The Kill List (Mitch Kearns Combat Tracker Series Book 3)

by JT Sawyer

  The alcove was fifteen feet deep with a twelve-foot rock ceiling that was heavily pock-marked. Water was dripping off the lip above and had formed a linear row of fist-sized puddles near the entrance. After he gave the others a thumbs-up sign, they followed Mitch inside, with a few immediately plunking down on the loamy soil; the rest squatted, fixing their attention outward into the forest and keeping their distance from the person beside them. There was a palpable air of tension permeating the rock shelter as each person’s senses were on high alert from noises emanating from the forest and the primal fear of becoming prey against an unknown enemy whose intent was unclear.

  “What the hell?” muttered Nicholas, who was staring toward the deepest recess of the rock shelter. Resting against the curved surface of smooth stone was a dark green backpack.

  “Maybe there’s a bomb inside?” said Julie.

  “Then we should have you go inspect it,” said Lisa.

  “Fuck you,” snapped Julie.

  Mitch had already moved up to the pack and was scanning the exterior. “Why go through all the effort of placing us in this canyon just to be blown to hell in a cave?”

  “Was it left here by some hikers or hunters?” said Brian, who had moved alongside Mitch.

  “No, I saw some brushed out tracks outside the entrance that were fresh, within the past twelve hours anyway. Most likely the same people who dropped us here, left this.” He reached his arm out and grabbed the shoulder strap then carried it out towards the entrance where there was more light.

  Everyone gathered in a circle around him. Mitch slowly unzipped the main compartment, which stretched from the top to the bottom of the pack. The contents spilled out and everyone scurried back a few feet as if a cluster of rattlesnakes had just been released.

  Mitch ran his hands through the items, separating them out into bundles. There were six of the following: MREs, water bottles, headlamps, and reflective space blankets. There was also a single Epi-pen, a topographic map, a sealed bottle of water purification tablets, a nine-inch fixed blade, and a Smith and Wesson .357 revolver.

  Everyone began moving in as if there was an invisible rope tethered around their waists. Julie thrust her hand out and grabbed a water bottle, twisting off the lid and gulping without restraint. Brian took an MRE and scanned the package as if reading a menu in a foreign country. Nicholas feigned reaching for a water bottle but then lunged for the revolver. Mitch beat him to it and yanked it out from under his hand, taking a step back. Nicholas groaned and then backed away. Mitch flipped open the cylinder of the revolver and inspected the seven rounds then smoothly shoved it back in place with the flick of his wrist. He felt an odd mix of comfort from having a firearm in his hand combined with the uncertainty of why they were being provided with such items in the first place. Is this stuff here to further our survival time in the canyon or in the hopes that it’ll create a struggle amongst each person?

  Nicholas rushed to grab the knife but Brian had already palmed it. He used it to slice open the MRE packet then slid it back into its leather sheath.

  Nicholas shifted his wild eyes towards Mitch. “You think because you were FBI that you automatically get the gun?” He paused then lowered his voice. “Yeah, I remember you now. The field agent who gave his testimony at the courthouse. You’re the one that tracked down Kruger.”

  Mitch canted his head and nodded. “That’s right.”

  “That’s who I’d want to have the gun,” said Lisa. “Either him or the warden.”

  “Or we could take turns—each of us could get it for an hour,” chuckled Julie, who seemed inebriated after her water consumption.

  “You think this is funny, eh?” said Nicholas. “Some psycho drugs us and ditches us in this godforsaken canyon and now they want us to play Lord of the Flies or something.”

  Mitch knelt down again and grabbed a water bottle, inspecting the lid and sides. “Very specific items to provide, wouldn’t you say? My guess is they—whoever the hell they are—expects us to keep moving at night and they want us fed and hydrated for the route ahead.”

  “And where is that and why—why make us move?” said Brian.

  “A lot of variables, it appears,” said Mitch. “I wish I knew the answers but why supply us with all of this gear then?”

  “How do we even know we’re in the U.S. for fuck’s sake,” said Nicholas. “I must have been knocked out on drugs for a long time—maybe even days for all I know. We could’ve been whisked away to another country.”

  “Being unconscious that long would require IVs to keep you hydrated along with a catheter to handle the other end of things,” said Lisa. “My guess is that we were only out for a few hours, maybe half a day at most which would still put us in the mountains in or around Colorado.”

  Daryl moved up and unfolded the map on the ground. It was a 7.5 minute topographic map of the canyon but the corners that indicated the name and location of the region were cut off. There was a large “X” penned in black ink on the bottom section of the map. Mitch crouched over it and pored over the landmarks, occasionally glancing outside the alcove to see if the nearby landscape features matched up with anything familiar on the map.

  “If we’re here,” said Brian, pointing to the X, “then it looks like we’ve got a long ways to go to the nearest road.” He traced his finger upward to where the contour lines of the canyon narrowed further beside a black square. “Is that a building or something?”

  Daryl pressed his nose into the map, reading the fine print near the square. “Says here, it’s a forest service cabin.”

  Julie leaned forward on one hand, peering at the map. “So, we’re gonna go on a little Outward Bound trek to that cabin and then what, get slaughtered along the way? This whole thing is bullshit—I’m not heading there. I’m staying put.”

  “A cabin—then maybe we can radio out from there or get help,” said Nicholas, whose expression kept oscillating between fury and panic as he pushed past Julie to stare down at the location of the building.

  Mitch slid his index finger down to the right corner of the map, where the publication date was printed. “Except this map was made in 1969 so that cabin might not even be there.” He slid his finger over to the mileage scale listed at the bottom center. “That’s also an eight-mile trek through challenging terrain.”

  Julie leaned between Mitch and Daryl, glancing down at the map then back at the others. “Christ, don’t you get it? We’re trapped in a canyon with eight miles to hike to some cabin.” She shot an excited look at Mitch, as if she was some kid going on a scavenger hunt. “This is just like what you did when you were tracking down Kruger. The same thing—exactly the same.”

  Mitch pulled back from the group and stood up as he pondered her words. “That is how it played out during those two days, you’re correct.”

  “We’re in this because of you?” Julie said, her expression growing serious.

  He made eye contact with each person in the group as he spoke. “It’s not only about me. Daryl headed up the DOJ taskforce responsible for identifying Kruger as the point man for the counterfeiting operation in Denver; Lisa handled his medical care after the car wreck.” Mitch shifted his eyes to the others at his right. “Julie, you covered the story from the start, exposing a lot of the key players and Kruger’s international ties—you may have the most dirt on everyone involved in his organized crime circles; Nicholas was the prosecutor who put him behind bars; and Brian was in charge of the prison where Kruger died.”

  “And you were the agent who tracked him down in that canyon outside of Durango,” whispered Daryl. “Whoever’s behind this is recreating that manhunt.”

  “Does that mean we have forty-eight hours to get out of this canyon?” said Brian, who had stopped eating.

  “And Barbara Mulhere—why would someone kill her? She was already the victim with losing her son,” said Lisa.

  “Not sure,” said Mitch. “Maybe because she was dying from cancer and they needed her home to rall
y some of us to her location, putting us closer to this site.”

  “And where are we exactly?” said Nicholas.

  “From what Mitch already told us about a large concrete wall and the features on that map, I’m sure this must be Animas Canyon, about seventy miles outside of Durango,” said Lisa. “The whole region is supposed to be permanently flooded on Monday when they divert one of the nearby rivers to create this reservoir for the outlying towns in the region. This place is going to be a watery grave soon if we don’t get out of here.”

  Mitch rubbed the whiskers on his chin. “So, it’s not likely we’re going to run into backcountry rangers or hikers in the region. The perfect little maze for someone to play their game with us.” He retreated back to the entrance and scanned the cliffs as the lingering rays of sunlight were fading. “We will lose daylight quickly in a narrow place like this and I, for one, don’t plan to hang out here and sing camp songs. I say we head north to that proposed cabin—there is no other alternative. Based upon the contour lines on the map, it looks like it’s the only place with a trail that leads up and out of here. If the weather holds, we can cover about 1-2 miles an hour in this rocky terrain.”

  “That’ll put us there around sunrise tomorrow,” said Daryl, who kept wriggling his shoulders while showing signs of discomfort.

  “Aren’t we supposed to stay put?” said Julie. “That’s what they tell lost hikers to do so searchers can find them quicker. We don’t even know what’s up this canyon.”

  “If someone back home knew exactly where you were going and when you’d be back, then I’d agree,” said Mitch. “But does that apply to anyone here?”

  Daryl rubbed the back of his head. “I’m retired and live alone. I spend a lot of my weekends fly-fishing so I won’t be overdue for two more days.”

  A few of the others mumbled about not having anyone who would report them as missing immediately because of their travel or work schedules. Lisa ran a hand through her long hair and then wiped away a tear from her eye. “I was meeting my fiancé for dinner after meeting with Barb. He would have alerted someone by now. God, I hope he can help but how is he gonna know where I’m at?”

  “Isn’t anyone else wondering who’s behind this?” said Nicholas.

  “Probably some associates of Anton Kruger,” said Brian. “That’s our common link.”

  “He was just a mid-level player,” said Mitch. “This has to be someone with more clout and resources. Orchestrating abductions on this scale and getting us to this canyon took some major funds and logistics. This is about a score to settle and they’re making it very personal.”

  “Roan Kruger perhaps,” said Julie. “Anton’s father. He was a hitman and was in deep with several organized crime families.”

  “That’s a myth,” said Daryl. “I kept tabs on Anton and his colleagues for years and that was just an urban legend that kept circulating to put the fear of God in his competitors.” Daryl raised his hand in the air, twirling his fingers. “The boogeyman syndrome is always good for scaring rivals in the organized crime world.”

  “There were many people I spoke with while I was doing research in Eastern Europe for my book that told me otherwise,” said Julie. “People who probably wouldn’t have talked to a cop from the States.”

  “Whoever it is, they probably want us to focus on the who instead of how to get the hell out of here,” said Mitch. “I suggest we make use of the remaining daylight and get moving. Gather up the individual gear.” Mitch knelt down and grabbed the yellow Epi-pen and examined the cylindrical case it was in. “Does someone here have any anaphylaxis issues they want to tell us about? This was put in here for a reason.”

  “I used to be allergic to shrimp when I was younger but I’m not worried about that out here,” said Daryl.

  “And I broke out in hives once after getting bit by mosquitos as a kid,” said Julie.

  “That’s not the same as anaphylaxis,” said Lisa in an annoyed tone.

  No one else responded and Mitch leaned over to her. “Why don’t you take the Epi-pen and Daryl, you can hold on to the map.”

  “And Wyatt Earp gets the gun and tells us how high to jump,” said Nicholas, who greedily grabbed up his items.

  Mitch shook his head, jamming his gear into his BDU pockets and adjusting the hank of rope around his shoulder. “As I recall, Earp used to fancy breaking the nose of anyone in his group who questioned him in front of others—imagine that.”

  As Mitch headed to a nearby deer trail and began walking north, he wondered what kind of chess game they had just entered into against their own volition. Since he had awoken at the concrete wall he knew there weren’t any hostiles in that direction. Are they waiting along the route north or are there booby-traps lining the way? Are they planning to pick us off one by one or just placing obstacles in our way so we can’t make it out before the flood? He had no idea what to expect and each footfall was tense as his senses probed every sound, sight, and smell for something out of place. He had been in enough life-and-death situations before to know that there were always unknown variables that could affect the outcome but nothing like this—nothing with so many bizarre occurrences that made him unable to fathom the outcome they were going to face. How many of us will make it out of this canyon?

  Walking along, he thought of Dev and how she was on her way back to Israel, reclining in a temperature-controlled airplane while sipping on a Coke. How he longed to be with her. But he forced his concentration back to the unpleasant reality that he was in, feeling like a fly in a spiderweb. This sounds like some kind of bullshit exercise the military would have undertaken when I was in the Army. A survival game to see how many outcomes were possible. Then a bunch of think-tank guys would spend the next two years analyzing the results to publish in a pricey government research report that no one would ever read.

  He clenched his fists and focused his vision on the trail ahead as rain began drenching the forest. Whatever happens, I’ll get to the bottom of it but this trip is gonna be a dirty, cold son-of-a-bitch. I’ll get through it and destroy the bastards that did this. His mental haze had loosened its grip and was replaced by anger, which is what he knew he’d need to push through whatever lay ahead.

  Chapter 10

  On a heavily wooded finger of rock jutting out above the beginning of Animas Canyon, Alaric Mondragal leaned his suppressed M4 against the thick trunk of a spruce tree and rubbed a kink in his neck. The effort of placing all the limp bodies in the canyon that morning and the hike to the abandoned forest service canyon below had worn him out. His instructions for the final phase of this elaborate event were coming to a close. Soon, the rainstorm would pass and, with the coming of dawn, the last victim would be dead according to Kruger’s plan. Alaric and the others had been told not to interfere in any way with what was unfolding in the canyon. No contact for forty-eight hours until the signal from the cabin below was received. He wondered just what was happening in the wilderness below: was it a game of cat-and-mouse with Roan Kruger picking them off one by one or were they attempting to make it out of the canyon together while the master assassin dispatched them in one orchestrated chess move at the end after they’d suffered in the torturous terrain?

  Alaric thought back to the phone message he’d received from Kruger three days earlier as plans were finalized before the abductions. The computer-modulated voice of Kruger emanating through Alaric’s headset had been clear but unusually monotone.

  Insert all six unconscious bodies along with the dead body of Mulhere into the lower recess of the canyon by the dam foundation using the hydraulic winch system. You already have the current location for each person and recommendations on how best to subdue them, taking care to leave each person physically sound. Place the backpack in a small cave, a hundred meters to the east of the drop-off zone. The pack contents are complete. This entire event will transpire according to my design over the next 48 hours. I will kill the last victim before sunrise on Monday, a few hours before the ca
nyon is flooded. At 0500 on that morning, you will meet me at the old cabin below Fischer Point.

  The voicemail was an automated message but it was preceded by Kruger’s authentication number used in his business communications so Alaric had no reason to doubt it. He simply wished to talk with his old mentor again. Soon, he would head down the trail and see what was required of him. The floodgates at the Bureau of Reclamation headquarters, miles to the north by the Animas River, would be opened later in the day by the oblivious workers. This would be the finishing touch that would flood Animas Canyon and erase any signs of the bodies. Alaric marveled at the end game but was still hazy on the details of what was unraveling below. For now, he trusted in Kruger’s meticulous planning and looked forward to the next sunrise.

  He walked up to a small wedge of rock that thrust out over the canyon. Sitting beside a single Douglas fir tree was Marcus, the other member of his three-man team, who was keeping watch on the trails below.

  “Anything in sight?” said Alaric, squatting down on one knee.

  The younger man with an anemic goatee shook his head then flung a small stick over the edge. “So, we sit here in the rain for the next day in case anyone comes along?”

  He chuckled, tapping the man on the shoulder. “You’re probably wishing you’d taken the duty at the old woman’s house right now, aren’t you?”

  “I’m guessing most of the people we placed by the cement wall will be dead by midnight. That’s how I’d do it—wait until nightfall.”

  “From what I gleaned from Kruger’s message, he has to be down there following them, waiting for the right moment to be the shrewd predator he is and remove his quarry.”

  “Why would he be so secretive about this and avoid contact with us? What makes you so sure he’s down there? Maybe he just rigged the place with booby-traps so they couldn’t make it out before the flood and he’s long gone?” Marcus leaned back, pushing the brim of his hat up. “Hell, Kruger’s a tough guy but running through all that brush at his age…pff…you can have that shit. If it were me, I’d just rely on IEDs planted in their vehicles or homes like we’ve done in the past. That’d be a lot less effort.”