful drug lord in the world.”

  “Worth more than $200 billion.”

  “Billion?”

  Troy and a special-forces team had almost captured Gadanz last December at a secret compound the drug lord maintained in south Florida. But he’d escaped in a Gulfstream G650 at the last moment.

  “You want out?” Troy asked. Bennington looked shocked, and Troy didn’t want men with him who weren’t fully committed. “I’ll give you that option. But one way or another I’m coming out of the jungle tonight with Gadanz’s head in a sack.”

  Bennington pushed his chin out defiantly. “No, sir, we’re with you.” Bennington took a step toward his men, then turned back around. “Are you Red Cell Seven?” he asked Troy.

  “No.”

  Bennington stared at Troy intensely for a few moments, as if hoping he might get more, then turned away.

  “What was the vision?”

  Bennington turned back around again. “Sir?”

  “Before we broke camp, you told me Pablo had a vision last night. What was it?”

  “That we were all killed in a gun battle tonight.”

  Troy pushed out his lower lip in a satisfied way. “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “What the hell do you mean by that?”

  “Being captured by Daniel Gadanz would be much worse than being killed.”

  JACK’S GAZE moved down the silver barrel of the Colt to the trigger—and Russell’s fingertip, which was on it. “Jesus Christ!” he shouted suddenly, slamming his palm on the bulkhead as he looked and gestured wildly to the right.

  In the split second Russell was distracted Jack leapt from his chair and lunged for the distraught bond trader. He grabbed the wrist clenching the big revolver and held on as Russell began pulling the trigger over and over.

  The massive trading room, which had been chaotic before going totally silent, now catapulted back into bedlam with the earsplitting explosions.

  As people screamed and fled, Jack slammed the hard sole of his black tasseled loafer into the side of Russell’s knee, exactly at the point Troy had taught him. The knee snapped loudly, Russell shouted in agony and collapsed to the floor, and Jack was left holding the smoking gun.

  Several of the men in the area, who’d turned to flee, jumped on Russell and subdued him while others rushed to Jack’s side.

  Frank Dorsey, the head of the corporate bond desk, patted him on the back. “It’s been a market bloodbath in here for all of us today, but you kept it from being a real bloodbath.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Have a martini tonight when you get home. Have a few of them and think about how you saved lives. Don’t worry about the millions you lost this afternoon. Senior management isn’t gonna give a rat’s ass about that after what you just did.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  As four men hustled Russell Hill toward one of the trading room doors, Jack considered telling Dorsey the truth. But he didn’t. He kept it to himself.

  Jack had made almost seventy million dollars this afternoon by going short, by being a contrarian and betting interest rates would rise—as they had with the Fed’s action. In the wink of an eye what had been a nine-hundred-million-dollar portfolio was now worth nearly a billion.

  He eased back down into his chair as Russell disappeared from the trading floor and Dorsey headed back to his position to try and pick up the pieces. It was time for Jack to start covering those short positions and locking in his huge gains. His bonus this year was going to be excellent.

  He shook his head as he picked up one of his phones to start the process. Russell’s knee had snapped like a toothpick, exactly as Troy had described it would all those times he’d shown Jack the basics of self-defense. He’d always known Troy was a dangerous man. But that reality suddenly seemed more apparent.

  CHAPTER 4

  “YOU CAN leave now,” Troy said to Pablo before searching him again for communication devices. Bennington had frisked him back at the base camp, but it was always a good idea to check twice in situations like this. “Or you can stay here and wait for us.” There weren’t that many places you could hide something in a T-shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals, so it didn’t take long for Troy to confirm that Pablo was clean. “I’ll make sure we find you before we leave the area, if you want to wait.” He shrugged. “It’s up to you.”

  At twenty-seven minutes past midnight the team had reached the outskirts of the Gadanz compound. Pablo had proven himself a worthy guide, but he was no warrior. It wasn’t just fear brimming in those brown eyes; it was outright terror. He’d only be a liability from now on. Maybe this was a raw deal, being left here alone, but Pablo had earned a good deal of cash to lead them here, more than he could in a year at his construction job back in Guayana City. So Troy didn’t feel that bad.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I’m leaving,” Pablo answered firmly. “Adios.”

  Moments later the small man had disappeared into the jungle. He was more willing to take on the wild animals of the Venezuelan jungle alone than face Daniel Gadanz if this mission went terribly wrong. Pablo wasn’t stupid.

  “Come on,” Troy said to the other three when he was gone. “Don’t fire unless you absolutely have to,” he ordered. “If we shoot, we lose surprise, and that’s our most valuable asset at this point.”

  The team hustled after Troy as he slipped through the moss-draped trees, massive ferns, and the steady rain, which had begun falling twenty minutes ago. They quickly reached the east bank of a deep, slow-moving creek, where Troy eased into the stagnant black water with a grimace. Twenty-foot anacondas loved to rest on these creek beds, and there were probably piranha schools in here, too. As the other men dropped into the warm water behind him, he started swimming when it reached his chest.

  The creek was only thirty feet wide, and the team quickly made it to the other side without incident.

  Troy glanced back as he pulled himself up onto the bank, remembering the images of the huge snakes he’d seen on YouTube before coming down here. He hated snakes—all snakes. It was a primal fear he’d hadn’t been able to shake since his days as a boy roaming the vast Jensen property outside Greenwich. He’d forced himself to handle the garter and black snakes he found there, but it hadn’t helped.

  The rainfall intensified, and Troy wiped water from his face as he turned away from the creek to move ahead
. It was time to get Daniel Gadanz.

  The compound before them, located only fifty miles from the towering cascades of Angel Falls, was set amidst the ruins of an ancient civilization. According to Pablo the small town covered fifteen acres, but Gadanz occupied only two buildings at the center of the village. Pablo had been on the construction crew that had modernized the compound to Gadanz’s specifications a year ago.

  Maybe Pablo wasn’t wrong about being watched back in Guayana City after all, Troy figured when they reached the first stone structures of the ruins. During one of their breaks on the trek, Pablo had mentioned how nearly all the men he’d worked with at the compound had died in the last year—most of them victims of strange “accidents.”

  At a small vine-covered structure at the edge of the ancient town, Troy motioned for the men to don their thermal-imaging goggles. These devices would function well despite the lack of ambient light beneath the heavy cloud cover.

  When everyone had returned Troy’s thumbs-up, he turned and hustled forward. Almost immediately he acquired two glowing red targets, sixty feet dead ahead.

  He crouched down beside a well-preserved rock wall to the right, glancing over his shoulder at the team who’d followed him down against the wall, motioning for Bennington to accompany him and for the two subordinates to stay put and cover them. He led Bennington down a narrow alley to the right until they reached a vine-encased statue of a jaguar, where they turned left, moved past four more structures, then turned left again and reacquired the glowing human targets. Now they were close, and Troy confirmed that the two men holding what looked like submachine guns were facing Bennington’s subordinates, who were still down behind that wall.

  MP5s leading the way, Troy and Bennington crept slowly ahead between what appeared to be the ruins of two small homes—little more than rubble at this point—careful to avoid the cracked and broken pottery littering their path, until they were within ten feet of their prey. They nodded to each other, put down their guns, soundlessly removed Marine bowie knives from long sheaths hitched to their belts, confirmed to each other which target they would take, then raced the last few strides.