Hunter Killer

by Brad Taylor

  In a country split decidedly between the “haves” and the “have nots,” the people beyond the gate lived in a rarefied air that fully 99.9 percent would never come close to experiencing, important enough in Salvador—the original capital city of Brazil, where old money ruled—that even as the commander of the Special Police Operations Battalion, Felipe couldn’t enter unless he was invited.

  Not that he wanted to visit. He had his hands full with a hostage crisis on a Salvadoran ferry that was spinning out of control, the hostage takers growing more and more unstable, and a presidential election that had thrown the whole event into the stratosphere, with one presidential candidate leveraging the event for his own ends and upping the pressure exponentially to resolve it one way or the other.

  And he was beginning to believe the candidate wanted a messy resolution to help his campaign.

  He gave his name and identification to the guard in the shack, and in minutes a man came out from the expansive lobby of the complex, showing him where to park his motorcycle.

  Felipe complied, then on the walk inside asked, “Who am I meeting?”

  The man said, “I don’t know. I’m just the visitor guide. I’ll take you to the room, but I have no idea who’s behind the door.”

  Felipe nodded, feeling a kinship with the worker, because he had no idea, either. All he knew was that someone high up in the hierarchy had ordered him to come, saying that a group might have a way to a peaceful resolution of the crisis. Maybe it was a person with enough clout to cause the crazies on the boat to give in, which was worth the trip.

  They rose to the thirty-fourth floor, traveled down a hallway big enough to ride a horse through, and stopped at a suite with bright red brazilwood double doors—the tree from which Brazil derived its name, and one that was forbidden from being harvested in the modern age. A status symbol that showed the power of the people behind it.

  The worker rang the doorbell and then vanished down the hallway, leaving Felipe alone.

  The door swung open and Felipe saw a large Caucasian man with a ponytail, his biceps threatening to split his T-shirt. Inside were two other men, one with some sort of tattoo crawling up his neck and the other with a thin mouth and an eye staring off into space, making him look crazy. He felt confusion. They were not dressed with an air of wealth, and none looked remotely like a native. The man who opened the door said, “Felipe Costa?”

  Felipe heard a distinctive accent, but he couldn’t place it. He nodded and the man continued in English, saying, “Please come in. We wish to help you with your current dilemma.”

  Felipe hesitantly entered the room, and the one-eyed man stood, saying, “I apologize for the secrecy, but it is necessary. My name is Nikita.” He held out his hand and Felipe took it, the eyeball staring off to his left disconcertingly. Nikita pointed at the tattooed man and said, “This is Simon,” then turned to the muscled giant and said, “This is Luca.”

  Felipe shook their hands and Nikita pointed at a chair, saying, “Sit.”

  Felipe did, and Nikita continued, saying, “We’re from a powerful organization outside of Brazil, but with significant investments here. I know this is odd, but my group wishes to help.”

  Now more confused than ever, Felipe said, “How?”

  Nikita said, “Before we get to that, where do we stand with the ferry?”

  Felipe hesitated again, off balance, and Nikita put a hand on his arm, saying, “You were given instructions to come here, correct?”

  Felipe nodded, unsure of which eye to look at, and Nikita smiled in an attempt to calm him, but it had the opposite effect. Felipe thought he looked like one of the feral dogs from his favela.

  Nikita said, “So he trusts us to help. That’s why he sent you. There are no secrets to be kept if you want our advice.”

  Felipe thought it over, then said, “The ferry is anchored on a buoy about a hundred meters from the dock at Vera Cruz.”

  “And the threat?”

  “From what we can tell, there are four to six armed men inside, holding about eighteen or twenty hostages.”

  “You’re sure of this?”

  “Fairly sure. We have a command post set up at the ferry terminal that overlooks the harbor, but it’s hard to see inside. The ferry has clear plastic sheeting that can be rolled down in inclement weather, and they’ve used it to obstruct our view. We can see somewhat, but not distinctly. We do believe that they have placed explosives on the four corners of the bow and stern.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “We can see backpacks, and they’ve told us this is what they contain. We’re in contact with terrorists through the boat’s radio in the captain’s hold. We don’t know it for a fact, but we have to assume.”

  “And the BOPE is prepared to assault the ferry?”

  “We were, but this has generated so much national attention that the government might turn it over to the GRUMEC. Maritime attack is not a BOPE specialty.”

  Nikita said, “GRUMEC? What’s that?”

  “It’s the Naval Special Forces Combat Divers’ Group. I don’t think they should be used. They have some counterterrorism experience, but nothing like my men. Their expertise is sabotage and demolitions, not hostage rescue. They train on it, but my men have executed this mission multiple times in the real world.”

  “If they take over, will you still be in command?”

  “No. It will shift to a military operation, not a police one. We’ll just provide assistance to them.”

  Nikita glanced at the other men, then said, “We need you to be sure that doesn’t happen. We need you in control.”

  Felipe narrowed his eyes and said, “Why is that?”

  Nikita nodded at Luca, and the mountain of a man circled behind Felipe’s chair. He felt an inexplicable tendril of dread.

  Nikita laid a manila folder on the table and said, “This is going to be shocking, but please do not shout or attempt to escape.”

  He opened the folder, and in it Felipe saw a picture of his wife and daughter, both tied to a chair, a gag in their mouths, their eyes wide open in fear. Felipe jerked upright, then felt Luca’s hands on his shoulders, pinning him to the chair.

  Nikita said, “I know this is confusing, but we have a special request. If you follow through, they will be released. Can you do that?”

  Felipe nodded dumbly, his ricocheting thoughts competing for attention in his mind.

  Nikita patted him on the knee and said, “Good. Good. You do right by us, and they’ll be released unharmed.”

  Felipe found his voice. “What do you want?”

  “We want you to botch that rescue. We want all on the ferry to die.”

  Chapter 15

  I waited a beat for Jennifer to get settled near the entrance to Michael’s, still reflecting on her last words. Wondering if she was using them as a weapon to control the outcome of this mission. As leverage forcing me to choose—her, or vengeance.

  I knew that wasn’t like her. She’d shown in the past that she didn’t have that sort of subterfuge in her—which was precisely why I didn’t ever lie to her. Out of respect for her moral compass.

  The last time she’d thought I was going off the rails, she’d simply left me, disgusted at my perceived moral failings and not wanting to associate herself with actions she felt were beyond the pale. She’d overcome that, and had grown to understand the less than black and white of our world since then, so maybe she’d grown in other ways, too. Maybe more of me was rubbing off on her than she or I cared to admit.

  My radio came alive with Nung saying, “You guys getting the feed? The appetizer’s arrived. Need to execute before the meal. You wait until they have a steak, and they may not take the bait and decide they’d rather eat.”

  I snapped out of my thoughts, pulled out my phone, and started an app called “sticky-cam.” Essentially nothing more than a high-speed version of those “Ring” doorbells, and named after a video game by some egghead Taskforce member’s attempt at humor, i
t was tied to a camera that Nung had slapped under a table with a view of our targets. About the size of a large button, with a battery life of only thirty minutes, it wasn’t high-definition by any means, and only gave video, with no audio, but it was good enough for this work.

  I saw the targets eating what appeared to be calamari, one tall and lanky with a head of black hair cut like the Beatles, the other’s skull shaved bald, with a full beard, as if he were trying to prove he could still grow hair on his head.

  I said, “Koko, you ready?”

  She said, “Roger.”

  “Let me get set at the bar and I’ll trigger.”

  I walked into Victor’s, seeing a scattering of leather couches and some high-backed chairs around tall cocktail tables. To my front was a long marble bar with a mural behind it reaching the twenty-foot ceiling. There was a smattering of patrons, not overly crowded, but enough to hide me.

  I took an empty bar stool on the left side—the Italian restaurant side—and away from the steak house holding my targets. Both restaurants had access to the cocktail bar via a hallway behind the bar and mural, and that was where both the restrooms and the elevator to the second floor were located.

  I glanced at my phone, appearing to surf social media and looking like thirty other patrons sprinkled around the bar. I saw the targets in place and said, “Nung, you getting the feed?”

  “Yes. I see them.”

  “Roger. Get ready to execute. If they don’t break free in five minutes, we’ll go to plan B.”

  Plan B was for Nung to stage outside to pick up surveillance, and for me to walk by the table. I wasn’t supposed to know what they looked like, but they sure as shit knew what I looked like, and most assuredly would react, either following me or leaving the restaurant. If they came to me, I’d handle it. If they fled, Nung would take control. But I didn’t think that would be necessary. Jennifer would be enough.

  I heard, “Good to go,” and said, “Break, break. Koko, you’re cleared to execute.”

  Thirty seconds later I saw her enter the restaurant, talking to the hostess. The bearded one facing the door stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth, staring. He dropped his food, leaned over, and hissed something. The other target with the bowl-cut whipped his head to the door, then turned around, whispering. I really wished I could hear what they were saying.

  Jennifer walked up to them, circled around their table, smiled and nodded, and then was lost from view. Bowl-cut leaned over and said something, pointing in the direction Jennifer had gone. Mr. Clean put his napkin on the table and stood, nodding his head. Beatlemania remained seated, taking a sip of beer.

  Bingo.

  I said, “Koko, Nung, Baldy is on the move. Bowl-cut is remaining in place. Call when you have control.”

  I got acknowledgment and waited, which was the worst part of this. Jennifer was literally fifty feet away from me, behind the wall at the back of the bar, standing next to a smug Russian who might just kill her. I hoped he thought he’d see what party she was going to, then report back, but you never knew what curves Murphy will throw your way. The enemy always gets a vote, no matter how smart you think you are.

  I glanced at my phone, seeing Bowl-cut still seated, and heard, “Pike, this is Koko. First target down. I say again, we have control of the first target.”

  I smiled, wanting to see the face of the asshole at the table when I marched up to him. And then the enemy voted.

  Bowl-cut stood up, walking out of view of the camera. I said, “Second target unsighted. Out of view.”

  “Where’s he going? Is he coming here?”

  “I don’t know. Stand by. I need to find him on foot.”

  “Don’t get compromised.”

  I bit back saying, “Oh, yeah, I hadn’t thought of that.” Instead I said, “Stand by. He may have just gone to the bathroom.”

  The problem here was that I was their target, so I’d be known on sight, which would cause a significant issue. I was supposed to appear after the first target was acquired, scaring the shit out of the second when he saw a ghost with a pistol under the table.

  I slinked behind the bar and peeked down the hallway to the bathrooms. I saw Bowl-cut standing in front of the elevator, waiting.

  I whipped back around and said, “He’s coming up. I say again, he’s coming up.”

  Jennifer said, “Did he see you? What happened?”

  “I have no idea, but this is about perfect. I’ll let him get in and be right behind him.”

  In the original plan, I was supposed to force him to the upper level with a little threat and my pirate stare. Now I wouldn’t have to do that. He was walking right into my trap. Sometimes you eat the bear, sometimes the bear eats you.

  I heard the elevator ding, waited a beat, turned the corner, and saw the door close. I let it ride for a second, then hit the button to go up, getting ready for the interrogation. Psyching myself up for what was to come.

  A man came down the hallway and I glanced at him, expecting him to enter the men’s restroom. He did not. He came to the elevator and stood next to me, waiting as well, acting like he knew where he was going. He nodded at me, and I nodded back, frantically afraid that he was a manager going to retrieve something on the floor above.

  But then, why wouldn’t he be asking me what the hell I was doing. There was nothing going on on the second floor. It was used as a private venue for wedding receptions and other events, and I knew it was empty tonight. Because I’d discussed renting it.

  Is this the third guy? The one who “never” left?

  The elevator door opened and we both entered. The door closed, and we began to rise. The man had backed into the corner, studiously staring at the elevator door. He didn’t look like some sort of killer, but he most certainly didn’t look like a restaurant manager. Dressed in jeans and a fashionably untucked shirt, he could be with the restaurant. Maybe.

  We had picked the corner above the Italian restaurant to conduct the interrogation, so I had some time when the door opened. If he went that way, he’d have to go down, immediately. If he went the other way, I’d follow, just to keep him in sight. The upper deck spanned all three venues, so we might be able to let him do whatever he was riding the elevator for and continue the mission.

  I heard an unmistakable snick, something that would be unknown to just about one hundred percent of the population, but I knew what it was. An automatic knife.

  I glanced at the man and saw a bead of sweat rolling down his brow. And that was enough.

  I rotated around, slamming my forearm into his cheek while trapping the arm hidden behind him. He kneed me in the groin, then punched me in the neck with his free hand. I bashed his head into the steel of the car, the door opened, and I flung him as hard as I could out of the elevator.

  He slammed into the wall just outside, bounced back, and I threw two jabs in his face, then swept his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard, then raised his knife, swatting at the air.

  Behind him, I could see Nung doing battle with Bowl-cut, and Jennifer farther in, holding a pistol on Baldy, his hands flex-tied to his front, on his knees, with Jennifer alternating between looking at the fight going on with Nung and her target.

  My explosion out of the elevator caused all of them to reassess what the hell was happening. Nung used the surprise to gain the upper hand on Bowl-cut, and I saw him wrap the man in a death grip. Jennifer turned to me and I saw Baldy leap up, diving on her for control of the pistol.

  The man on the floor used the distraction to leap to his feet, stabbing forward with his blade. I dodged it, half of my mind on Jennifer, trapping his arm and whirling him over my hip. I slammed him to the ground, saw Jennifer on her back, then her kicking out, launching the guy into the air. He hit a pillar and bounced off; she took a knee and lined up her sights.

  I gained control of my target and shouted, “Shoot him!”

  Baldy stood up and raised his arms in surrender, shaking his head, begging for mercy. She he
sitated, and he ran to a window, leaping through it.

  Losing the concentration required for a death fight, focused on Jennifer’s survival, my man rotated out of my hold, swung his blade, and barely missed my chest. I dodged back, seeing the blade whip through the air.

  I snarled, slamming him in the head with a closed fist, bouncing his skull against the hardwood floor, stunning him. I snatched the wrist holding the blade and used both of my hands to jam it backward, shattering the bones. He screamed, and the knife fell free. I rotated around his body, scraped up the blade from the floor, jerked his head back, and slit his throat, both carotid arteries spewing out a fount of blood. I kicked him away, letting him flop on the floor as his life force leaked out, and looked to Nung.

  His target was down, permanently.

  I stood up, sweaty and bleeding. Jennifer glanced at me, ashamed. She said, “Pike, I couldn’t. He was standing with his hands up. I just . . .”

  I went by her, running to the window. I looked out, and saw the ending of the movie Halloween. All that was missing was the creepy music, because the concrete below was empty.

  I went back to her, and she said, “I just couldn’t . . .”

  I took her pistol, saying, “I know. You did the right thing. It’s okay.”

  She glanced down, not believing my words, and I could tell I was putting her in a bad place. One she didn’t belong in. I raised her chin with a finger, bringing her eyes up to mine, and said, “You did the right thing.” I smiled and said, “Something I wouldn’t regret. Lucky for you.”

  And my words resonated. She gave a tentative smile, relieved. Nung said, “We must leave, now.”

  He was as calm as ever, as if he’d just broken a dish and not killed a man in cold blood. Or more correctly, like my stray cat licking its paws after it brought me something dead as a present.

  I said, “Check the bodies for electronics and passports. That entire action was because they were talking. And find the car keys.”