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

by JT Sawyer

  Alaric rubbed the salt-and-pepper whiskers on his chin, looking over a patch of fog that had settled over the center of the canyon. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen but you can assume that Kruger will see to it that they suffer considerably for what they did to Anton. As for his endurance, he could outrun and outfight either of us, I think. Never met a man with his Roman constitution before.”

  Alaric pulled the collar up on his coat, trying to keep out the biting wind. “I’m heading back to the vehicle to change out the batteries on the radios and check in with Jonas at the house. He should be finishing up with wiping down the house and packing up the remainder of our gear.”

  Before leaving, Alaric reached into his wool overcoat and removed a palm-sized GPS tracker. He noticed that the six green blips were on the move, only a few miles north of the lower dam wall where he’d deposited the former FBI agent. He smiled at the thought of how the people below were going to suffer, a smidgen of chewing tobacco clinging to his lower teeth. He scanned the misty treetops below and marveled at the breathtaking vista of raw wilderness. Shit, what a million-dollar view, even in this rain. This isn’t such a bad deal after all—a few days of back-breaking work and then a big payoff at the end.

  Chapter 11

  With the canyon light diminishing from the dark storm clouds above, the group walked in silence as Mitch led the way over the difficult topography which alternated between swaths of fallen timber and long stretches of car-sized boulders. Their progress during the first mile was slowed by Julie and Nicholas, who kept slipping on the sketchy terrain. Julie’s clunky Italian fashion boots seemed to get hung up on every tree root while Nicholas stumbled along like he’d just exited a bar after happy hour. The floss-like strands of silver hair adorning his follically-challenged scalp kept dropping over his nose, causing him to huff out an irritated snort.

  Slowing his pace so he could keep everyone together, Mitch kept wondering if he was in some kind of nightmare. Who would have the power to pull off something like this? Is the older Kruger behind it? He’d certainly possess the motive and ability to orchestrate it. Or is some other player involved—maybe the mob that Anton Kruger was connected with? Shit, this is insane and no one knows I’ll even be overdue ’cause they think I’m visiting Mulhere. I wish Dev was here to help cover my back. Better yet, I wish I was with her anywhere else besides this canyon.

  As it started to rain, he stopped and glanced at the other hikers behind him. He was worried that their lack of suitable clothing would speed up the effects of exposure. Mitch was still clad in his wool jacket, pants, and hunting boots. His layers would be sufficient to endure a cold night but most of the group were dressed in cotton—jeans and sweatshirts along with tennis shoes or Oxfords. Daryl was dressed in fishing attire with a vest that would afford some protection and Gore-Tex pants. Brian seemed better equipped, with leather boots and the rugged outerwear typical of law-enforcement personnel. Out of all of the people on this macabre outing, Brian was the only one that Mitch was unfamiliar with. The man had a gruff demeanor, which wasn’t surprising given his occupation, but he was very aloof. Mitch couldn’t read the man with his stone-faced expression and that made him uneasy. Still, anyone who was a prison warden would be tough and Mitch figured he might be dependable in a tight spot.

  Mitch asked Nicholas and Julie to walk behind him so the rest of the group weren’t constantly waiting for them. While continuing on, Mitch kept studying the muddy substrate for tracks but if there were any, they had already been washed away from the last few hours of intense rain.

  “How much further is it to that cabin?” bleated Julie, who paused for a second to flick a glob of mud off the thick square heel of her leather boot.

  “You’re kidding, right? We haven’t even gone that far,” said Nicholas. “We just started walking an hour ago and Ranger Rick here is stopping to look at every flower petal.”

  Mitch ignored the latter comment as he ducked under a large fallen tree. “Another eight miles or so.”

  “I thought we determined from the map that the cabin was only eight miles from the cave,” said Julie.

  “As the crow flies, that’s true, but you have to factor in elevation gains along with time spent maneuvering around boulder fields and other obstacles.”

  “So this nature hike has just begun,” she said with a sigh.

  Mitch stopped and turned around to stare at her. He glanced over her fancy red fingernails and pleated slacks. “You probably never even ventured up that canyon where I tracked Kruger for two days, did you?”

  She brushed a lock of her wet hair from her nose. “I…uhm…I did my homework and checked out the place, of course. I hired a local guide to take me to that little shack where the shootout took place—where you wounded Kruger.”

  “You mean, he flew you into the site so you could snap off some photos before returning to your hotel room to belt out another chapter of your book.” Mitch continued walking while shaking his head. “I can count on one hand the number of journalists I’ve met over the years who go the distance to get their story straight. It’s a lot easier to recycle what’s online or pore over a few crime scene photos from the comfort of their desk.”

  “I won an award for journalistic excellence a few years ago, pal.”

  “Well, you probably blew your chances for hitting that jackpot again with your book,” said Nicholas. “I’ve never read such a trite piece of excrement in my life and I’ve seen an awful lot come through my law practice over the years. I only forced myself to sift through it to make sure I wasn’t misrepresented.”

  “Call it what you want, the readers and the Associated Press seem to think otherwise. I did my research and stuck my neck out in Eastern Europe trying to uncover Kruger’s story. Hardly what I’d call ‘poring over a few photos at my desk.’”

  “So, you’re telling me that you really buy into the whole ghost story about Roan Kruger, Anton’s father—that he’s alive?” said Nicholas.

  Mitch stopped atop a hummock of earth and turned around. “I delved into the old man myself when I was working with the bureau and didn’t find anything conclusive except a dated photo of someone reputed to be Kruger. Until today, I would have called bullshit on the rumor, but now, who knows.”

  “The older Kruger had a history of playing the waiting game,” said Julie. “One story from Bulgaria mentioned how he once took three years to plot out a revenge killing for someone in his organization who had been working with an undercover police informant. That’s a long time to stay focused and contain your rage.”

  “But still, you never found evidence of the man after 2014. That’s the last time he showed up on the radar, according to your writings,” said Nicholas.

  “You sure remember a lot of the details of Julie’s book,” said Mitch.

  “The curse of a photographic memory,” he replied.

  “There were four theories my editor and I came up with on Roan Kruger: that he died of natural causes; that he was murdered; that he retired; or that he just went underground again until he deemed it necessary to surface, for money or personal reasons.”

  Nicholas stumbled on a small rock and then corrected his balance. “And let’s say Kruger was behind what’s going on here—why not just snipe us in front of our homes instead of staging some elaborate and risky undertaking like this? If the guy’s some bad-ass killer for hire, he could just dispatch each of us at his choosing.”

  “Because he was never that kind of killer,” said Julie. “He was about relishing the job, and he was known for meticulous planning on a compulsive scale—one that bordered on the theatrical. Why, one time it was said…”

  A shout from Brian in the rear cut Julie off. Everyone stopped and saw the surly warden meander off the trail towards a waist-thick tree that had a steel audio speaker bolted to the trunk.

  Chapter 12

  The group flowed together towards Brian’s location and stood below the large aspen tree. A rusty speaker was attached four f
eet from the ground and had two bolts driven through side clamps. The blue paint on the speaker was weathered and some of the wiring had been chewed through by rodents, whose droppings littered the top of the metal platform. The device reminded Mitch of the audio devices found on military installations that were used for making announcements.

  “What do you make of this?” said Daryl, who stood with his hands in his vest pockets.

  “It’s old, like it’s been out here for some time,” said Brian.

  Nicholas stepped forward, seemingly relieved there was some sign of civilization amidst the monotonous tangle of trees and boulders. “Maybe it’s connected with that ranger cabin—a radio relay or transmission device of some kind.”

  Mitch circled around the tree. On the opposite side, he noticed a battery box and small transmitter antenna that emanated on an angle towards the sky. He flipped open the weatherproof plastic lid and inspected the four nine-volt batteries, then he walked around to the other side.

  “I remember when I was stationed at Fort Lewis in Washington, the Army Corps of Engineers had built a small water impoundment area for the town of Yakima to help control flooding. They put up a bunch of audio devices like this designed to drive out wildlife. The high-pitched noise blared for several weeks prior to flooding the impoundment. I’d say that’s what we’re looking at here.”

  “Ya think it can be used to send out a message?” said Lisa, whose weathered fingers kept nervously stroking the rock in her grip.

  Mitch rested his hand on the trunk, studying the unit and then smirking. “Nah, this is one way. They probably set up a bunch of these throughout this canyon and had a handheld remote up top to switch ’em on. Forest Service must’ve forgot to pull this one out when the dam was completed.”

  “Or didn’t care to. Such is the ineptitude of government employees—bunch of circus monkeys,” said Nicholas.

  Mitch walked back around to the other side and removed the four batteries, placing them in his coat pocket. Then he grabbed the diminutive electrical wires and forcefully yanked out several three-foot sections. On the ground beside his feet, he saw the broken shards of several glass beer bottles. He bent down and took one of the larger pieces and carefully tucked it into his coat pocket for use later as an improvised cutting edge.

  “You gonna fashion a ham radio and call in an FBI chopper to our location?” said Nicholas.

  “Never know when something like this might come in handy. Plus, the wire can be used for a primitive garrote if someone gets too lippy,” said Mitch as he drew the tip of his thumb across his throat while looking at Nicholas.

  “Haha,” he said. “I know your kind—seen it in the courtroom a thousand times, including during your testimony in the Kruger trial. You’re what I call the Paladin type—someone who needs to be on a quest to prove to himself that there is still good in the world worth fighting for.”

  “There is plenty of good in the world—just not much of it found amongst lawyers whose conscience extends as far as their wallet demands,” Mitch said, moving in until he was only a foot away from Nicholas’ face. “And yeah, I’m on a quest alright—to get out of this canyon before it’s underwater.”

  Mitch glanced down at the man’s lace-up Oxford shoes and then at the slender hands with their manicured nails. He wasn’t sure if he despised the memory of Kruger as much as he did his courtroom interactions with Nicholas during the trial in Denver. The man seemed more like a slick conman than an upstanding prosecutor with his pearly smile that he always presented to the media slugs slithering around the courthouse steps. Mitch had even questioned if Nicholas’ flamboyance and celebrity posturing during the trial was going to detract from Kruger getting everything he deserved to have slapped at him.

  “As I recall, you were assigned to the Kruger case because of a personal connection with the governor, not because of any burning desire for justice,” said Mitch. “It was all about the news coverage and payout for you.”

  “And I got Kruger in the end, didn’t I—put him behind bars.”

  “I think it was a pretty cut-and-dried case with the evidence,” said Lisa. “Mitch was the one who tracked him down and actually caught him. The rest of the trial proceedings were straightforward from what I remember.”

  “Says the disbarred physician who’s been unemployed since the case,” snickered Nicholas.

  Lisa began flipping the baseball-sized rock around in her palm, scowling at Nicholas.

  “This isn’t getting us any closer to the cabin,” said Julie, who turned and started walking back to the deer trail.

  “She’s right,” said Mitch, pivoting around and resuming his movement up the canyon. “We’ve got miles to cover.”

  Chapter 13

  After two hours of grueling hiking in the unrelenting rain, Mitch stopped and waited for the others to catch up. Julie and Nicholas were the ones still lagging behind and he could see them stumbling along the narrow game trail that wound between two thumb-shaped boulders. At times, he found himself cursing his capacity to fall into the leadership role, especially in the backcountry. Mitch knew he could move faster on his own and wouldn’t have to expend so much mental energy looking out for the wellbeing of the others but he still felt an innate calling to be the sheepdog that watched over the flock. With the soggy conditions and insufficient garb, he saw that the others were showing the early signs of mild hypothermia with what he called the “umbles” —someone who is stumbling, mumbling, and fumbling. Their diminished fine motor skills would deteriorate further and cause them to take a bad fall or make a poor decision resulting in injury. At this stage, their condition was reversible if they could get warmed up and dry out their clothing. The sun was nearly gone and the temperature was already beginning to plummet.

  Lisa moved past the others and approached Mitch, nodding for him to step off to the side of the trail while the others paused to rest.

  “People are gonna start dropping soon from exhaustion and the effects of hypothermia,” she said.

  Mitch let out a crooked smile. “Damn, if you ain’t a mind reader.”

  She brushed a wet lock of hair off her forehead and looked back at the others. “We need to do something now to prevent people from getting to that point.”

  With each of her comments, he felt the silent burden of self-imposed leadership ease up. “Now, if we only had a pack of matches and a deck of cards to ride out the night,” he said with a grin.

  Lisa patted her hands on the pockets of her blue down jacket. “Normally, when I’m out in the wilds, I have pockets full of useful gear with me and could cope with conditions like this but we’re gonna have to make do with what’s around us.”

  Mitch was pleasantly surprised and relieved that someone else in the group seemed to be trail savvy. “Now you’re talking in a language I understand. I agree on every count with you. I’m all ears if you have any suggestions.”

  She pointed to a massive tangle of fallen trees fifty yards distant. “We haven’t come across anything else that looks suitable for shelter since we left that cave. That might be our best bet to get out of the rain for a while.”

  He gave her a nod indicating his agreement. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  They turned around and walked towards the hundreds of evergreen trees that had been sheared in half from a recent windstorm while the rest of the group plodded along behind them. A hundred feet up ahead, near the base of the massive debris field, he veered to his right and walked over to a jumble of logs that were criss-crossed on a steep angle. There were over sixty medium-sized evergreen trees snapped in pieces that formed an archway, as if the forest had interlaced its woody fingers in defiance of the coming flood.

  Mitch placed both hands on the first couple of logs and shoved them with his entire bodyweight. With the immense roof seeming solid enough, he ducked and made his way under the canopy as the others followed behind him. The small alcove of downed trees was barely large enough for everyone to fit inside. Most importantly, the
layer of pine needles on the ground was dry.

  “Why are we stopping?” said Brian, who seemed the least fatigued.

  “To rest for a while and dry out—hypothermia is upon our heels,” said Mitch.

  Daryl swigged down the last of his water from the bottle and then looked at it in disappointment. “Too bad we don’t have a lighter,” he said.

  “Yeah, we could roast up the yummy marshmallows I brought along,” said Nicholas with a snide look as he kicked a pinecone at Daryl’s leg.

  “I’ve got an idea,” said Mitch, reaching into his coat pocket for the batteries and salvaged wire from the speaker. He knelt down and cleared away a swath of pine needles then dug a fist-deep depression in the loose soil.

  “Had to do this once in survival school in the military—make fire by improvised methods. It’s worth a try.” He laid one of the nine-volt batteries on its side then took a short section of wire out and examined it. He looked up at the others, who were huddled around their crude shelter, staring with glassy but hopeful eyes at the earthy depression as if there was already a blazing fire. “Brian, use that knife to strip off the coating on the ends of the wires on both sides. The rest of you start gathering any dry bark, grass, and small twigs from the undersides of the branches. Ideally pine and spruce as those are resinous woods and will burn even when damp.”

  “I’m a writer not a naturalist,” said Julie. “How am I supposed to tell the difference between all these trees?”

  “Just use your nose,” said Lisa, who had broken off a handful of sap-covered twigs. “The evergreens always smell like Christmas trees, the oaks and aspens don’t.”

  As the others went to work, Mitch pulled out the headlamp that he had obtained from the pack and shined it onto the work area between his knees. He grabbed a palm-sized piece of flat stone and set it down then removed the .357 from his waistline. Opening the cylinder, he pulled out two of the bullets, placing one in his pocket and the other on the stone. Using a small rock with a pointy edge, he began tapping at the joint between the copper bullet and the brass casing. The drugs had cleared out of his system several hours ago and he was feeling more clear-headed but his fatigue kept causing him to refocus his attention on the job and he found himself pausing every few taps to make sure his blows were precise. He didn’t need to accidentally slip and strike the primer at the end, which would cause the ignition of gunpowder inside the casing and send the bullet outward into the crowd around him. A pair of pliers would have made this job a lot safer but for now he was relegated to this bizarre task of using ancient tools to procure a modern fire starter.