Grave Games: A Collection Of Riveting Suspense Thrillers

by James Hunt

  Grace activated the small LCD screen in the center console, and a path was highlighted in bright green along the roads that would lead them to their safe house.

  “Route looks okay— Wait.” The path suddenly flashed red, yellow triangles enclosed around tiny exclamation points dotting the screen. “Something’s wrong!”

  Bryce slammed on the brakes, the FBI agents safely in the distance now. He examined the route. “There are sensors along the tunnels that lead us back to the main highways.” He shifted into reverse. “The authorities already have road blocks. We’ll have to go out another way.” He spun a one-eighty, shifted back into drive, and floored the accelerator. The wheels spun on the slick concrete as they raced back toward danger.

  Grace tucked the butt of the rifle’s stock in the crook of her right shoulder, her eyes focused on the FBI agents gathering to intercept them. “You know the cars are only meant to withstand a certain level of gunfire before the bullets get through.”

  “Stay below the dash. The engine will block any bullets that get through the plates,” Bryce said.

  The engine revved louder, and the first bullet that hit the windshield made Bryce jump. The rest fell like a steady thump of rain. The storm worsened the closer they moved toward the agents, and the emergency sensors flashed their warning of heavy artillery.

  “Bryce!” Grace thrust a finger in the direction of the threesome that held the bazooka. Bryce swerved hard right and the RPG detonated into the asphalt next to the rear left tire.

  The repercussion from the blast shredded the armor and lifted the back wheels off the concrete. Bryce battled the momentum of the explosion, struggling to keep both hands on the wheel and his foot on the pedal as the blast was quickly followed up with more gunfire.

  “Check the alternative routes,” Bryce said, pointing to the display, which was still blinking its emergency warning.

  Grace disabled the alarm then scanned the roads. “I’ve got something that takes us over the bridges.”

  “How long?”

  “Five miles.”

  “It’ll have to do.”

  Light finally appeared at the end of the tunnel, and Bryce peeled off one of his hands and brought up the list of support agents that had fled the facility. “Looks like everyone checked out of the building all right.”

  “What about Sarah? Is she okay?” Grace asked.

  “After Mack triggered shadow protocol, the satellite shut down. I won’t be able to see what happened with the field agents until I get a new uplink,” Bryce answered. “When we get to the safe house, I’ll be able to reboot the satellite. But I’m sure she’s fine.”

  As the words left his mouth, he couldn’t help but see Hank’s lifeless eyes. Sarah was good, but the entire world was hunting them now, and even she had her limits. Still, he pitied the people who tried to test them.

  ***

  Sweat dripped down Sarah’s forehead as she ejected an empty magazine and slid her last one into place while she crouched behind a parked car on the street. The heat was nearly as unbearable as the Russian assassins chasing her for the past three blocks.

  The glass of the passenger-side window of the Buick she ducked behind shattered, and shards fell over her head and shoulders. Sarah brushed them off and then crept her way to the hood, one .45 1911 Colt clutched in each hand. There had been six Russians when the fight started, but she’d dwindled them down to three.

  Sarah planted a foot beyond the cover of the vehicle and pivoted toward the Russian aggressors. Houses on blocks clustered in close quarters in the trailer-park neighborhood, and one of the spies had wedged himself between two of the trailers—his mistake. She aimed, squeezed the trigger, and placed the bullet between his eyes, flinging his head backward.

  Bullets were fired in retaliation, exploding the tires which dropped the car a few inches. Sarah’s head vibrated as she leaned back against the outside of the driver side tire well, a drip of sweat rolling into her eye, stinging her eyeball. “God, it’s like a damn oven out here. And people say global warming is a crock of shit.” She waited for Bryce’s reply, briefly forgetting he wasn’t in her ear at the moment, and then took a breath. “Great, now I’m just talking to myself.”

  Sarah squeezed her left fist, activating the display on her arm to check to see if the satellite was back up, but it remained blank. “Looks like I’m going old school today.” She deactivated the display and then ripped the side-view mirror from the car. She stretched her arm toward the front bumper and curved the face of the mirror around the edge.

  The first two rooftops were empty, and then just as a sniper rifle came into view, a bullet knocked the mirror from her hand.

  Sarah tucked back behind the car and coiled in anticipation to strike. “Got you.” With both pistols extended, she sprang from behind the hood and fired, her shot slicing through the sniper’s left eye.

  The second sniper squeezed off a shot, and the bullet collided into her chest, sending her sprawling backward until ass met asphalt. She patted the Kevlar that had taken the brunt of the bullet’s blow and circled her finger around the bullet’s rim then plucked it from her chest. “Gonna feel that tomorrow.”

  The remaining Russian jumped from the other roof and fired. Bullets smacked the black asphalt next to her head, and Sarah rolled left, her elbows and knees smacking into the pavement. She tucked herself behind the trunk of the car and slowly lifted her head. The Russian stepped over the AstroTurf lawn of one of the mobile homes and unloaded another barrage of lead.

  Metallic collisions rang in the afternoon air, and with the car torn to shreds and nowhere else to run, Sarah let the Russian tire himself out as she squat-walked back to the car’s hood, the loaded Colt clutched in both hands. Between gunshots, she listened for his footsteps, mapping out the Russian’s location on the other side of the car in her mind.

  The sole of a boot pressed into a clump of glass on the pavement, grinding the shards into the road, and Sarah leapt up over the hood. The Russian swung the rifle toward Sarah, finger still on the trigger, but Sarah kicked the muzzle into the ground, followed quickly by a strong right hook that connected with the point of his chin. She reached for her knife, her gaze still locked on the assassin. She sliced the blade through the air, aiming for the throat, but the Russian lurched backward, snatching her wrist that held the knife, and planted a left hook on the side of her face.

  The blow knocked Sarah to the pavement, and with her wrist still held by the Russian, he used the leverage to bring all two hundred pounds of his body weight down on her, and the applied force had the impact of a semi-truck.

  The back of Sarah’s head smacked against the pavement elicitin a crack that sounded like shattering of glass, and the Russian raised his fist to strike. Disoriented, but alive, Sarah shook off the blow and dodged the punch, and the Russian’s fist cracked against the pavement. With her free left hand, Sarah reached for the back of his neck, pulled him downward, and slammed the bridge of her hairline into his nose.

  A high-pitched whine pierced her ears, followed by a flash of white light, but when it cleared, she saw the Russian with blood streaming down his face and was no longer pinning her wrist down. She slashed the edge of the blade across the tender section of his neck, and blood seeped through the narrow slit and poured down the front of his shirt. Breathless, Sarah shoved the Russian’s body off her.

  “Suck it, Mother Russia,” Sarah said.

  Wobbling, she pushed herself up, and when she looked over to the line of trailers, she saw an elderly woman standing in her doorway, wearing a floral-patterned nightgown. Sarah raised a hand in a friendly wave. “Afternoon!”

  The old woman glanced around to the bodies strewn about the lawns and in the street, the wrinkles along her face enhanced by the squint from the afternoon sun, then back to Sarah. “They bad?”

  Sarah wiped the sweat from her forehead. “Yeah.”

  The woman nodded. “Good job, then.” She stepped back inside her trailer and closed t
he door.

  Sarah smiled and then flipped the collar of her jacket up as she fled the scene. “And people say New Yorkers aren’t friendly.”

  Chapter 2

  The tie around Mack’s neck swung like a pendulum between his knees as he sat hunched over, hands clasped together, next to Mallory on a bench outside one of the Capitol building’s conference rooms. He stared at the marble floor, his reflection nearly visible in the polished surface, which was one of just many features of the building that radiated the grandiose exuberance of power and influence.

  Carved into the walls along the hallway were the Romanesque statues of former politicians who watched him, their eyes of judgement cast down on him in a caricature of contempt. They were men who had shaped the very world Mack had saved, and he wondered what they would have thought of his actions. What was left of his romanticism told him they would have condemned the act of spying and espionage. But the way they looked down on him made him believe that they would have done the same thing in his shoes. They were men who understood that the world was shaped by those who did, not by those who wished.

  Mallory bounced his leg nervously. The Director of the CIA was more on edge than Mack, though he couldn’t imagine why. He wasn’t the one awaiting a trial by committee on the other side of those double oak doors.

  “I can’t believe we’ve had to wait this long.” Mallory crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat. “This is ludicrous.”

  “It’s a power move,” Mack said, his voice calm but tired. He no longer had access to the constant caffeine drip that fueled his coffee addiction, and at the moment, the withdrawals were hitting hard. Between the detoxing shakes, his thoughts drifted to his people at the GSF. He had sent the evacuation notice before Mallory had sent his dogs in to round up his people. Still, even with the advance notice, it didn’t eradicate the element of danger.

  “Power move my ass,” Mallory said, sliding low on the bench. “He’s just a prick.”

  “He wants to make sure we remember who’s in control.” Mack glanced down at his wrists, free of shackles but still restrained by the power of the legislative agenda. For once, it was he who found himself in the hot seat, and after years of being in charge, it was hard sitting on the sidelines. But what was worse than the impotency of inaction was the lack of information.

  For longer than he cared to admit, Mack had been privy to any classified asset around the world. But the moment Grimes had revealed his true intentions of exposing and framing the GSF as a terrorist syndicate, Mack had destroyed his phone before any of that information could be retrieved, and with it his last connection to that stream of current events.

  The doors to the chamber opened, and two men stepped out. From the cut of their hair and the earpieces stretched down into the back of their collars, Mack knew they were Secret Service. They gestured for them to step inside.

  “Well,” Mallory said, adjusting his tie, “time for the show.” He cleared his throat and took a deep breath before stopping just short of the doors and turned back to Mack, who was still seated on the bench. “Let’s go.”

  Mack stood slowly, his joints stiff from the long wait. He lacked the nervous enthusiasm that Mallory displayed. The pair had always held different mindsets when it came to running their organizations, but Mack understood that Mallory had to adhere to a different set of rules and codes. He had to answer to the American people, while Mack only had to answer to himself. The man was right about one thing, though—it was definitely time for a show.

  The chamber was larger than he’d expected, the narrow entrance opening up in a curving egg-shaped room. The walls were adorned with paintings and bookshelves lined with the tomes of scholars and politicians. Ornate designs dotted the paneling along the ceiling and floor. The scent of new carpet mixed with the musk of old furniture. And the combination of new and old didn’t end with the décor.

  Three men, all dressed in dark suits and white shirts, only their ages and tie colors differentiating them, sat high behind a judge’s podium, looking down on Mallory and Mack as though they saw them as peons filtered through the gaze of power.

  The two men that flanked the outer seats on the left and the right were two Mack didn’t recognize. Green tie, who sat on the far left, was middle aged, most likely late forties, and crossed his arms, his gaze flitting to and away from Mallory and Mack very quickly.

  Yellow-and-grey-striped tie, an older gentleman with a cloudy pillow top of white hair, had a permanent scowl etched on his face that was further accentuated by his loosely hanging jowls. He sat hunched in his chair, his body language screaming that he wanted to be anywhere but this room.

  The middle politician, however, Mack recognized immediately. The senator had made a name for himself over the past few years by campaigning for a higher level of transparency within the government branches of the intelligence agencies. He’d sparked a movement with the American people to expose the government’s dirty secrets, while his opposition had warned of the catastrophes in national security that could stem from such omissions.

  Still, Senator Runehart had pressed forward, and by leveraging the events caused by Global Power two years ago, he’d weaseled himself onto the appropriations committee for defense spending. It was there he had the most control.

  “Director Mallory, I apologize for the wait.” Runehart’s expression formed a trained empathy that years in the public eye had sharpened. “It’s been quite a day. Please, have a seat.”

  Mack and Mallory sat in the two chairs provided in front of the elevated platform. They sat so low that Mack had to practically look straight up to see Runehart, a subtle and usually effective power move. Runehart wanted them to remember who was in control. Not that Mack needed any reminders.

  Runehart cleared his throat and flashed a smile. “Before we begin, I’d like to state the purpose of this hearing to ensure we have a mutual understanding of how this will work.” He sliced his hand through the air. “This is in no way a witch hunt. It is not an official judicial hearing, and no one on this committee has the authority to administer any criminal sentences.” He paused and leaned forward, the amiable look of cooperation gone. “But I do have the power to recommend criminal prosecutions. And I can tell you both right now, gentlemen, that I intend to wield that power with all of its intended use.”

  Mack rested his hands on his stomach. He’d dealt with men like Runehart during his time in the military. He was the type of man who could navigate and manipulate the levels of bureaucracy in his favor. The great and powerful Oz behind the curtain.

  “There has been a lack of accountability, gentlemen, and I would dare to say that the both of you are personally responsible for the deaths of countless lives, tax dollars lost, and illegal activities.” The fire and brimstone that had made Runehart so popular with his constituents was now on full display. “Over the next three weeks, I will be leading this committee in a thorough and formal review of CIA practices as well as all relationships any federal agency has had with Mack Farr and the terrorist organization under his control, which is now known to be the GSF.”

  “Senator Runehart,” Mallory said, slowly rising from his chair. “I think it’s best that you let the CIA handle this investigation internally. With the amount of sensitive information involved, my people—”

  “Your people, Director Mallory, have put American citizens at risk more than once while you’ve held your position.” Runehart reached for a file and slammed it ceremoniously onto the desk of his podium. “Part of my inquiry into the CIA’s behavior and decision-making has led to the discovery of certain policies that I, and the American people, demand answers to. I have been granted classified clearance into all missions and strategic objectives centered around the intelligence gatherings of the CIA, NSA, FBI, and Homeland Security. And make no mistake that once my report is complete, it will be made public pending its passage by the oversight committee.”

  A committee that Runehart no doubt has a number of friends on, Mack tho
ught. “And what happens when the American people find out that you’ve been pulling a fast one on them, Senator? They’ll throw you in the same pot with us and boil you alive as well.”

  Runehart laughed, the tone dripping with sadistic malice. But the spat ended quickly, and he regained his composure. “Paranoia can be construed as a sign of guilt, Mr. Farr. I would be careful about your choice of accusations.”

  “And I would advise the same for you.” Mack watched the façade of Runehart’s mask crack. He knew the senator wanted to lash out, but the man still needed to keep face in front of his peers. Mack recalled a statistic from a few years back that most sociopaths followed a political career path. Runehart fit that mold nicely.

  “You will be placed in protective custody at Langley, where you will be interviewed by my associates as well as members from Director Mallory’s team. And I will say that when this information does become public, when the masses find out who you are and what you’ve done, Mr. Farr, it will be a joy to watch them tear you apart.” Runehart smacked his gavel, which cracked like a whip. “You are dismissed.”

  The moment Mallory and Mack stepped out of the chamber, Mallory yanked off his tie, steam practically funneling from his ears. “Little political prick,” he muttered under his breath, and they were escorted to the side exit of the building to avoid any fuss from the press.

  The meeting had taken place off the books, and if Mallory were seen making an unscheduled visit to the Capitol building, it would attract questions he didn’t want to answer. Questions that, at least for the moment, Runehart wanted to avoid as well.

  Once inside the safety of his sedan, Mallory erupted. “If that bastard thinks he can come into my house and start snooping around, he has another thing coming.”

  “He’s given you trouble before?” Mack asked.

  “Nothing like this. But he was right about Global Power. After that, Congress slapped us with a slew of regulations and procedures in regard to our transparency.” Mallory wiped the spittle from his chin and shook his head, glancing out the window at the pedestrians they passed. “They have no idea what it’s really like out there.”