Hunter (2 page)
SUNSET HILL, SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, USA
Madeline Clancy was in need of fresh supplies. It had been a few days since she'd ventured out, for no other reason than she'd had enough to get by on and had been enjoying the peace and seclusion of her home. The local police had been incredibly attentive and while she'd resisted their attempts to maintain a permanent presence outside her home, she had diligently followed their instructions concerning regular call-ins and carrying her personal duress alarm at all times. But, judging by the state of the fridge and pantry, the time had finally come. Reluctantly, she closed her book,
The Bridge Betrayed: Religion and Genocide in Bosnia
by Michael A Sells, and peeled herself away from the view looking across Puget Sound to Bainbridge Island and beyond to the snow-capped Olympics, although the overcast conditions today didn't really allow for a clear view of those breathtaking mountains.
It was only 14 degrees Fahrenheit outside, so she zipped into her Marmot Chelsea coat hanging by the front door and stepped out into a chill breeze coming in from the Sound. Normally she would have worn more, but she didn't plan to be out long so the jacket would do. Of course, locals knew that the trick to living in Seattle was layers. Learning to layer your clothes was just a normal part of life in a climate like
this. She just hoped that she'd make it back home before the rain arrived.
Folding her jacket and climbing into her car, Madeline reversed her Range Rover from the garage and pulled out into the street. She drove the familiar route along NW 68th, eventually working her way across to NW 15th Avenue, heading downtown. She didn't notice the compact VW Golf that joined her near the junction and was completely unaware that it stayed close all the way to Pike Place Market.
Arriving at the market, Madeline found a spot in the small car park nearby and strode purposefully into DeLaurenti's armed with a shopping list. The driver of the VW wasn't so lucky at the car park and pulled over 50 yards further on, dropping off his passenger: a young man, rangy and unsure of himself but carrying the bluster of many younger types with something to prove. He was anonymous-looking enough to easily blend into the background of other shoppers but managed it by luck rather than actual skill. At one point, when he'd attempted to cross the road to follow her into DeLaurenti's, he'd just managed to avoid being hit by a King County Metro bus and so opted to keep his eyes on her car rather than shadowing her. After all, she'd have to come back to it.
It took Madeline half an hour to get what she needed and before long she had loaded up the Range Rover and escaped the town traffic, heading home. Behind her, a shriek of burning rubber and honking horns heralded an unexpected U-turn by the VW. Once again her furtive pursuers were following at a careful distance. Inside the Golf, the two men, the young passenger and a slightly older driver, were agitated. They
were new to the game they were playing and not sure how it would pan out. It had sounded straightforward at first — but killing a judge was a whole new level.
On a whim, Madeline decided to stop off at Picolinos and pick up a coffee and one of Manny's pastries to take home. She arrived near the junction of NW 64th Street and NW 32nd Avenue and, turning onto 64th, parked alongside Green Market. As she got out of the car, a gust of wind raced up from Puget Sound, forcing her to pull up the hood of her coat.
God, it was a cold one today,
she thought. A strong, hot coffee was definitely required.
Watching the back of the woman disappear into the cafe, the men remained in the VW parked outside an accountant's office 50 yards away on the opposite side of the road. They sat silently for a minute before the passenger, shaking, blurted, "I can't do it."
"What?" the driver demanded. "You can't do it? Any minute now this bitch is going to walk out of there, walk straight past us, get in her car and in two minutes she'll be back at her house. You couldn't do it before. So we drive all over Seattle to stay on her back until you got the balls to do it. And still you won't do it. Fuck! Give me the gun. I'll do it."
"No, I will but ..." The passenger, no more than twenty, was sweating profusely, his knuckles white and eyes wide with fear and anticipation. "I just need to work it out in my head, you know?"
"There's no time for that, you useless fuck!" said the driver. "Here she comes. Give me the fucking gun." "No!"
"Give it to me!"
The two men grappled wildly for the gun that lay on the floor at the passenger's Nike-clad feet.
CORFU
Escaping the winds and moving deftly into a combat stance inside the door, Morgan took a moment to, in his terms, reboot. Raising the P226, he allowed his vision time to adjust to the darkness and uncertainty of the long, dimly lit passageway that connected the guest annex to the main villa. Under the feeble flicker of a single, insect-encrusted bulb halfway along the ceiling, he could barely distinguish any detail other than more shadows that only told of depressions along the walls: mostly window
recesses
and at least, he noted, one other doorway. It was too dark to even see the end of the passage.
Morgan's left hand returned to his throat, massaging the muscles.
The bastard was a second away from crushing my windpipe,
he mused. He wondered what it would have been like to spend the rest of his days sounding like a gravelly Clint Eastwood parody if the guy had done any permanent damage. Not good, he decided. For one thing, his Intrepid cohorts, especially Dave Sutherland, would never let him live it down. Remaining in the crouch with his gun arm still locked out in front of him ready to fire, Morgan took a series of deep breaths, slowly but surely getting his body's machinery back online.
Back in 2010, as Serbia clamored for inclusion in the European Union and with a number of the old
key leadership figures still on the run, Intrepid was charged with the responsibility for the capture of all outstanding ICTY fugitives. That particular task carried the added weight and personal mandate of Intrepid's chief, Major General Reginald "Nobby" Davenport. Davenport, a legend in international special operations and intelligence circles, had served in the Balkans at the height of the troubles in the 1990s. He was only too familiar with the legacy left behind by the likes of Milivoj Serifovic. With the objective of testing old loyalties and putting the squeeze on those who had been harboring the war criminals, Davenport had lobbied, successfully, for rewards to be raised on the heads of the fugitive leadership of the old regime. The Serbian Government, with some encouragement - and assistance - from other nations, was only too keen to oblige. There were now five million euros on offer for information leading to the arrest of Serifovic.
Disconsolately pondering the fact that he wouldn't see any of those five million euros, Morgan considered how S erifovic and his confederates had managed to dodge authorities for so long. Of course there'd been absolute sanctuary under Milosevic until 2000. After that they took refuge under the protection of the Serbian mafia, many of whom were former members of the security forces themselves and therefore predisposed to treating the old leadership as war heroes. But the arrest of Karadzic in 2008 was the beginning of the end. The tightly bound circle of protection that the fugitive hierarchy had enjoyed since going to ground all those years ago began to unravel. It was apparent, judging by the transcript of the Interpol informant's statement, that
those old loyalties, even old fears, were tiring. A healthy reward was a great incentive, too.
The Davenport Strategy, as it became known in select circles, had worked.
There was definitely no honor among thieves or killers. Where had he heard that before? And while Serifovic in custody would be a huge coup for Intrepid, it was hoped that his arrest would precipitate the capture of an even bigger fish: Davenport's ultimate target, former brigadier general of the Serbian Security Forces Dragoslav Obrenovic — Drago.
But Drago would have to wait.
There was a change in the shadows, just the slightest thing. Morgan sensed it rather than saw it as he began to move from his position by the door. Nothing more than the most minute tremor on the
edge
of the web, but it was enough to warn Morgan of danger.
Move!
Instinctively reacting to the familiar thud of an M84 stun grenade, Alex Morgan threw his body upon a deep window ledge a split second before the blast. It was the only reachable space that could diminish the direct impact of the flash and noise. He cupped his hands over his ears, opened his mouth wide to avert pressure build-up and clenched his eyes shut to protect his vision from the magnesium-based flash. The roar of the explosion tore through the passageway. The flash of its subsonic deflagration stabbed at every surface and corner with blinding, ferocious intensity.
The sound ricocheted from wall to wall, escaping through the warren of his target's hideaway with the familiarity of a retreating thunderclap until it was nothing more than the faintest echo. Seconds later, but
for the rattling windows and doors, it was quiet again, quiet and black as pitch. The blast had smashed the light bulb and now the shadows offered only uncertainty.
Straining against the ringing in his ears, Morgan remained frozen, not willing to even flinch lest he should give his position away. But there was nothing, just unforgiving darkness and the eerie taunts of the escalating wind storm outside. They were onto him. The battle with the monster had obviously given him away and now others had rallied. It would be a fight all the way to the target.
Well, if that's the way this is meant to go.
Then he thought of the dead man. He stole a glance from his perch on the window ledge and saw the body lying face down outside. No, this wasn't the way this was supposed to be going down. Davenport was clear in his philosophy on the use of force. Leaving a trail of dead bodies across the Greek Islands was not consistent with that philosophy, nor was it consistent with Morgan's own values. He hadn't joined Intrepid to be a killer. That said, on those occasions when he'd had to, he knew he had the stomach for it. Sometimes, there was just no other choice.
There came a sound. Footsteps? Despite the diminishing tinnitus and background noise of the winds, Morgan could make out the crunch of hard-soled shoes on the rough-hewn cement floor. Leather soles. Dress shoes? Another step, and then another. Closer now. More crunching. Definitely dress shoes. Not the preferred footwear of a professional bodyguard paid to be ready for trouble.
So, they hadn't been expecting him. That was good; it explained the monster's shock at the sight of him.
It also explained the stun grenade. It was the action of a desperate man. No investigation. No escalation of force. No training. His use of the weapon suggested that he was either a scared, inexperienced underling who'd been directed into action or he was simply lazy. Made sense. The dossier said that Serifovic was protected by a bunch of overpaid local gunslingers who'd become complacent over the years because their boss thought he was safe. Too much booze, too many drugs and far too many women, apparently. Well, the good life had finally caught up with them all. Especially Serifovic.
There came another crunch on the cement, this time accompanied by the ratchet-click of a cocking lever being released awkwardly on a Heckler & Koch G3A3. The weapon sounded dry. Not well maintained. Morgan straightened the balaclava on his face, and with painstakingly slow, deliberate movements returned the SIG Sauer P226 to the tactical thigh holster on his right leg and withdrew instead the ASP expandable baton from its sheath.
Stand by.
The crunching footfalls of the reluctant bodyguard drew closer. Alex Morgan could almost visualize the man down the corridor, creeping forward on his toes, shoulder married to the wall, eyes on stalks, searching the darkness. Morgan readied himself. He could almost smell fear in this man - it was palpable. But it wouldn't do to go in half-assed. The man had a gun and he was nervous; the stun grenade proved that. That made him impulsive. His approach continued. With every reticent step, Morgan was able to calculate the distances and timings. Closer. Closer.
The guard fired a burst haphazardly through the blackened space of the corridor. The 7.62mm NATO ammunition filled the air, every molten projectile searching for a target - no surface was safe. The echo was deafening and shards of plaster, wood and glass burst from the walls and ceiling. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, it ended. The weapon fell silent. Only the exasperation of the shooter, the torrent of his obscenities, told of his predicament; the weapon rattled unmistakably as he tried clumsily to rectify a jam.
Morgan launched from the ledge.
Even in the poor light, Morgan saw dinner-plate eyes and a wide-open mouth, full of surprise and panic. The gun was in the man's hands and, despite the shock, his defense mechanisms were instinctively bringing the assault rifle around to fire again. If he had managed to clear the jam and get off a burst at this range, Morgan would be finished. But Morgan knew he hadn't and the unmistakable waft of alcohol told Morgan he was less than at his best.
Exploding from the window ledge, Morgan snapped the extendable ASP baton out until it locked and then, in a flourish Dumas's d'Artagnan would have been proud of, brought the weapon down hard upon the guard's left forearm, just above the wrist. The blow snapped the ulna easily and the man screamed in pain. His arm spasmed and the gun clattered to the floor as he automatically grabbed for the injury with his good arm. It was nothing for Morgan to continue the flow of his assault. He swept the baton up again in a short arc and brought it back with shattering speed and accuracy on the exposed left-hand side of the man's neck. He
was unconscious before his body wilted to the cement floor.