The Hunted

by James Phelan

  Levine looked across to him. “What did Grant say to you, about me?”

  Woods looked uneasy. “He said to watch out for you.”

  “Watch out for me?”

  Woods nodded.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Don’t really know,” Woods said. “Maybe he thought seeing what we’d seen back there might trigger some kind of trauma.”

  “Trauma?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Something.”

  Woods squirmed a little, said, “A while back, I heard that you found your father’s body.”

  Levine was silent.

  Woods glanced at her. “I’m sorry.”

  Levine remained silent. Woods watched the road ahead. “Grant said we should bug out, fast, to get you home, via St. Louis.”

  Levine watched Woods. After another few miles, she said, “Did he tell you to keep that to yourself?”

  “Not as such. Just to persuade you back to St. Louis fast as I could. Make sure you got some rest. Wait there for further instructions.”

  “But you told me,” Levine said. “Why?”

  “Because,” Woods said. “I . . . I’ve never seen anything like what happened here. And, well, if you want to talk about it, or what you saw, then we can. We’ve got the whole drive ahead of us. I can listen. It might help.”

  “I really don’t think it will,” Levine said.

  “They say it helps, talking stuff through.”

  “No,” Levine said, looking out her window. “I’ve got my own ways of dealing.”

  •

  “Good luck, guys,” Walker said as Duncan brought the pistol up. It was a .45, a serious weapon, made for the sole purpose of killing a man. No manual safety like on the Beretta, just the double-action trigger pull: about twelve pounds of pressure needed on the first shot, then the pressure needed to fire again dropped to five so that the engagement could continue as quickly as the shooter could pull the trigger.

  “Even as you’re about to die,” Menzil said, “you’re a wise-ass.”

  “Not at all,” Walker said. “It’s just I know something that you don’t.”

  Duncan sighted the pistol at the center of Walker’s chest. “What would that be?” he asked.

  “You don’t think Murphy put all kinds of traps and trip-wires and kill zones around his house?” Walker said, focusing on the man with the gun. “You really want to go tumbling through there blind? Menzil here, sure, he might. But not you two. You’re smarter than that. You’ve trained for assaults on urban scenarios, I can see that. You know that intel is critical. And this place has been set up by the best there was at attacking these kinds of places. And you know, if I were you guys, I’d want every bit of intel I could get. Because you’re on the clock, to be in St. Louis all set up by 17:00 for a 17:30 demonstration, and you going in there blind will mean that, if you’re somehow still out here and still alive by 17:00, it’s just a matter of time before Murphy finds another way for you guys to die.”

  Duncan looked to Menzil.

  “You need what I know,” Walker said. “What Dylan told me.”

  “Fine,” Menzil said. “He lives another ten minutes. But we don’t need what you know, Walker. You’re going to do the hard work for us. You walk in front, ten feet out this time. If there’s a trap of any kind, you’re the sucker that’s going to trigger it. And, so you know? Duncan here will shoot you in the arse the first time it looks like you’re doing something stupid, got that?”

  Walker didn’t reply. He just looked from Menzil’s eyes to the silenced HK in Duncan’s hand and then turned and followed the tracks to the stream.

  It was a fast-flowing brook, one foot deep and six wide, the riverbed all round pebbles of various sizes. The water was near freezing, pouring from the tops of the mountains, where snow and ice were forming ahead of winter.

  Walker didn’t break stride as he crossed the brook, climbed the bank and picked up the tracks again, some hundred yards upstream. He heard Menzil curse as he slipped over on the slimy leaf litter.

  Beyond the stream at that point the forest opened up to a clearing. It was old work, the forest reclaiming it by half its original space, the rest of it either too polluted or too full of rocks to make it habitable terrain for trees of any substantial size. Some rusted machinery for logging and splitting lumber was scattered about, along with some old railcar tracks that led into a boarded-up mine shaft in the mountain’s side. Maybe it was for coal, or gold, or gemstones, all of it once plentiful in these parts.

  Walker followed the tracks that ran around the edge of the clearing. The four men were underneath the head-height shrubbery and would have been hard to see at any time of day, let alone night, but the night-vision’s green glow acted to pick out the small indents of the sides of boots that shuffled through here many times.

  He knew even before he was through the clearing and heading over a small ridge that he was close to Murphy’s home.

  And then it came into view: a squat log cabin in the woods.

  66

  Walker looked at the log cabin, 150 yards ahead. It was a handsome design, from another time—as solid and reliable a construction as any—slightly elevated from the ground on stumps. The logs of the walls were local, maybe taken from this very clearing, close to a ton each. The roof was iron, the double screws twinkling as little bumps through the night-vision lenses. It added up to a lot of painstaking work. Walker remembered Dylan, and her size and strength and disposition—she may well have helped Murphy build this place. And she died with that secret, at the hands of these men. A good woman.

  Justice will be served on her behalf this morning.

  The cabin was dark; no lights or candles from within. A front door, a front porch, a window each side, curtains drawn. The smell of woodfire hung in the air, but no smoke rose from the chimney. It was just after 5am. Maybe the fire had gone out in the night, the smoke settling in the sleepy hollow that formed around the perimeter of the house.

  “Give me the glasses,” Menzil said to Walker.

  Walker passed them over.

  “Okay,” he said, sliding them on. “I’ll wait here. You two, follow Walker in. All the way, to the front door.”

  “Negative. We’re splitting up,” Duncan whispered, handing Stokes his pack. “I’ll head around the back. Stokes, set up the rifle and cover Walker and the front.”

  “On it,” Stokes said, heading off to a raised area to their right. Walker saw him settle low on the ground, using the pack as a gun-rest, assembling the rifle. It was an M40 bolt-action—fielded with success by the US Marine Corps for a long time. And Stokes looked proficient in using it. Even by the dull light of the thin moon Walker could see that the guy checked over the bolt mechanism and wiped down the rounds before loading them. He settled into a shooting position, lying prone.

  He would be hard to get.

  “You head north, fifty yards or so, to get a cross-fire position,” Duncan said to Menzil.

  Menzil looked up at the sky. “Which way’s north?”

  “There,” Duncan said, pointing to the tree line at the edge of the clearing where a row of vegetable garden beds were laid out. Walker saw potatoes, yams, gourds, beans. He was surprised to see corn growing as tall and thick as head-high weeds; it must have been some hardy heirloom variety, this place at this time of year. There was a child’s toy tipped on its side, a small tractor. Walker clenched his fists as he watched Menzil head over to his position.

  “Go,” Duncan said, nudging him in the back with the HK. “All the way to the front door and knock. You try something, I cut you down and then turn this house to sawdust with a couple-thousand rounds.”

  Walker looked from him to the house. Then across to the vegetable garden. He couldn’t see where Menzil had concealed himself behind the corn, but he saw the child’s toy again, and knew he had to do something before he got to that front door, because whatever happene
d then, it was the end of things for some of them out there in this night.

  67

  Lights cut the darkness up ahead. Red-and-blue strobes, bright headlights neared, fast, and flashed by them at speed, the wake rocking their Ford.

  “That’d be the state trooper,” Woods said. “They’ve just turned onto the interstate.”

  Levine was silent. She watched ahead, a blank stare fixed.

  “You okay?” he asked her.

  “Yep. Keep on, to St. Louis.”

  Within a minute Woods said, “What if those guys we saw back there aren’t who they seemed?”

  “Who would they be?”

  “They just seemed a little . . . I don’t know.”

  “They knew Grant. They’ll get to Murphy.”

  “But what about this Walker guy?” Woods continued, looking across to her. “What if he’s already got to Murphy?”

  Levine looked to him, then said, “Just keep your eyes on the road and get us to St. Louis.”

  “But what if Walker could take down those guys?” Woods said. “He may be laying in wait for them, snipe them off or something. Or what if—”

  “All I hear is a bunch of what ifs and maybes,” Levine said.

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  “Well?” Levine watched him.

  Woods eased off the gas a little, said, “I think we’re better off at Old Pelts, hanging with the Statie. See who comes back down Old Pelts, just to be sure. Because to me, there’s too many what ifs about this whole thing.”

  Levine was quiet as she looked at him.

  “Call me old-fashioned, partner,” Woods said, “but I prefer to see something with my own eyes to believe it. And right now, I feel that we’ve got the time. So, why not turn back and see what’s what?”

  Levine rubbed a hand over her neck, then said, “Shit. Turn around. Go back.”

  Woods slowed to a stop and twisted the wheel, heading the Taurus back in the direction of Old Pelts Road, fast.

  •

  Walker headed forward, toward the cabin. The ground underfoot made for quiet progress, the earth sodden and covered in a thick carpet of mossy ground cover. He wished for some kind of trap, even something that could sound a ruckus, but realized that with three small kids running about out here during the day, Murphy wouldn’t risk it; it would be too easy to stray into a trip-wire or trigger a claymore.

  With every step Walker ran through scenarios. This wasn’t like being picked up by the cops. And this wasn’t like Squeaker being handed over to the bikers. This was the A League, or close to it. Walker could feel the sights of the rifle watching over him. He glanced over his shoulder—Duncan was five paces behind. Too far for him to turn and charge; that assault rifle would cut him to shreds before he got halfway.

  And these guys weren’t some Al Qaeda types, which is what he had expected, if getting Murphy was some kind of vendetta or reprisal for killing bin Laden, or part of a campaign to keep the SEALs quiet on something that they’d seen. That was curious. Did they outsource, to a local crew? Or were these converts to a cause?

  Fifty paces to the front door.

  Then another possibility, a new thought, cut through Walker’s mind. That this kill squad, and all those dead SEALs, had nothing to do with bin Laden’s death whatsoever.

  68

  A shiver crept around Walker’s spine. He glanced back—Duncan was there, but he was now eight or nine paces back. Cautious, expecting Walker to head up the steps and cross the porch and knock on the door—and then have all kinds of hell break loose.

  The ground underfoot changed. It was drier now, rising on a slight incline up to the house. Three timber steps up to the porch. There was no handrail, no furniture to duck around or behind—just six turned wooden posts holding up the veranda.

  Two raised earthen berms came into view. They were carpeted in the same dense ground cover, so Walker had not made them out. One each side, small earthen walls just above knee-height, about the same level as the floor of the front deck. The path cut through them. Maybe they were there to form a barrier against the rolling frosts that were starting to settle before sunrise. Walker was six paces from stepping through the gap.

  He looked back over his shoulder. Duncan had halted twelve paces behind, the HK nestled tightly into his shoulder and the barrel pointed at the ground somewhere behind Walker’s feet, a stance that meant he would be ready to raise, aim and fire within the same second.

  The berms were three paces ahead. It seemed the only chance he had was to duck behind one and use the surprise of suddenly dropping from view to then roll under the house, which was now five yards beyond.

  Walker settled, keeping his pace steady. Two paces. Move to the right or the left? One pace. He was through the gap in the berms and dove to his left, turning through the air as he flew, landing hard on his right shoulder and keeping the rolling momentum going, turning across the ground and under the deck.

  No gunshots rang out. Clearly Duncan wanted to keep his element of surprise. He should have kept his silenced HK pistol—not the assault rifle—but Walker knew that operators the world over always preferred their primary weapon, in this case an assault rifle with impressive accuracy and firepower.

  But firing it would be akin to setting off fireworks on a clear night.

  Walker edged back under the cabin. Still no sound from Menzil, and Walker couldn’t see him from his position.

  Then he looked up to the underside of the floor. He touched the thick wooden boards between the floor joists. They were warm—very warm. A fire, probably in a steel pot-belly stove sitting on a base of bricks on the floor, had been raging, until recently. But no smoke came from the chimney, so it had either just gone out or been deliberately extinguished . . .

  Murphy had been expecting them.

  A bright light shone in Walker’s face. A flashlight, the brilliant white of expensive LEDs and powerful batteries. Menzil’s large flashlight. It came from next to the stairs at the front.

  “Get out,” a voice said. “Now.”

  It was not Menzil’s voice.

  69

  Walker shielded his face from the beam of the flashlight. He rolled out to the side of the stairs that led up to the deck. He lay on his back looking up, wary of Stokes and the sniper’s rifle, but no shots came. He saw the form of Duncan, lifeless, on the ground, and looked up at the face of the man before him. It was made up of bright white eyes and seemingly nothing more—the face, like the man’s body, was almost invisible in the dark. He wore woodlands camouflage fatigues and his face was painted in blacks and dark greens.

  Charles Murphy.

  As Walker’s eyesight adjusted, more detail emerged.

  Murphy held a silenced HK pistol in his hands.

  Duncan’s silenced HK pistol.

  Slung across his chest was the strap of a rifle, an AR-15, and he had a Colt .45 in a hip-holster. A large hunting knife was sheathed in a scabbard against his thigh.

  “Where’s the third guy?” Murphy asked.

  “The sniper?”

  “Down. The other guy—the non-soldier.”

  “That way.” Walker pointed to the high screen of corn.

  Walker started to stand but was dropped to the ground by a sucker punch to the stomach.

  Murphy shone the powerful flashlight in that direction—Menzil was gone.

  “Talk, fast,” Murphy said, the silenced HK pointed at Walker’s forehead. “Who are you?”

  “Jed Walker, ex-24th Tac, and, right now, the only friend you’ve got out here.” Walker wiped blood from his lip as he got to his feet.

  “24th?” Murphy said.

  Walker nodded. He saw that earned some respect from the SEAL.

  “What about this little friend here?” Murphy said, motioning with the pistol.

  “I’m here to save you, jackass,” Walker said, ignoring Murphy and looking around.

  Murphy was silent.

  Walker looked directly at the Navy SEAL he’d been sear
ching for all week. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?” Murphy said.

  “You haven’t heard,” Walker said, “because you’re out here, completely off the grid.”

  “Know what?”

  “Your old DEVGRU team that hit Abbottabad. They’re being hunted.”

  Murphy was silent.

  Walker said, “They’re being killed.”

  “Huh? Right. Good luck.”

  “Eight down in a day.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Eight of your team killed in one day.”

  “In ’Stan?”

  “No,” Walker said. “All over the place. Including here, at home.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “True.”

  “Who—by those guys?” he said, gesturing impatiently toward the two men he had silently killed.

  “Maybe.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m hoping you might know.”

  “Me? I’m just learning about this now.”

  “Well, now you know. Now you know that every SEAL from the Abbottabad raid is being hunted down. And these guys came out here to kill you.”

  “Who they working for? Al Qaeda?”

  “They could be. Revenge hits. We should get going—”

  “Not yet,” Murphy said. He gave Walker a no-nonsense stare, the silenced HK loose in his hands. “How are you involved?”

  “I was CIA. I’ve been working on this while no one else would.”

  “Was?”

  “Retired, like you.”

  “Great. So what, you’re a retired spook, and just humping around the Ozarks trying to save an ex-SEAL?”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “Okay, ex-24th Tac, ex-spook. Why do you think my team’s being hunted?”

  “Maybe you guys saw something in that house in Abbottabad.”

  Murphy paused, considered it, said, “We saw plenty, but no one went through anything we found—we were on the clock, right? We bagged everything that looked important and took it with us and handed it over to command and CIA when we touched down in Bagram. Hundreds of pounds of intel, computers and hard drives and tapes and discs and files. Everything we could carry.”