by Jack Arbor
A flick of the lighter and he held a flame to the end of a cigarette. The tobacco flared, and an ember formed. He inhaled the acrid smoke into his lungs. As he exhaled, he stowed the remaining cigarettes and ran his thumb over the old Belarusian flag burnished on the side of the Zippo lighter as he had so many times before. The image reminded him of home, of growing up in Minsk, of the good times with his father. Of his homeland. He flipped the lighter around his fingers and caught it in his palm like his grandfather had.
The reminder of his homeland made him yearn to set down roots. To create a place where Alex and Arina would be safe. A place where Alex could get an education and start a normal life. Another flip of the lighter.
A pink hue appeared over the jack pines and cast a purple glow over the frosted mountains to the west. The locals call it alpenglow. He gave the lighter a flip but fumbled it, and it fell and bounced on a rock.
Cursing, he stooped to pick it up. The lid was dented, and the inside case had slid partly from the bottom case.
It couldn’t be, could it?
He removed the lighter’s inside case. The felt pad was dry.
Wait. I tossed Baxter the lighter so he could light his pipe. I forgot it at his office. Baxter flipped it to me when I boarded the Lear before flying to Moldova. Was it possible Baxter was working with Kira?
He hurried into the house and flicked on the light in the kitchen, where he disassembled the lighter, piece by piece. When he was done, dozens of tiny parts rested on a white towel. He rummaged in a drawer and emerged with a bug sensing device similar to the one Baxter used. He flicked it on and waved it over the bits and pieces. The device remained silent. The lighter was clean.
So much for that theory.
With care, he reassembled the lighter, soaked the felt with lighter fluid, and took it with him back outside. By now, the sky was bright enough to reveal a cold clear morning. As he stood by the pond and lit another cigarette he glanced up to see a large bird soaring high above the trees, her brown back contrasting with a snowy white breast. She flew lower revealing a bright white crest and hooked beak. An M-shaped kink in her wings gave her away as an osprey.
She circled high over the pond, wings beating hard, before soaring on an air current and diving feet first into the water with a splash. When she rose with a mighty flap of her wings, she carried a flopping fish in her talons. As the osprey glided over a ridge and disappeared, Max saluted her and remembered one of his father’s many quotes.
Son, the number one rule when duck hunting is to go where the ducks are.
The aroma of bacon, pancakes, and coffee welcomed him into the kitchen. Arina smiled with bright eyes as she set the table for breakfast. They hugged before she pushed him away and held him by the shoulders. “You’re leaving again, aren’t you?”
Max bowed his head as he set out the butter and syrup. “Soon. But not today.”
Epilogue
Corsica
She felt safe in the ancient wooden chair under the overhang but pulled the light shawl around her bare shoulders for warmth. A patter of rain hit the roof and drops tapped the exposed wooden deck. The wind picked up, tossing the palm fronds and creating whitecaps in the sea. A purple and blue evening sky bore angry dark clouds, and flickering lightning lit the surf. Thunder rumbled before another spark of lightning cracked over the sea. For now, Goshawk relished the cool break from the Corsican heat.
A half-drunk bottle of French rosé sat at her feet. She didn’t bother with a glass and instead drank straight from the bottle.
I miss Paris. With Bluefish’s exposure, my compound there will be safe again. Besides, this cottage is too small for two.
A set of warm desires mixed with trepidation floated through her body, centered on her heart and loins. These disturbances in the fabric of her ordered universe confused and alarmed her, and even now, her stomach roiled with anticipation and dread and wonder. It was weeks since she called Carlu to her cabin—she didn’t want him around. Instead, she was haunted by a fantasy where a different man was by her side. The idea sent flashes of heat through her belly and prickles of cold on her skin, feelings she didn’t want yet was powerless to stop.
A ding came from the netbook laptop on the table next to her. She took a slug of the wine before touching the keyboard to wake the machine. A message appeared in a secure chat window.
Kira: Are you pleased with my work?
She drummed her fingernails, fresh with new polish, on the chair’s arm before responding.
0DD17Y: Lucky your bomb didn’t also take out Max.
Kira: I had eyes on the whole time.
0DD17Y: And Ivanov?
An inch of the wine disappeared before Kira replied.
Kira. I believe he’s dead. Are we done?
0DD17Y: For now.
Kira: It won’t be so easy next time. He’s aware I exist.
Goshawk took another swig. 0DD17Y: Let’s see what next time brings.
Kira: You’ll complete the payment?
Goshawk brought up a command line, tapped a few keys, and returned to the chat window. 0DD17Y: It is sent.
There was a ten-minute pause before the chat window dinged again. Kira: Xiè xiè
0DD17Y: You’re welcome. Pleasure doing business with you. I turned off the tracking on his phone.
Kira: I noticed. Until next time.
0DD17Y: Until next time.
Goshawk closed the chat window and opened another command line window. Can’t hurt to be sure. It took only a few keystrokes to launch the preconfigured algorithm that sent a secure command to Max’s Blackphone. Without giving any indication to its user, the code shut down the secret GPS tracking algorithm Goshawk had programmed into the phone.
The wind grew stronger and blew a spray of rain that dowsed her, the chair, and her computer. Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed over her head. The whitecaps turned into frothy waves. As the skies opened and water came down in sheets, she shut the laptop, grabbed the bottle, and went inside where she found the dog and her new roommate huddled next to a fire.
She poured some rosé into her new roommate’s glass and found a spot next to her dog, who quivered at the thunder. “It’s for his own good, right?”
Julia Meier raised her glass. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
If You Liked This Book …
I would appreciate it if you would leave a review. An honest review means a lot. The constructive reviews help me write better stories, and the positive reviews help others find the books, which ultimately means I can write more stories.
It only takes a few minutes, but it means everything. Thank you in advance.
-Jack
Author’s Note
So, yeah. This installment took a while. A look back through my writing logs shows that I started this book—the working title was Max #4—on January 21, 2017. Recall that The Attack—Max #3— was published in November 2017. So there I was in late 2017 and early 2018, merrily pounding out prose about Max, Mueller, and Julia up against a sect of white supremacists, when I started to get a lot of emails.
“Where is Kate?”
“What happened to Kate?”
“You can’t leave us hanging about Kate!”
“Kate has to be rescued!”
Sheesh.
I had no idea that Kate Shaw was such a beloved character. So into the scrap heap goes the manuscript, and I went back to the drawing board. I’m confident when I say that none of the original Max #4 story made it into the final draft of The Hunt. And maybe, just maybe, dear reader, we find out what happened to Kate.
The Hunt is the fourth installment in a six-novel saga that tells the story of Max Austin’s fight against the evil forces of the consortium, a group steeped in Russian history, that will stop at nothing to erase Max’s family from the face of the earth. The Abyss, Max #5, is underway and should make it to the presses in late 2019. Endgame, Max #6, will be available sometime in 2020. After that, maybe Max will ease into retire
ment and another character will take center stage.
As always, drop me a line if you have feedback or if you want to say hi.
Jack Arbor
April 2019
Aspen, Colorado
Acknowledgments
“If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” That’s a quote that the internet says is either an African proverb or is made up by Al Gore. Either way, it sure applies to novel writing. As you know, I have no intention of going fast, but I will keep writing until I keel over facedown on my keyboard for the last time. For me, writing is a team exercise. If it’s a good story, all these people get the credit. If it’s crap, I get the blame.
In no particular order, I want to lavishly thank these good looking, super generous, and amazingly fastidious readers on my Advanced Reader Team: Bob Kaster, Hugo Ernst, Wahak Kontian, Dr. Edward White, Keith Kay, Mark Fussell, Jenni Adamstein, Patrick Lockhart, Robin Smith, Tim Dickenson, Robin Eide Steffensen, Ken Sanford, John Rozum, Ken Monk, John Bilancione, Kerry Kehoe, Rashna Panthaki, Nick Brown, Jen Close, Linda Bryant, Murielle Arn, Judith DeRycke, Mel Laughton, Susan Boyle, Josiah Cook, Mike Johnston, Pete Adkins, Phil Taylor, Jan Haggerty, Vince Gassi, Mary Enge, Gregg Backemeyer, Catherine Baldwin, Ruth Hall, Harvey Ascher, Cheryl Lewis, John Sims, Terry McEachern, Lois Dean, James Farmer, Laura Kevghas, Don Bershtein, Patrick Welch, Kathy Mischka, and Alex Neubert. You all rock the free world.
Mark Twain said, “A successful book is not made of what is in it, but of what is left out of it.” The first manuscript I sent to my editor was over one hundred thousand words. The final draft is just under eighty thousand. You and I have Martha Hayes to thank for trimming the fat. Martha, we’re lucky to have you.
Last but not least, Max Austin would not be the man he is today without my wife Jill’s everlasting support for the long weekends and late nights, patience with the living room floor covered by red ink-stained manuscript pages, and tolerance of my long daydreams to work out story problems. I love you, sweetie.
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About the Author
Jack Arbor is the author of five thrillers featuring the wayward KGB assassin Max Austin. The stories follow Max as he comes to terms with his past and tries to extricate himself from a destiny he desperately wants to avoid.
Jack works as a technology executive during the day and writes at night and on weekends with much love and support from his lovely wife, Jill.
Jill and Jack live outside Aspen, Colorado, where they enjoy trail running and hiking through the natural beauty of the Roaring Fork Valley. Jack also likes to taste new bourbons and listen to jazz, usually at the same time. They both miss the blueberry muffins on the East Coast.
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Also By Jack Arbor
The Russian Assassin, The Russian Assassin Series, Book One
You can’t go home again…
Max, a former KGB assassin, is content with the life he’s created for himself in Paris. When he’s called home to Minsk for a family emergency, Max finds himself suddenly running for his life, desperate to uncover secrets about his father’s past to save his family.
Max’s sister Arina and nephew Alex become pawns in a game that started a generation ago. As Max races from the alleyways of Minsk to the posh neighborhoods of Zurich, and ultimately to the gritty streets of Prague, he must confront his past and come to terms with his future to preserve his family name.
The Russian Assassin is a tight, fast-paced adventure, staring Jack Arbor’s stoic hero, the ex-KGB assassin-for-hire, Max Austin. Book one of the series forces Max to choose between himself and his family, a choice that will have consequences for generations to come.
The Pursuit, The Russian Assassin Series, Book Two
The best way to destroy an enemy is to make him a friend…
Former KGB assassin Max Austin is on the run, fighting to keep his family alive while pursuing his parents' killers. As he battles foes both visible and hidden, he uncovers a conspiracy with roots in the darkest cellars of Soviet history. Determined to survive, Max hatches a plan to even the odds by partnering with his mortal enemy. Even as his adversary becomes his confidant, Max is left wondering who he can trust, if anyone...
If you like dynamic, high-voltage, page-turning thrills, you'll love the second installment of The Russian Assassin series starring Jack Arbor's desperate hero, ex-KGB assassin-for-hire, Max Austin.
The Attack, The Russian Assassin Series, Book Three
It’s better to be the hunter than the hunted.
A horrific bombing rocks the quaint streets of London's West Brompton neighborhood and Max Austin finds himself the target of an international manhunt the likes of which the world hasn't seen since the hunt for Osama bin Laden. The former KGB assassin must put his fight against the Consortium on hold while he seeks redemption.
As Max chases the bomber from the gritty streets of London through the lush Spanish countryside and into the treacherous mountains of Chechnya, he's plunged into a game of cat and mouse with a wily MI6 agent determined to catch Max at all costs.
Can Max find the terrorist and clear his name before it's too late?
The Attack is the third installment in The Russian Assassin adventure thriller series that pits Max Austin against his arch-enemy, the shadowy consortium of international criminals that will stop at nothing to kill Max and his family. If you like heart-pounding, page-turning thrills, grab this adventure starring Jack Arbor’s grim hero, the ex-KGB assassin-for-hire, Max Austin.
Cat & Mouse, A Max Austin Novella
Max, a former KGB assassin, is living a comfortable life in Paris. When not plying his trade, he passes his time managing a jazz club in the City of Light. To make ends meet, he freelances by offering his services to help rid the earth of the world's worst criminals.
Max is enjoying his ritual post-job vodka when he meets a stunning woman; a haunting visage of his former fiancé. Suddenly, he finds himself the target of an assassination plot in his beloved city of Paris. Fighting for his life, Max must overcome his own demons to stay alive.
Chapter One from Cat & Mouse
A Max Austin Short
Rome, Italy
Max checked his weapon. The .22 caliber Walther P22 subcompact pistol was right where it was supposed to be, in a custom holster inside the waistband of his jeans. The pistol’s suppressor made it impossible for him to sit; a small price to pay since the summer heat prevented him from wearing a jacket.
Even at midnight, July in Rome made for a gritty, humid time for the throngs of tourists packed into the city like sardines. Max stood at an outside bar nursing a beer, watching the melting pot of tourists laugh, smoke, and drink their way through the night. A smattering of European dialects reached his ear. Max was fluent in each. Most of the revelers were watching the World Cup finals match between Spain and Netherlands that played on televisions in the various cafes. From his vantage point, he could see across the cobblestone street to a bar filled with a younger set of partygoers.
Max’s attention was focused on one corner of the outdoor bar, where a tall, lanky man with a salt-and-pepper goatee and long wavy hair sat hunched close to a young woman. The man wore round spectacles, sandals, and linen pants. The woman had on a tight-fitting T-shirt and rested her hand on the man’s knee. Max checked
his watch. Three minutes.
At the appointed time, the woman rose and tugged on the man’s hand. He resisted, leaning back in his chair.
Go on, Max muttered under his breath.
The woman smiled, biting her lip. Finally, the man with the goatee rose and followed her out of the cafe and into the street. The girl clung to her companion as they strolled away from the bar. Max gave them a minute, then drained his beer, and left the cafe, following at a safe distance. The pair rounded a corner and disappeared down a side street. Max kept his pace slow. He knew their destination.
At the entry to the side street, Max stopped and lit a cigarette. Here, several blocks away from the string of outdoor cafes, the street was quiet. He knew that if he continued down the main street, he’d eventually reach the Pantheon, the hulking ancient Roman building historically used as a church dedicated to St. Mary and the Martyrs. He hoped what he was about to do wouldn’t create a new martyr for ISIS. The mark was a prolific recruiter of Western teenagers for the cause of the Islamic State and was also responsible for directing several terrorist bombings around Western Europe that had killed scores. Known only as the Chameleon, the target was on the kill list of several Western nations. The Chameleon had remained anonymous, hiding in plain sight, until Max’s client had identified him. Max sucked in one last drag, then stubbed the cigarette out on the side of the building and pocketed the butt. He saw no one.