Hunting Season: A Rhys Adler Thriller

by Alex Carlson

  HUNTING SEASON

  ALEX CARLSON

  Copyright © 2017 Alex Carlson. All Rights Reserved.

  No part of the publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  C

  HAPTER ONE

  COME ON, MARINE. What’s her name?”

  There was no way Manny Hernandez was going to tell him her name. Rhys would tease him mercilessly. He’d recite lewd and lascivious rhymes, he’d imagine what she was doing in Manny’s absence, he’d pretend to have known her.

  Rhys had been trying to get the name out of him for thirty-six hours.

  The rain fell in buckets in the Austrian Alps. It was the last day of May and no May had experienced more rain than this one. Klagenfurt, the capital of Carinthia, had just closed its airport; incoming planes were diverted elsewhere. The mountain roads were a mess, befuddled with mudslides that prevented anyone from reaching high-altitude hamlets. Even the helicopters were grounded, as the low, pregnant clouds made landing sites invisible. No one was going anywhere. The authorities prayed there’d be no need for emergency evacuations.

  Hunting season opened tomorrow, but no one was going out in this weather. The locals knew the weather would eventually break and the roe deer, chamois, and ibexes weren’t going anywhere. Those who flew in from afar would have to be content in their hunting lodges, alpine huts, and luxury country hotels. They’d have to realize that warm fires and brandy beat sitting in soaked tree stands, watching the drops of water accumulate on the brims of their hunting hats until they finally dropped off, inevitably finding their way into the collar, where they’d send a shiver through the body.

  But there were two men who weren’t locals and they weren’t there to hunt and they didn’t care much about the weather other than the fact that it blocked the views of the towering peaks around them and prevented their hotel room from ventilating. The pair had been in the room for two days and it had begun to take on the man-stink of idleness in a warm room permeated by moisture.

  It was Manny’s turn to watch. He looked out the window, eyes focused on the entrance of the only road that led up the mountain, a road that had been confirmed as being washed out and was thus impassable. Rhys lay on the bed, hunting twisties and switchbacks on local maps, roads he’d be hitting on his BMW F800GSA once this security detail was over. And if the weather ever improved.

  “Olga,” said Rhys. “I bet it’s Olga.”

  Manny couldn’t help but laugh. The guy was persistent.

  “Dagmar? Always thought Dagmar was a perty name.”

  Rhys Adler was from New Hampshire, which from Manny’s perspective was about as far north as you could get; he had no business saying perty. His name was Rhys for god’s sake. Not Dale or Earl or Cooter or Bubba. Rhys. Still, the pertys and ain’ts that peppered his vocabulary weren’t affected. They were somehow authentic. The guy had smarts, though Manny didn’t know from where. It was more that he took a twisted pride in speaking none too good. And it wasn’t just language. Yesterday, Manny caught Rhys scrolling his encrypted BlackBerry through the results of the Coca-Cola 600 at the Charlotte Motor Speedway. What the hell was that? Either New Hampshire was more of a red state than Manny had thought or Rhys was the northernmost southern boy who ever lived.

  “Svetlana?”

  Manny grinned. He was enjoying the banter. Rhys was notoriously introverted, standoffish, even mulish. The teasing was a compliment.

  “No, it’s not Svetlana, but there’s a Svetlana in the hut up there.”

  Rhys didn’t respond. Manny kept his eyes directed at the start of the now impassable road, but the lack of activity made it hard to stay focused and he could feel Rhys’ stillness behind him. A couple of minutes passed.

  “The name of the woman up there. Is it Svetlana or Svitlana?” asked Rhys. His tone had changed. The banter was gone.

  “Ahh, I think it is Svitlana. How’d you know?”

  “Svetlana is Russian. Svitlana is Ukrainian.”

  “And should that mean anything?”

  “It means we better stop fucking around and you should keep a keen eye on that road.”

  C

  HAPTER TWO

  THE SOUND WAS piercing. Not quite as loud as a fire alarm, but loud enough to wake any sober person from a deep sleep. The perimeter alarm had been tripped and the battery-powered receiver on the built-in wooden shelf sang its tune.

  “Ah,” said Maksym Tereshchenko, a slight smile on his lips. “Undoubtedly a deer seeking refuge before the hunt!”

  Maksym, a mathematics professor at Kiev National Economics University, was the only one among them with a sense of humor. He was seemingly oblivious to the situation, the circumstances, the reason why this eclectic group had been brought together in a CIA safe house high up in the Alps.

  “If the buck knew how well armed we are, he’d have chosen a different sanctuary.”

  No one laughed. They could be forgiven, of course. Unlike Maksym, they weren’t lost in an imaginary world of numbers. Maksym’s wife, Svitlana, had the weight of a country’s future on her shoulders. Their sixteen-year-old son, Pavlo, had been abruptly torn from his life in Kiev. Lucinda Stirewalt, chief of station, Berlin, had chosen this safe house and was responsible for the Tereshchenkos’ safety.

  Colin Murphy, Stirewalt’s deputy, flicked the switch on the alarm unit, silencing it. Before he could get to the large window that overlooked the downward sloping meadow in front of the hut, the two Lance Corporals—culled from the embassy Marine guard detachment—had jumped from their books and whisked past Colin. They scanned the world outside.

  It was not a deer but rather three men. Each wore a raincoat and labored under the weight of a hiking backpack. Hiking boots and aluminum walking sticks suggested they had tired of the rain and ventured outside for what must have been a lengthy hike. They were drenched and they looked at the hut pathetically, as though they sought refuge.

  Outside, the world had liqu
efied. The fog that surrounded the hut was actually a low-hanging cloud that had settled against the mountain. It didn’t rain so much as hold a constant amount of moisture. Everything was wet: the ground, the trunks of the trees, the hut. Through the murk, the sound of distant cowbells could be heard, reminding all that their only company was a herd of dairy cows brought to graze in the mountain pastures during the summer months.

  On a clear day, they would have been able to see the peaks of the giants across the valley. Grossglockner, Austria’s highest mountain, was behind them. But today they couldn’t see more than fifty meters.

  “Now who the hell would come out in weather like this,” said Tom, one of the marines.

  “Guess you better go out there and see for yourself,” said Tyler, the other marine, who had seniority by the mere fact that he had enlisted a month earlier. “Turn them away. Be polite, but get rid of them.”

  “Shit,” said Tom, for going outside meant leaving the dry warmth of the hut. Earlier he had brought in some firewood and it had taken an hour for his clothes to dry.

  Tom threw his arms into his raincoat and raised the hood over his head. It wouldn’t do much good, he knew. The moisture hit you from every direction. He opened the front door, crossed the porch, and descended the half-dozen steps before plunging into the muddy grass below. His boots sank as he splished and splashed through the water toward the visitors.

  It had been an uneventful, even peaceful (for all except Pavlo, who was going through serious Internet withdrawal) couple of days. Svitlana had even taken to baking bread in the wood stove’s side bread oven. It was a challenging task, even for the experienced, as regulating the stove’s temperature is tricky.

  She had just removed a loaf from the oven when the perimeter alarm sounded. The baking had been a joint mother-son project, an attempt to reconnect with Pavlo, who was much more comfortable in the virtual world than in reality. The crust was burnt on one side and they feared the inside was doughy. But the aroma broke through the smell of the wood-burning stove and reminded all of the simplicity of life. Even Pavlo enjoyed it. He was suddenly young again, not worried about impressing his friends or the two marines, who were the manliest men he had ever met. Svitlana had brought the loaf to the table and mother and son put their hands on it, feeling its warmth and knowing that somehow it represented everything that was important in life.

  Svitlana rested the knife on the loaf and paused, enjoying the moment. Neither wanted to cut into it. It was perfect in its imperfection. But Pavlo nodded encouragingly and she began to slice. A few flakes chipped off the crust, but once the serrated knife caught, it dug deep into the loaf and progressed down easily. She split the loaf in half and revealed the light, fluffy inside. Steam rose and the smell wafted through the space.

  But that happy family moment ended as soon as the alarm sounded.

  Everyone in the hut looked out the window as Tom approached the hikers. It was the most excitement they had had since they arrived. Tyler knew what Tom was saying: sorry you got caught out in this weather, but you can’t come in. He’d probably make up some excuse about a sick woman, maybe a highly contagious one, regardless, for your sake and for ours, it would be best if you’d just move on, yadda, yadda, yadda. Tyler didn’t doubt that Tom was being polite, sympathetic, underst—

  The sound of the gunshot was loud and distinctive, despite being muffled by the weather and the extent to which the gun had been shoved deep into Tom’s gut. They all heard it, even through the closed window.

  Outside, Tom curled and collapsed to the wet ground.

  “Man down! Man down! Man down!” screamed Tyler, dealing with the shock by stating the obvious. He hesitated but a moment before gathering his head and rushing to the bedroom, where he grabbed the Beretta M9 from his duffle. He returned to the window as Colin was pushing Lucinda and the Tereshchenkos back.

  “Lucinda, move,” ordered Colin. “Get ’em underneath.”

  Stirewalt moved quickly, kicking to the side a rag wool rug that had lay in the middle of the room. Beneath it was a door built into the floor. She stuck her finger into the ring-handle, raised it, then hoisted the hatch on its springs. A ladder descended into an excavated space under the house.

  “Get in,” she said, grabbing Pavlo by the wrist. You first, then you, Svitlana, then Maksym. Hurry!”

  They were obedient, working through their fear and clumsily descending the wooden ladder.

  “You, too, Lucinda,” said Colin. “You’re more use to them down there.”

  “Give me the SINCGARS,” she said, referring to the secure combat net radio.

  “No time for that. Just get in.”

  Lucinda ignored him, ran to the army green unit set up on the shelf next to the perimeter alarm receiver, grabbed the handle from the cradle, and stretched the curled cord as she raced to the ladder. “The frequency is already set. Switch it from Standby to On.”

  Colin slammed the hatch closed and hastily kicked the rug back in place, a useless gesture considering the cord stretching from the radio told anyone where the safe room was.

  He then rushed to the bedroom, flicking the switch on the radio as he passed it. In the room, he worked the combination on the field box.

  Tyler snuck a peek from the side of the window and watched the three men approach the hut. They moved professionally, telling him they had military training. They’d get close and overwhelm, probably with a flash-bang grenade. Tyler couldn’t let that happen.

  He moved to the door, threw it open, leaned out and fired three shots toward the attackers. He missed and the three men scattered in different directions as Tyler ducked back inside.

  Colin, holding a Glock from the field box, slammed the door behind Tyler.

  “They’ll advance again,” said Tyler. “As soon as you hear them climbing the steps, open the door wide.”

  Tyler moved to the heavy table in the corner and tugged it to the center of the room. With a heave, he pushed it on its side, sending what had been on it, including the freshly baked bread, crashing through the room. The edge of the tabletop landed with a satisfying thud, one that suggested the table was thick enough to stop a bullet. He crouched behind it and aimed his Beretta at the door.

  The sound of boots on the steps came quick. Colin threw the door open and Tyler fired three times at the blur he saw through the open door.

  Colin pushed the door to close it, but a kick from the other side reversed it and the door came back and sent Colin reeling. The man fired three quick, controlled shots. One bullet hit the tabletop and the other two hit somewhere behind Tyler, who fired another two rounds, both of which hit the assailant center chest. The man stumbled forward and collapsed inside the hut. He continued to move and Tyler sent a bullet into the top of his head. The man went still.

  Colin rose from where he been thrown and slammed the door shut.

  Tyler darted to the window, hoping to see the other two men. They weren’t hard to miss: they scampered in retreat, disappearing into the fog.

  ONCE THE HATCH slammed shut above them, Lucinda lit a candle. She almost wished she hadn’t. The safe room was essentially a hole in the ground, dug out generations ago to stockpile firewood and provide extra storage. It was dark, damp, dank, and dreary. Cobwebs linked the shelves to the walls and dust had settled on the canned food and bottled water. The dirt floor was cold and damp and instantly numbed the feet.

  The Tereshchenkos huddled together and Lucinda looked around, getting her bearings. Then a loud thud shuddered above them, shaking a layer of dust and splinters from the ceiling and dislodging the ladder from its grapnel. It sounded like a chopping block falling on its side. The phone handle, which hung through the crack of the closed hatch, danced in the air. She couldn’t imagine what made the noise.

  Lucinda grabbed the radio handle, which looked like the handle of 1990s era cord phone except that it had a transmit button on the handle. She pressed the button, signaling Rhys Adler and Manny Hernandez 1,500 meters below and t
wenty kilometers away.

  “Adler,” she heard. Rhys sounded like he had almost expected the call.

  “Rhys, we’re under attack. Tom, one of the marines, has been shot, presumed dead. Three men are approaching the house. We can defend, but—”

  Gunfire exploded above her. Three quick shots. A moment later, three more rang out, then shots that sounded more distant, perhaps from outside. Then a pair of shots followed soon thereafter with a single shot that had the sound of finality.

  The scene quieted and Lucinda realized she had ducked to a crouch and had covered her head with her hands. The Tereshchenkos, intertwined, reacted similarly. The radio handle swayed above her.

  She stood and grabbed the handle. “Rhys, there’s firing above us. I don’t know what is going on.”

  There was no response.

  “Rhys? Rhys! Are you there?”

  The line was dead.

  C

  HAPTER THREE

  RHYS KNEW HE wasn’t no genius or nothing, he just paid attention was all. He read the newspapers—both English and German—daily, and some part of his brain held certain nuggets of information until he made connections between the data. Ukraine had been in the news a lot the last couple of years. Tensions rose when Kiev and the western part of the country wanted a closer trading relationship with the European Union and other Ukrainians, of Russian descent, mainly in the east, wanted stronger ties with Moscow. The Ukrainian president, under Russian influence, moved away from political and trade agreements with the EU, leading to what became known as Euromaidan, the wave of demonstrations and civil unrest in Kiev in 2013. The president fled the country and new pro-Europe agreements were signed.

  Russia used such “aggression” to claim that the Russian minority was being persecuted. That was enough to justify the Russian takeover, invasion, or whatever you wanted to call it, first in Crimea and then the Donbass in eastern Ukraine. A stalemate more or less followed, with no power willing to challenge Russia’s actions. The pro-European politicians in Kiev were all intimidated or silenced under Russia’s new influence.