Wolf Page 2

  Holy crap.

  I gasp and wish I hadn’t made a sound the moment after I hear it. I know exactly who he is, though I shouldn’t have been so obvious about it. I’ve heard of him. He’s a tracker, a mercenary, a cold killer with no mercy. His name is uttered on lowered breaths in underground circles, in places I make it my business to stay connected to, if only to be aware of them, if and when I become the object of a hit. To the outside world, where most people have the mistaken belief that what they see is all there is, this man is no one. A ghost. But I know better. And now, I’ve seen his face.

  “One. Two. Three.” On three, he does as he promises, taking one massive step back.

  I’m sure that his gun must still be trained on me. He’s not that stupid. Reaching down, I grab my knife, and I run. I’ll live another day. The first thing I need to do is get my grandmother and best friends out of harm’s way. After that, The Hunter will become the hunted, and I won’t stop until one of us is dead.

  1

  Thorne

  A Few Weeks Earlier

  This is it.

  Six weeks of intense surveillance has led me to this moment. Scanning every visible room door along the penthouse hallway, I step off the elevator and straighten the electronic hotel manager ID and access badge at the breast pocket of my burgundy blazer. I briskly pass two entrances designed in frosted glass and chrome. Catching a glimpse of my reflection, I smile. The adrenaline pumping through my veins is normal. It makes me sharp, focused, on task, and I’ll put it to good use to ensure this assignment is completed with precision.

  I’m a lone wolf by nature. As a former soldier, I much preferred being assigned jobs like the one I’m tasked with at the moment. I get a target, an objective, and I have some leeway and discretion as to how to complete it, holding the quality constant. That’s why I said yes when my employer came knocking.

  In some ways, I guess they told me what I wanted to hear. That I’m independent, achievement-oriented, precise and loyal to a fault. Their staff psychologist had a different spin on my style, which wasn’t quite as nice. Something about misogyny and narcissism, mixed with a dose of borderline obsessive-compulsive behavior. But what the fuck do those academics really know? I get the job done.

  It’s been close to two years since I’ve had a decent stretch of downtime. A reward will be in order after I’ve wrapped up this job with a neat little bow. Probably a fifteen-year-old bottle of single malt. Or two. It all depends on how much time my employer will keep me on the bench between jobs.

  Before turning the final corner toward the presidential suite, I slide the letter-sized envelope out of the inner pocket of my blazer. I give it another look, patting the pen that’s clipped onto the pocket of my black slacks.

  Everything is as planned.

  Rounding the corner, I catch sight of the four muscle-bound Russian bodyguards, all wearing identical cheap navy-blue dress suits. Two of them turn their heads to me.

  “I have an urgent letter for Mr. Mikhailov,” I say from a distance.

  “We gave strict instructions to hotel management,” the first guard says in a thick accent. “No disruptions, period. That means no visitors, no letters, no packages, no housekeeping, and no room service, except at our request.”

  “This is different,” I explain with a somewhat nervous stammer to maintain my cover. A regular Joe would be scared shitless standing face-to-face with these guards from just their larger than life, intimidating frames and less than polite dispositions. I turn the front of the letter toward them and take a few steps forward. “See? The note reads Urgent communication. Private and confidential. To be hand-delivered immediately and handled only by Mr. Ivan Mikhailov.”

  The first guard turns to the one closest to the door, signaling him with a hand gesture for direction.

  “Send it back,” says the one higher up the food chain.

  I point at the letter again. “Are you sure you want your boss to find out that you’re the one who sent back something he might be expecting?”

  Narrowing his eyes at me, he holds out his open palm. “Give it to me. I’ll take it in.”

  “My apologies, but I’m afraid I can’t do that.” I show him the front of the letter again. “Our hotel prides itself on catering to the most discerning client request and on ensuring the utmost discretion. I absolutely must hand deliver it only to Mr. Mikhailov.”

  Groaning out his impatience, he opens the door a crack and retrieves a state of the art hand scanner that detects metal, radioactive materials, and other undesirable substances.

  “Step forward and hold out your letter toward me,” he orders.

  I do as he says and he runs the wand over the letter, then scans my body from head to torso, groin to the floor.

  “Enter,” he barks after scanning my back, and the next guard pushes the door open for me. “He’s in the sitting room. Boris will take you there.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” I answer and follow the guard who enters ahead of me. Boris, I assume.

  My initial thought as I follow him in is that they made this a bit too easy. All of our scenarios counted on one of them attempting to open and inspect the letter at the door, which would’ve been fine, as it contains a flashbang nanotube prototype we’ve been testing in the field for the last six months. Still, I’m in, and may need to use this weapon to neutralize the guards on my way out.

  Boris knocks on the French double doors of the sitting room.

  “Enter,” says the voice from inside.

  Boris pushes the door half-way. He humbly explains the reason for the interruption, speaking in Russian.

  “Fine,” the voice replies, and Boris motions for me to go in, warning me that he and four other men in the room have their eyes on me. None of that matters. I’m a few feet from my target. They led me right to him.

  I reach for my pen and delivery pad, explaining that his signature is required. When Mikhailov extends his arm for the envelope, I place the letter it his hand and simultaneously stab him with the pen, which is a hypodermic needle filled with whatever deadly toxin my employer is issuing this month.

  The sound of him gasping for air and struggling gets the guards’ attention. Two close in on me, while the other two and Boris go to Mikhailov’s aid. I quickly disarm one, but the other meathead grabs me around my neck from behind. It takes me a few moments, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. A swift elbow to the gut and backward head-butt does the trick to neutralize him. Scooping up the letter again, I slip out the side door that leads to a private elevator down to the service staff level.

  Minutes later, I slip in my earpiece and drive away on my vehicle of choice, a Kawasaki Ninja H2 motorcycle. As I speed to the rendezvous point, my employer informs me that plans have changed. The mission to Karachi has been reassigned. They give me the order to restock my provisions at the resupply warehouse in Maryland, then I’ll head to my next stop. I’m being put on what sounds like a dull, three-week surveillance assignment in Midwest, USA.

  The targets: An eighty-one-year-old Pearl Adams and twenty-year-old Rose Adams.

  I glance back at the six-star luxury hotel, neatly tucked into the side of a low ridge in the Swiss Alps.

  It looks like I’ll have my downtime after all.

  2

  Thorne

  I stand at the counter of the resupply warehouse, waiting for the logistics staff to fill the last few items on my list. I’m low on ammunition and a few things in my medical kit, for starters. It’s three in the afternoon, and I’m at the front of the line. This team is timely. I should be out of here within minutes.

  “Look who it is,” I hear the familiar voice say behind me and smile.

  “If it isn’t Bridges,” I shout and turn to shake his hand. Eugene Bridges and I spent three years in the same Special Ops unit. We were tight for a long time, but like a lot of people in our line of work, life, assignments and the day to day tends to get in the way of keeping in touch. After our team returned state side Americ
a, Bridges and I were the only ones approached by the company. I don’t see him often, but it’s good to see a familiar face when we return to base. “How the fuck are you?”

  “Busy,” he answers, seeming a lot less friendly than the last time we saw each other. “The usual.”

  We’ve been trained not to discuss our assignments, including with coworkers. It’s a non-negotiable rule that my employer invests a lot of resources into policing.

  “Same here.”

  I give my old buddy a good, long look. His light brown hair looks a few shades lighter. His clothes are wrinkled, his skin leathery from months under a sweltering sun. There are specks of dust on the cream loafers on his feet.

  “Coming back from Karachi? Or has Dawn dragged your ass to Arizona like she’s been wanting to do all this time?”

  “Dawn’s dead,” he says, his face in a mask of ice now that I’ve brought up such a sensitive subject. His wife, Dawn died?

  “I’m sorry. Didn’t know…How long?”

  “Two weeks.” His face is stone cold for a while, but as we’re both waiting and can’t leave, he tries to relax. “I was in Karachi when it happened. Just got State-side,” he explains, each word clipped and cutting.

  Dawn and I go way back. We did basic training together when I first enlisted. I’m actually the one who introduced the two of them. Everyone who met them thought they could be the poster children for finding love within the ranks. She took a training job at one of the bases in Texas about a year after Bridges and I joined the company. I want to ask how she passed away, but can’t bring myself to open such a wound.

  He digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “If you’re going to be around, her mother’s holding a smaller wake for me and some of the other soldiers who knew her.”

  “Of course. When?”

  “A week Saturday.”

  “Shit. They’re sending me on a new gig as of the day after tomorrow. I can try to move things around—”

  “It’s okay,” he says, going cold again. “Duty calls. I get it. That’s how I missed her cremation.”

  “Give me the info anyway, in case something changes,” I tell him, though it’s close to impossible that I’ll have any scheduling changes. That right there is one of the big downsides of the jobs we do. We work alone. No exceptions. We don’t call in sick, and there’s no backup ever on an entire assignment. Sure, we can bring a resource in for a specific, very time-limited task within an assignment, like a large weapons drop-off or a coordinated raid. But when we’re out on a job, we’re off the grid and inaccessible. That kind of thing can be taxing on a relationship. In circumstances like Bridges’, even worse.

  “How about a beer?” I ask. I feel responsible for this man being in a world of hurt right now. I hooked these two up, and now the woman he was crazy about is gone. The irony of all this is that I always thought Dawn would be the one having a beer with one of us, not us for her. She was in a training job on US soil, for fuck’s sake.

  He takes a minute to think about it. “When?”

  “Now?”

  He checks the time on his phone. “All right, sure. I can swing that. How about over at Dexter’s Bar and Grill in an hour?”

  “I’ll be there,” I confirm, heading for my ride with my things.

  A beer and a meal don’t seem like near enough, but it’s the least I can do to support the guy and take a minute to honor Dawn before this next job starts.

  “What the fuck, Bridges? Calm your ass down!” I pull my old buddy off of some big fucking guy at Dexter’s Bar and Grill a few hours later. I force his arms together behind his back and drag him out the front door to end the fight he started. I don’t fucking know what it was about.

  “Just like old times,” Bridges laughs, palming the side of his face where a man twice his size punched him.

  I shake my head. “Yeah, you with your face bashed in, and me having to either bail your ass out of county lockup, drag you to an emergency ward, or dump your ass into a bathtub to sober you up after a bender.”

  He repeatedly nods, looking nostalgic, like he misses all the shit we’d get ourselves into during our downtime. “Exactly,” he slurs. “Good times. Hey, how about you join me tomorrow at the range? Target practice, for old time’s sake?”

  “Sure,” I answer, as I have a day to spare. “Someone’s got to be around to keep you out of trouble.”

  “You have a point there.” I walk him to his truck, and he leans against it, pensive. “This job here… working for our employer. You think it’s a good thing?”

  That question is a double edge sword. Working for an employer like ours isn’t for everyone. I mean, most of our assignments end up with someone’s clock stopping. Sometimes, we’re the ones who may bite the dust. We get an order, and we follow it. The pay is decent, the risks are high, and we know never to ask the wrong questions.

  I answer him with, “When you train a dog to bite and don’t let go, is it a good thing when he does it?”

  He nods with understanding. “Dawn wasn’t out in Texas when she died,” he says, his voice somber.

  “Where was she?” He gives me a hard look, and I know it’s not good. “Are you trying to tell me that she took a job with our people?”

  He shakes his head. “No, man. But it was some outfit that sounded just like it. Same off-the-books gigs, but…” he straightens up when one of the men from inside passes by us.

  “Hang on.” I head back inside and order two black coffees from the counter. They’re both for him, as I’ve learned to stick to my two-drink limit whenever I hang with him. Fitting them onto a cardboard tray, I carry them outside to him. “Here. Don’t fucking drive until you see the bottom of these cups. Take a leak too… But not in there.”

  He huffs out a laugh and pats my shoulder. “Thanks, man.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow at our usual time,” I tell him. There’s nothing we can do about Dawn.

  “Crack of dawn. Perfect. See you then.”

  Long after I leave him, my old memories of Dawn and Bridges keep playing on repeat. There’s no justice in this world, when someone like me is still walking around, yet the couple whose marriage you think will make the record books ceases to exist, because of a fucking accident.

  I inhale the crisp morning air and carry my weapons bag across the gravel gun range parking lot to meet Bridges. We used to have countless mornings just like this, except Dawn was the one who’d beat us both to the lot. She was punctual to a fault. Her gear and practice equipment were meticulous. Bridges was always the last to drag his ass and gear through the place, late as fuck, and Dawn would give him hell.

  “Look at you,” I greet him, noticing he’s the one who’s early now. And there’s no Dawn now. “All the gear set up already.”

  He smiles and pats his rifle that he mounted on a folding table he brought with him. “The byproduct of years of good training.”

  “Yeah. Right,” I answer over the booming sounds of gunshots from the other gun range patrons. But I know he’s not talking about what he learned in the military. He means Dawn. She was the most positive influence on this man. Looking at him now, I see that losing her is probably the only other influence greater than everything that rubbed off on him because of her.

  He retests the legs of the table, his sinuous hands giving it a brisk shake to determine how much it might be affected by the recoil of his weapons. It doesn’t budge, and again, there’s a moment where I see Dawn lecturing him about tying down or stabilizing the legs so that he can’t use it as an excuse for missing any targets afterwards. Giving my head a shake, I focus on Bridges and push Dawn’s ghost from my mind. If I’m this affected by news of her death, I can’t fucking imagine what he must be going through right now.

  “I’ll grab coffees while you set up,” he tells me, walking away as though he could tell what I’m thinking.

  He’s back in time to see me loading my M40A5 rifle. “Ready?” he asks, setting down two Styrofoam cups between our m
ounted guns as he turns his focus to our paper targets in the distance.

  “Yep.” I step behind my weapon and let out a breath to relax. Adjusting the height, I lean forward until my cheek is pressed against the stock. When I’m satisfied with how it feels, I take another minute to carefully line up my eye to the optics. “Want to go first? I’m set too.”

  Bridges takes a long gulp of his coffee. Dawn used to take the first shot. That was our thing. He would tell her it was ladies first, and she would answer back that he should fuck himself. I used to laugh at the way they play-argued, sometimes telling them to get a fucking room because it was like their special brand of foreplay. There won’t be much laughing for Bridges here. Not for a long time. If ever.

  Setting down his cup, he moves into position. “Sure.”

  He scans the distant target through the scope, adjusting his lens. He’s centered as his finger moves over the trigger. Exhaling slowly, he squeezes the trigger and waits a moment before standing up at his full height to see with the naked eye where the bullet hit.

  “How do you think I did?” he asks.

  “Precise as fuck,” I answer. “You were always a better shot than me, even while you were three sheets to the wind.”

  “It’s a gift.”

  We alternate our practice shots for about an hour, and I see his composure change when we stop for a short break. He’s thinking about Dawn, I’m sure of it. I’ll do my best to be here for him today, to let him feel the loss, if that’s what it takes. I just don’t want him to raise the topic of how Dawn died, like he did yesterday. It’s not that I mind him going all conspiracy theorist on me about her death. That’s not it at all. But he has to drop the suggestion that it’s a mysterious death when people are within earshot. Questioning such details in our line of work won’t just raise red flags. They can eat away at every fucking good thing he has left when it comes to preserving his memory of Dawn.