The Hunt

by Jack Arbor

  He didn’t have time to stop in London.

  Minutes ticked by as Max considered his options, Baxter’s purring the only sound in the cabin. Only one thing to do.

  Max crouched next to Cindy’s chair after checking that Baxter was still asleep.

  She looked up. “What are you thinking?”

  The glint in her ice-blue eyes twinkled as he explained his plan. “I’m sorry,” Max said.

  Taking him by surprise, she nodded with a smirk. “I figured as much.”

  I just got played. But why?

  He glared at her before walking down the aisle to where Baxter sat snoring. He jostled the MI6 man’s shoulder while simultaneously plucking Baxter’s pistol from its shoulder holster and shoving it into his waistband.

  Baxter started. “What the—”

  Max grabbed him by the front of his Oxford shirt. “Two choices. You can either order this plane to take us to Cyprus, or I can tie you up, stuff you in the lavatory, and hijack the airplane.”

  Baxter scowled in Cindy’s direction.

  “Don’t look at her.” Max yanked on his shirt. “She’s got nothing to do with this. What’s your choice?”

  The MI6 agent shook himself awake. “Don’t do this. I’m telling you that we’re better off if we prep C and get the full force of MI6 behind us instead of marching into Cyprus with guns blazing.”

  Tightening his grip on the lapels, Max put his face close to Baxter’s. “What’s your decision? I’m going to count to three, at which point it will be too late. One…”

  “This is the—”

  “Two.” Max yanked Baxter up and forced him to march to the back of the plane. “Three.” He opened the lavatory door and shoved Baxter in so he stumbled against the toilet. Max frisked him and removed his Blackberry before slamming the door. Using the lavatory’s reverse lock, known only to fight attendants and air marshals, he secured the door from the outside. Marching up the aisle, he knocked on the cockpit’s door. The copilot stuck his head out.

  Max kept his voice low. “Change of plans, boys. Head for LCA.” LCA was the airport code for Larnaca International Airport on the island of Cyprus.

  With a frown, the copilot tried to look around Max. “Where’s Callum?”

  “On the phone. Asked me to relay the message.”

  When the copilot hesitated, Max shifted so Cindy was visible. “LCA, right? Isn’t that what Baxter said?”

  Cindy looked up from her laptop and grinned at the pilot. “Yup. Cyprus. Thanks, James.”

  “No problem, ma’am. We’ll let you know when we’re thirty minutes out.”

  Max shut the door, sat down next to Cindy, and put his hand on her arm. “Thank you.”

  “Hope I’m not fired.” She laughed before turning her computer, allowing him to see the screen. “We have some planning to do.”

  “We’ll tell him Goshawk figured it out by tracing our flight pattern and messaged me. You’ll be fine.”

  Forty-Six

  Kokkina, Cyprus

  Moving from tree to tree at a fast pace, he disturbed nothing in the thick undergrowth. Dressed in green camouflage, his boots were scuffed and his face was covered with green and black paint. An encrypted comm device was in his ear. Fitted to his tactical cap was a set of night-vision goggles. A leg holster contained a Berretta APX 9mm, and he carried a Heckler & Koch assault rifle. A backpack thumped against his shoulders as he ran.

  Gunfire sounded from the other side of the ridge. He picked out three different calibers. Easiest to discern were the high pitch of the AK-47s. The more alarming sound was the sporadic large caliber fire that sounded like a heavy-duty ratchet. He guessed they were 30mm GIAT revolving cannons from attack helicopters. There was also a different caliber signature that sounded like an air defense system. The compound was already under attack. Am I too late?

  Max vaulted over a downed log and weaved between saplings and branches as he ran up the hill. Goshawk spoke in his ear, although he dared not reply. She was illicitly patched into the MI6 and CIA communications channels.

  Goshawk’s voice crackled in his ear. “The US picked up the fighting and are monitoring. They’re as baffled as we are about who the attackers are. You should be coming up to a ridge where you can see the battle.”

  As he crested the outcropping, he saw movement and froze. Pulling a knife from its sheath, he crouched. Just ahead were two sentries, their attention focused on the battle below.

  Step by step, Max edged closer until their body odor made his nostrils twitch. Like an apparition, he emerged from his hiding spot and raised the black-bladed knife. He grabbed one guard by the chin from behind, swiped the blade across his neck, and allowed the dying man to sink into the scrub. Pivoting, Max plunged the knife into the second guard’s chest in a thrust aimed to miss the sternum. The soldier let out a gurgle as Max eased him to the ground.

  A quick frisk of both sentries revealed Turkish cigarettes, two-way radios, and little else. Max helped himself to one of the radios and stuffed the smokes in his pocket before concealing both men in the foliage. After edging east along the ridge, he found a hiding place where he could observe the compound below.

  As he surveyed the wide-open area below the ridge, he was surprised at the scale of the attack. The compound took up a crescent-shaped area of land surrounded on three sides by towering mountains and to the north by the Mediterranean Sea. According to Goshawk’s intel, the tiny swatch of land was known as Kokkina by the Cypriot Greeks and Erenköy by the Turkish Cypriots. At one time, Kokkina was a military outpost for the Turkish Cypriots but eventually descended into disuse due to the difficulty of getting to the area over land. Someone had recently rejuvenated the enclave into a militarized compound. And now the compound was under attack by parties unknown.

  The buildings contained within the walls were rebuilt into a military base. He counted at least three antiaircraft bunkers and three more beachhead fortifications. No roads led in or out of the compound—everything came in by sea—so the facility relied on the jutting cliffs that surrounded it on three sides for rear and flank defenses.

  Four Eurocopter Tiger attack helicopters were in the air, their 30mm cannons blazing at targets on the ground. The soldiers in the compound returned fire with the antiaircraft guns and small arms fire. No markings were visible on the attack birds. No evidence of beach landing ships or ground forces.

  One of the birds let loose a volley of four missiles, white in color, short in length, that found an antiaircraft installation and exploded making Max’s feet shake.

  Another bird was hit by antiaircraft fire and spun out of control before the fiery mess hit the water.

  A third helicopter launched a set of missiles that found a target on the far side of the compound. As that helicopter banked hard to its right, a flurry of antiaircraft fire caught one of its rear blades and flames erupted on the tail. The injured Tiger peeled off to the west and disappeared behind a mountain ridge. There must be at least one ship out of sight supporting this attack.

  A Tiger was hit by small arms fire and disappeared into the blackness of the sky over the ocean. The remaining attack bird retreated a moment later, and cheers from the soldiers rang out through the compound below.

  His earpiece crackled before Goshawk said, “The CIA is reporting the attack was repelled. Kind of a big deal. Four helicopters attacking a sovereign country. Who does that?”

  Max clicked his comm mic once before picking his way down the slope. If the maps were correct, he would soon reach a sheer cliff. There were three ways off this ridge. One was to go around to the west and follow a well-patrolled trail down to the far side of the compound. A similar trail ran to the east and curved north before switchbacks led down to the water’s edge.

  After pulling a length of narrow-gauge black nylon rope from his bag and securing one end to a stout tree, he grabbed a rappelling device, called a GriGri, and threaded the line through. Before tossing the free end of the rope over the cliff, he peered out
over the chasm. Nothing there but darkness. He let go of the line, gave the fixed end a yank, and stepped out over the void holding on to the rappel device handle. He plummeted as fast as he dared while bouncing with his feet off the rock face. The bramble at the bottom of the cliff scratched his bare arms as he landed. After stowing the GriGri and shouldering his assault rifle, he picked his way down the remaining slope to the rear of the compound, where he clicked his mic three times to signal his safe descent.

  Goshawk’s voice came over his earpiece. “Max, we have a problem.”

  Forty-Seven

  Kokkina, Cyprus

  The plan was simple, but not easy. Goshawk’s research led her to the Cyprus civil development office archives, where she unearthed old blueprints to the compound. The plans showed a tunnel leading out of the subterranean levels of the main building. The tunnel ran southwest and culminated at the bottom of the cliff, in what was likely an old escape route. The Cyprus civil development office archives hadn’t been updated in decades, so there was a chance the old tunnel was sealed off at the entrance or at the exit.

  Using a tiny handheld GPS unit, he picked his way through overgrown vegetation that towered over his head and made his way around chunks of concrete with sharp rusty rebar that stuck up at all angles. The walls of the compound were half a klick to the north, and the bitter tang of gunpowder and concrete dust from the battle permeated the air.

  Goshawk’s warning rang in his ears as he reached the supposed geolocation of the tunnel entrance.

  “Max, we have a problem.”

  He clicked once on the mic.

  “My access to the CIA’s comm link with MI6 has been cut off. I’m hitting roadblock after roadblock. I’m guessing your friends at MI6 are the reason.”

  He clicked once and continued his search for the tunnel entrance. Stepping around a chunk of concrete, a shadow moved in his periphery.

  He froze.

  Someone is out there.

  While keeping his right hand on his rifle, he eased his knife out with his left hand.

  Come on. Show yourself.

  Another minute passed, and nothing moved in the surrounding brush.

  The breeze died, leaving the salty scent of the Mediterranean intermingled with the smells of the battle. Another five minutes went by before he eased from his hiding place to circle around the old concrete foundation and broken walls. Nothing indicated a human was recently in the area. No footprints in the sandy ground. No vegetation was disturbed.

  As he made concentric circles in the area where the tunnel was indicated by the GPS coordinates, he stepped on something firm and unyielding. Crouching, he used his knife to poke in the sand, hitting something hard just below the surface. Something like metal. With a gloved hand, he brushed aside dirt to reveal a large round metal manhole cover. A broken-down foundation partially hidden by overgrown vegetation surrounded the manhole cover, indicating the portal was once concealed in a building.

  Using the knife, he dug around the edge of the round metal cover until he was able to pry it up. Heaving with both hands, he slid it to the side. A dark hole gaped back at him. Flashing his light revealed a sandy floor six feet below. Without hesitation, he dangled his feet into the opening and jumped down before dragging the heavy metal cover over his head, sealing himself inside. Crouching to keep his head from hitting the top of the tunnel and using his night-vision goggles, a grainy green hole extended in the direction of the compound. No marks or fresh footprints were in the sandy floor of the tunnel. He clicked his comm device four times to indicate that he was in the tunnel.

  Goshawk’s voice sounded worried. “I’m still in the dark, but working on it. Good luck, Max.”

  As he crouch-walked down the tunnel, he clicked, wondering if the comm’s transmissions would end as he traveled farther underground.

  No response.

  The concrete roof and cinder block walled passageway was narrow, with enough room for only one person. A five-minute crouch-walk took him to the end of the tunnel, where he found a rusted metal door with a marine hatch. The latch was rusted and corroded, and the wheel wouldn’t budge. Using an aerosol canister from his pack, he applied a liberal amount of the chemical to the rusted seal and rested a minute. A single click on the mic resulted in silence.

  He tried the hatch handle and was able to wiggle it but not spin it open, so he sprayed more of the lubricant on the rusty handle and waited. It took three applications of the penetrating oil before the lock spun freely. Shouldering the rifle, he teased the door open and peered through the crack.

  Forty-Eight

  Kokkina, Cyprus

  Quiet darkness greeted him on the other side of the portal. His green-lit night-vision goggles illuminated a cramped room filled with boxes and rickety shelving holding a jumble of spare mechanical parts. A pulsing hum sounded beyond the walls and the floor vibrated under his feet. Moving fast, he stepped through the storeroom, rifle held up, and touched the door open a half inch.

  A hallway stretched in both directions. He crept through a series of empty corridors and vestibules before reaching a set of concrete stairs. He paused while standing in a ragged cutout in the cinderblock wall. Heavy footsteps came from behind him, and he brought the rifle up in time to see two men appear.

  They wore black tactical uniforms, sidearms in holsters, and carried a large box between them. They talked in halting English with some kind of European accent, and the load caused the men to stagger. Max stepped from the cutout, fired twice, shifted, and fired twice again, his suppressed rifle dulling the loud pops. The two men crumpled to the ground, and the box hit the concrete floor with a crash.

  He sprang up two flights of stairs and pushed his way through a door into a corridor with rows of doors along each side. Here the floor was free of debris. His memory of the floorplans indicated this was a barracks. He pressed himself into an inset doorway to watch and listen. Somewhere above was raucous shouting and pounding feet. Yelling, the bark of an order, and more feet. He peeled from his spot to the stairwell, where he bounded up to the next level.

  Where is that damn cell block?

  Dim lights shone from bulbs on a cord spaced along the wall and held up with nails. Max balanced the night-vision goggles on his cap and blinked his eyes against the brightness. His shoes were quiet as he crept down the hallway.

  Voices came from somewhere ahead, and Max froze before he backed into a corridor that branched to his left. He took a knee and kept watching the oncoming passage.

  Two men appeared, both in torn and dirty black tactical uniforms. Each wore a black cap with an insignia he didn’t recognize. One gestured wildly while they marched. Max fired four times, and both men fell. He rushed to the bodies and patted them down. The men had swarthy skin, black facial stubble, and black eyes. Nothing was on them other than radios, pistols, and cigarettes.

  A sound like a kicked pebble came from behind him. He whirled, rifle ready, but the hallway was empty. Creeping toward the noise, he kept his finger tight on the trigger.

  Nothing again. Must have been a rat.

  After hustling down the hall, he came to a stout metal door. The handle hung free, like someone with great strength wrenched it from its fastenings but left it hanging by a single screw. The deadbolt, however, looked shiny and new. A narrow window at eye level was reinforced with wires crisscrossing the center. Max put his ear to the door for a moment. Nothing. He peeked through the window.

  A long room stretched away from the door, illuminated by a string of bulbs. On the room’s far side was a single cell with thick bars and a locked door.

  The cell was empty.

  From his angle of view, only a sliver of the room was visible. The door didn’t budge when he pushed.

  Drizzling water from his canteen on a handkerchief, he tied the cloth around his face to cover his nose and mouth. From his backpack, he removed a small metal box with a magnet on one side and affixed the box to the metal door next to the new deadbolt. With a flick, he a
ctivated a switch on the box, stood back, and covered his ears.

  Knock, knock, here I come.

  A crackle was followed by a loud pop, and a cloud of smoke wafted from the door. He pulled the trigger on a smoke bomb canister and rolled it through the open doorway. Rifle up, he sprinted for the opening and stepped to his left when he entered the room. Smoke billowed from the smoke bomb filling the space with a gray cloud. He scanned the room with the rifle held to his cheek, his finger tense on the trigger.

  Through the smoke came the flash of a black shadow. He fired twice. Shots careened past his shoulder followed by the loud pop of a 9mm pistol before a thud and a clatter sounded through the smoke. Three steps, and he almost stumbled over a black-uniformed soldier laying on the concrete, a trickle of blood on his chin.

  From the swirling smoke came a familiar voice. Weak, but distinctive. “There’s one more.”

  Max swung the rifle to his left and caught the silhouette of a dark figure moving through the swirling smoke. He squeezed the trigger twice, and the form went down. Stepping to the wall, he spun slowly. Nothing moved in the swirling smoke.

  As the cloud dissipated, the room became clear. Along one wall was a table and two wooden chairs with a deck of cards and a full ashtray. There were six cells, each set into the wall, and each fronted by a set of round bars.

  The voice came again, feeble and dry. “Over here.”

  Rifle up, Max walked through the smoke in the direction of the voice. A tall, thin figure materialized behind a set of bars. Wearing ragged green cargo pants, a pair of scuffed cowboy boots, and a dirty white T-shirt covered in blood, was Spencer White.

  The former CIA black-ops man gripped the bars. “Took you long enough.”