Hunter (3 page)

SUNSET HILL, SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, USA

Madeline eased out of Picolinos' door, shuffling onto the sidewalk with her coffee and pastry. In a calm and contented frame of mind, she was looking forward to returning home to her books and views of the Sound. Despite the circumstances, the enforced solitude was a welcome respite from the pressures of international law. And sometimes a lack of company was good for the soul.

She became aware of a commotion going on in a car not too far ahead of her: two men were arguing with raised voices and the disagreement seemed decidedly hostile for sleepy old Sunset Hill. One burst from the passenger side of the car, tumbling onto the sidewalk as he did so and then all was quiet. Eerily quiet. Instinctively, Madeline quickened her pace, as it appeared he was crossing the street and heading straight toward her. She juggled the car keys within her right hand, managing to bring the personal duress alarm attached to the keyring around into her trembling palm. She noticed the man's right hand was reaching beneath his sweater and her heart rate skyrocketed. His dark eyes were fixed upon her and his body language was aggressive and wild. A gun appeared, pointing at her but - strangely - it was shaking in his hand.

She froze. She pressed the activate button on the duress alarm and kept pressing, again and again.

The gunman's hand tightened around the automatic but nothing happened. He stopped walking and stood dead still in the middle of 32nd Avenue, both hands clasped to the gun. She could see his finger squeeze, but still nothing.

Madeline ran to some nearby trash bins and cowered among them, screaming for help, frantically continuing to press the button.

In the middle of the road she could see the gunman fumbling with the weapon. He was full of anger and frustration, looking back and forth between her and the gun, his eyes blazing. She could hear someone calling, "Cock it! Cock it!" and saw the unmistakable movement, so familiar from films and TV, as the man pulled the slide back and released it and the weapon was brought back to life. It was up again, pointing at her. This time the gunman was smiling.

Gunfire erupted and the normally serene setting of her home town was shattered by confrontation and violence. There was a squeal of tires and a loud crash. Then more yelling. Madeline fell to the ground amid the trash cans with her arms up over her face and head, knees up to her chest, gritting her teeth - awaiting death.

The shooting lasted just seconds, then silence. Madeline didn't move.

"Oh my God. Judge! Judge! Are you OK, ma'am?" A large, warm hand rested upon on her shoulder protectively. "Ma'am, it's Officer Connelly from the Seattle Police Department."

Judge Madeline Clancy looked up slowly at the man leaning over her. Gradually her tunneled vision cleared 
and the policeman's cap, leather jacket, radio gear and the SPD shield came into view. The face of a concerned, determined and, above all, familiar-looking young man came into focus beneath the cap.

"Michael? Michael Connelly?" she asked, hardly believing that she was still alive. "Is that you?"

"Yes, ma'am. It is. Are you OK?"

"My dear boy," she whispered, shaking and in shock. "How is your mother?"

"She's fine, judge. Listen, I need to get you away from here," he said, lifting her to her feet. Madeline responded mechanically to his assistance and Connelly helped her up and led her back to the café.

"What on earth just happened?" she began. "I mean, I was just getting coffee. This is Sunset Hill. I was ... just getting coffee." Leaning heavily against the police officer, Madeline looked back and saw the body of the young gunman lying flat on his back with blood, lots of it, across his sweater and face. Beyond him she saw the VW Golf crashed into the front of a Seattle Police Department squad car and another man face down on the road, a police officer restraining him.

"Ma'am," Connelly began as they reached the doors of the cafe, "I need you to go back inside the cafe with these folks while I assist my partner. More officers are on the way and will be here any second."

Madeline became aware of welcoming hands reaching out and leading her inside to the warmth and security of the café. She sat down at a table looking out on the street, all flashing lights and chaos. Fresh coffee was poured and as her head fell into her hands, shock threatening to cripple her, the face of her beloved only daughter appeared in her mind.

CORFU

This final phase was always going to be tricky. Morgan knew as much before he went in, although he had hoped to at least make it past the second guard before the others became aware of his presence. But to
ensure
that the plan to conduct a covert capture of Serifovic remained absolutely top secret, it was imperative that Intrepid took full carriage of the arrest and, as a result, participation by outsiders had been kept to a minimum. At this point even the Interpol liaison officer had been kept at arm's length, only aware that a high-risk arrest was being made and that he - along with members of EKAM, the Hellenic Police Anti-Terrorist Unit - was responsible for cleaning up the underlings. As far as the local Greek police currently on standby in helicopters at Corfu airport were concerned, it was just another drug bust. Exactly who was being arrested and why had not been disclosed beyond the walls of General Davenport's office.

Morgan knew that Milivoj Serifovic was not afraid to kill, his record in the Balkans vouched for that, and right now he was a caged animal. With his third bodyguard for backup, he would be ready to kill to extend his tenuous freedom, no matter what. Worst of all, Serifovic was now alerted to Morgan's incursion and would be ready.

So it was that Alex Morgan found himself solo, again, penetrating deep into the lair of a fugitive war criminal, mass murderer and rapist. Quite a CV, he noted wryly. In theory, flying solo on a job like this had its benefits in terms of ensuring operational security, but fuck, it had knobs on when it came time to actually be on the ground, especially when the intelligence pencil necks failed to identify that one of the three, quote, "lazy, poorly trained, shouldn't be a problem", unquote, bodyguards was built like an Abrams tank. "Thank you, intel," he whispered while reflexively massaging his neck.

Having tagged the second bodyguard with a GPS tracking device - and pilfered a couple of items he thought might come in handy - Morgan exited the corridor through a smashed window and made his way toward the main villa via an alternate, less obvious, route. Approaching through the darkness to the side of the villa, he became aware of shouting, just audible above the blustery din of the wind. Male voices at first, aggressive and demanding. One voice was dominating the other when the exchange was joined by a woman's voice. She sounded young. Whatever was going on, whoever she was, she was desperate, shouting in terror and panic.

Moving quickly, Morgan pushed through an assortment of wild herbs growing up against the house and the smells of rosemary, mint and garlic enveloped him. He found a discreet window nestled in a dark corner and peered inside. The small, ornate window gave him a clear, albeit angled, view of a long, luxuriously appointed room. From the artworks to the furniture, fittings and features, the interior of 
the villa was dripping with cash. The stench of far too much money and not enough taste permeated the scene, all paid for from the proceeds of a life of crime, violence and death. 

Jesus!
Morgan thought with incredulity. I
sure chose the wrong side of the trade.
 

He edged closer and carefully pressed his face up against the glass. Yep, there they were. Target confirmed. Older and thinner and with much less hair, but definitely him. Morgan let out a tight hiss through clenched teeth. The man Morgan knew to be Serifovic was standing over a girl who looked like a tourist. Young, lithe and dressed to impress, she'd obviously been coaxed up into the mountains on the promise of a good time. The girl had no idea who she was dealing with. Flashing lots of cash and drugs, it wouldn't have been too hard for Serifovic to entice her enough to overlook the fact that he was in his sixties. But now the party was over. She was cowering helplessly on the floor and Serifovic was rough-handling her, slapping her and yelling at her to be quiet, while barking orders at the other man, the third bodyguard, to cover the door that led to the corridor. Morgan's blood boiled.

They were expecting him from entirely the wrong direction. Good news for Morgan. Not so good for Serifovic.

Urgently, Morgan surveyed the scene to ensure that he was absolutely clear on where each of them was positioned in relation to everything else in the room. He would not have time to become embroiled in another hand-to-hand confrontation with either Serifovic or his bodyguard - he would end up with a bullet in his back within seconds. Taking one last mo
ment to scan the room, Morgan saw his opportunity. He knew what had to be done.

Despite the modern restoration of the villa, local builders had made use of the original tiles. They were of the classic terracotta, convex design, loosely stacked in columns and regimented rows across the pitched roof. The strong winds of the looming storm were screaming through the huddle of buildings now and rustling the ancient tiles like canvas sails upon rough seas. The entire surface of the roof was an enormous, vociferous wind charm.

Clambering across the roof of the villa, his movements covered by the volume of noise, Alex Morgan reached the spot he knew would provide the most direct access to his target inside. Extracting the still-bloodied SOG Force SE38 knife from his belt, he made quick work of a number of tiles, levering them off steadily before throwing them clear of the house. Then he took to the waterproof membrane and insulation beneath the tiles, making a hole just large enough to squeeze through.

Inside the roof, with the aid of his SureFire tactical flashlight, Morgan made his way cautiously across the roof trusses, listening for voices and activity below him. He did not have far to go before he reached the service access panel in the plasterboard ceiling he'd noted from the window. The muffled voices from the living area below became clearer. He could hear heightened levels of uncertainty and anxiety in the voices of the men. The girl was relatively silent, only now and then offering a whimper or cry of fear. Poor thing. "I'll get you out of this mess shortly, darlin'," he whispered. "Sit tight."

Steadying himself across the top of the access panel, Morgan bent his ear to the crack in the joinery and listened intently. His Serbian was scant, but he recognized enough to know they were perplexed and more than a little agitated. They'd expected him to come blundering in from the corridor minutes ago, but there'd been nothing and now, they had no idea.

It's
now
or never,
he thought.

Just as Morgan prepared to assault, he shifted his weight across carefully to his left foot and the change in his balance caused a rippling creak along the latticework of trusses. The sound was a thunderclap in the confined space of the ceiling and the room below. It was too loud even for the wind to mask it.

Pinpricks of light instantly appeared in radical patterns through the ceiling plaster as a barrage of 9mm rounds peppered every square inch around him, pelting the layer of insulation above his head with the force and frequency of heavy rain upon a tin roof. The narrow space was filled with the fine powder of shattered plaster, splintered wood and ricochets. Morgan had no time. He was seconds away from being riddled by bullets from the submachine guns and falling dead, or worse, fatally wounded to the floor.

Alex Morgan jumped straight through the access panel, splintering the square of plaster while simultaneously hurling the M84 stun grenade he'd taken as a souvenir from the second guard. The flashbang landed perfectly in the center of the three of them. The shock of his appearance and the sight of the grenade at their feet stunned the two men and sent the girl into hysterics. Morgan dropped behind a natural barricade of lavish furniture - hands to ears, 
mouth open and eyes clamped shut - allowing the detonation to do its thing.

The instantaneous combination of the one million candela flash and 170 decibel bang of the 84's eruption brought the room under Morgan's power. Without hesitation, he was in action, leaping across the furniture and heading first for the bodyguard.

Once again, Morgan resorted to the baton. His targeted first strike of the telescopic high carbon steel blade at the side of the man's neck missed, but the baton still struck hard, crashing down upon the collar bone and shattering it. The guard screamed in agony. He teetered forward, grabbing for his shoulder, and Morgan followed through determinedly with a pulverizing knee strike to the face. The impact and pain of it all reduced the man to blithering semiconsciousness and Morgan immediately carried out the plasti-cuffs, duct tape and tracking device routine again.

Three down.

Morgan flashed across the room, responding to the sudden, but dazed, recovery of S erifovic. Beside him the girl lay silent - she'd fainted. For her it was a blessing; for Morgan it was one less thing to worry about. The Interpol liaison officer would ensure that she was identified and properly taken care of. Then Morgan saw clearly the bruising around her eyes and the splits and swelling of her lips, the results of being worked over by her host. The cold objectivity of his profession morphed into a primal revulsion of the coward - any coward - who would take to a woman with his fists.

Morgan's anger turned upon Serifovic but he forced himself to refrain from beating the man sense
less. The disturbing strength and menace captured by those grainy file images that had become so familiar to Morgan back in London had all but left the Serb. The file pictures, the only official record of his appearance, dated back to the early 1990s. Seventeen years later, all that remained was a gray, emaciated-looking wretch. The old man was finally beaten.

Morgan kicked an MP5 far away from S Serifovic reach and hoisted him unceremoniously to his feet. He was groggy, a mix of the alcohol he'd consumed, the effects of the flashbang and shock, but he was coming around.

"Who are you?" he asked in Greek, finally looking into Morgan's eyes.

"Turn around," Morgan demanded in English, spinning the man on his axis.

"Not Greek police then," Serifovic said. "Interpol? No, you are no policeman. I can
see
that in your eyes. You are a soldier - a mercenary after the bounty on my head?"

"Consider me a facilitator. Nothing more," Morgan answered bluntly, as he pulled the man's arms behind his back and applied plasti-cuffs. "And you are to consider yourself officially under arrest. Move," he barked and frogmarched Serifovic hurriedly toward the door. S erifovic did not attempt to escape or resist but he was committed to making the task of removing him hard work, constantly tripping and stumbling as the Intrepid agent hurled him outside into the middle of the wind storm.

"Where are you taking me?" he yelled. "You know, wherever it is, they will come and get me. My friends. They will come for me and when I am free again, they 
will come for you. And they will find you. You should think about that before—"

Serifovic's taunts were abruptly ended by a punishing blow from Morgan, an expertly placed blunt trauma punch to the solar plexus. He crumpled to his knees, gasping horribly for air while his diaphragm went into spasm. Morgan stood over him, unemotionally, waiting for the man's breathing to recommence while he scanned their immediate surrounds. Even in the darkness he was vulnerable. Morgan was not about to assume he was home and clear. There could still be some other layer to SSerifovic's protection that intel had missed. That was why Morgan had decided upon a completely unexpected form of extraction.

Finally, Serifovic regained his composure. He took in a series of long breaths, underscored by the smoker's phlegmy rattle, and then retched vilely before rolling onto his back. Morgan dropped to a knee beside his prisoner. In the darkness the man's features looked ghoulishly stricken. Calmly, authoritatively, the menace of his words chillingly discernible through the screaming winds, Morgan said, "Old man, if you think you're going to fuck with me all the way out of here, think again. You were right before - I'm not a cop. You should remember that. And where I'm taking you, no-one will ever find you."

With that, Morgan heaved him to his feet and dragged him to the cliff's edge. Manhandling him and cutting him from the plasti-cuffs, it took only minutes to wrestle the utterly perplexed war criminal into the equipment Morgan had stashed earlier.

"What the fuck is this?" S erifovic cried. "What are you doing? Is this a parachute? I'm just an old 
man, you can't do this to me! Who are you? I demand to know!"

The fear and uncertainty spilling from him in every word and gesture found no solace in Morgan's stoic silence. Serifovic grabbed at the buckles and zips, trying desperately to work out what it was that Morgan had strapped him into and what was about to happen. The bravado and arrogance of the man who had eluded international authorities for a decade and a half, living a life of absolute luxury financed entirely by crime, had evaporated. Milivoj Serifovic, the former Serbian colonel of intelligence, was no more. All that remained was Serifovic, the 62 year-old man suffering the onset of lung cancer, who had been stripped of his money, his power, his privilege and influence and, above all, his protection in a few minutes. Now, he was just a frail and scared old man, as vulnerable as every one of the hundreds of poor souls over whose deaths he had presided in his glory days. Glory days. Christ! Morgan's loathing surged.

In one swift, deftly executed maneuver, Morgan had Serifovic flat on his face on the ground. Placing a foot across the back of the man's neck, Morgan prepared himself for the extraction. In less than a minute he, too, was ready. Once again, he pulled the other man to his feet.