by Jack Carr
* * *
Halfway around the globe, Oliver Grey remotely activated the GPS tracking device on his desktop terminal and waited several seconds before the software triangulated the transponder’s location. The image on his screen blurred and then settled on the northwestern United States, the pixelated image clarifying as it zoomed into the town of Whitefish, Montana. A blinking red indicator signaled the location of the Iridium GPS tracking device from James Reece’s vehicle. The software program overlaid the vehicle’s location on existing satellite imagery from Google Earth, providing real-time location data.
After what seemed like an eternity, the dot began to move, slowly at first and then more rapidly as the vehicle left the confines of the small town and reached the highway. The dot slowed several miles out of town and turned onto an unpaved road. After winding through timber and open meadows, gaining altitude as it progressed along its path, the dot stopped at the edge of a large lake and made no other movement for the remainder of the day. Grey scrutinized all of the available imagery of the location, and it was clear that there was a cabin or house there.
Grey reached into his desk drawer, removed a bottle of vodka and a glass, and poured himself a shot. Raising the drink to the dot on his screen, he smiled. He’d found the son of his first betrayal and current tormenter of his dreams. Montana is where they would strike.
CHAPTER 20
Kumba Ranch, Flathead Valley, Montana
“I DON’T SEE HIM,” Reece said, scanning across the valley with his Swarovski range-finding binoculars.
Raife held his older Zeiss binos to his eyes, his hands cupped across the brim of his ball cap to stabilize the 10-power image. “See the rocky face to the left of the pines, giant pile of rocks?”
“Check.”
“Come down one hundred meters and you’ll see some smaller boulders with a clump of green brush in front of it. See it?”
“I see the brush.”
“See his tines?”
“No… wait. I see him,” Reece said, with excitement in his voice as his brain separated the deer’s velvet-covered antlers from their nearly identical surroundings. “He’s huge!”
“He’s a good one. Let’s put the scope on him.” Raife let his binoculars fall to his side on their long leather strap and began unstrapping a tripod and spotting scope from the outside of his Stone Glacier internal frame pack. He and Reece had hiked up the ridge before dawn, hoping to catch the wise old buck out feeding before he snuck back into the safety of his bedding. The morning air was cool, and steam rose from both men’s bodies after the tough vertical climb.
They knelt just below the ridgeline opposite the mule deer, glassing him from a safe distance across the canyon. Raife had been watching the buck all summer and, when the opening day of archery season came on the first of September, he would make this same journey with his primitive recurve bow. He efficiently set up the spotting scope, quickly locating the animal through the heavily magnified glass. The slightest touch of the spotter or tripod would knock the 60-power image from its target, so he carefully backed away from the scope without disturbing it, motioning for Reece to take a look.
Though the deer was more than eight hundred yards away, Reece could see every detail through the optic. The sun was just beginning to break over the tops of the tall pines, bathing the buck in shadowless light that a photographer would kill for. He probably weighed three hundred pounds, and his thick body was dwarfed only by the size of his headgear. The summer had been a wet one, even by local standards, and his antlers had grown to their full capacity thanks to the lush mountain grasses. He would rub off the velvet soon, exposing the hard, bonelike tangle beneath. The rack was as thick as a man’s wrists at each base, and spanned out nearly three feet. Each side of the buck’s antlers held four points plus a smaller brow tine, making it a “four point” in western parlance. Its forks were deep, its points long.
The deer was a living symbol of Raife’s family’s conservation efforts. He was old and healthy. He had evaded the bullet and arrow season after season, learning the habits of those who pursued him. Raife would hunt him alone, on foot, with a weapon that had existed for ten millennia. If one of a million little things didn’t go wrong during the stalk, where the buck had nearly every advantage, Raife would put a handmade spruce arrow through his lungs. The meat would sustain the Hastings family during the brutal Montana winter and provide an all-natural source of nutrition for Annika and her baby. God willing, their child would one day hunt one of the many sons or grandsons that this buck had sired. The cycle would continue, just as it had since the first hunters roamed the earth.
“How old is he?” Reece asked, breaking the silence.
“Eight, maybe ten. He has the face of a really old buck, and I found his sheds from last season. They were a bit bigger than what he’s wearing now, so he’s a little past his prime. He’s a smart one. Look at how open the country is around him. He can sit in that spot and see anyone or anything coming up from below. If anything tries to get him from above, he’ll hear it on the rocks. He has the wind in his face most of the time and he only has to walk a few yards to feed, which he probably does at night.”
“What’s the plan?”
“I’m going to come in above him. I’ll do it barefoot to avoid making noise coming over the rocks.”
“What are the winds like around here?”
“I’ll wait until the middle of the day, when the thermals will make my scent rise. I’ll get as close as I possibly can and wait for him to stand.”
They hiked back down the ridge to where their trucks were parked at a pace that allowed them to talk.
“The ranch has changed a lot since college,” Reece said.
“Thanks. It’s been a lot of work. My dad did most of it while we were deployed. The land was overgrazed and overlogged when we acquired it. There was so much fuel on the ground, a fire would have been catastrophic. There’s no money in getting a bunch of dead trees out but we did it anyway. We did some careful burning and a lot of reforestation. The natural grasses are healthy, and we’ve thinned enough of the timber to let some vegetation grow. We are struggling a bit with the grizzlies and wolves, but that can’t be helped. Overall, our elk herd is coming back from the winter kill a few years back and, as you can see, we have some beautiful deer.”
“I got to experience revitalization similar to that in Africa. When we started really hammering the poachers, the game figured it out and moved back in. I wish I could have stayed longer to see how it all turned out.”
“Uncle Rich has kept it up as much as he can. Dad and Thorn actually started a foundation stateside to help keep up the fight. They wouldn’t be where they are now without you starting it up and showing them how effective antipoaching operations could be with the help of some modern targeting and intelligence practices.”
“That’s one of the ways the Agency found me.”
“Well, that’s what you get for showing off. When is your girlfriend coming out?”
“She’s not my girlfriend… she’s um…”
“It sure is funny to watch you get all flustered whenever her name comes up.”
“If she can get away from work, she’ll be here Labor Day weekend.”
“If we’re lucky, we’ll have the backstrap from this buck for dinner during her visit.”
“I’m sure she’ll be impressed.”
CHAPTER 21
Saint Petersburg, Russia
GREY STUDIED REECE’S HABITS like a chess player would a worthy opponent. He would only get one chance. Once the element of surprise was lost, the hunter would become the hunted. Grey had no intention of becoming Reece’s prey. His strategy would be to lull Reece into the complacency of his tranquil surroundings and then strike fast and hard. He had built an initial plan, and it was time to present it to Zharkov. His boss had been patient with him, but there was very little in it for the organization; he wouldn’t approve using his resources for a reckless venture. The elder Zhar
kov wanted Grey’s attention back on running counterintelligence operations for the bratva.
Grey gathered his files and put everything into a manila folder. After shutting down his computer and locking it in the safe, he slipped on his custom jacket, the fit of the fabric giving him a physical confidence he’d lacked for most of his life. He opened the door of his office and stood in the doorway. Svetlana swiveled in her chair and faced him head-on.
“How do I look, Svetlana?”
“Oh, you look so wonderful, Oliver.” She was immediately at arm’s length, fretting over him. She straightened his already-straight tie, brushed a piece of lint from his lapel, and ran her hand across his bearded chin.
“You are ready, Oliver. You have worked so hard for this; go show the Pakhan how smart you are.”
Oliver held his head high as he took the elevator to Zharkov’s office. He was ready.
* * *
Zharkov looked over the written narrative of the plan for the second time. He had to admit that it was sound. Grey had done his homework; the CIA had taught him well. Zharkov had taken a gamble by hiring him, but that wager was already paying off. He set the target package down and looked at the figure before him. Grey’s transformation since their first meeting was evident. The CIA analyst had been an alcoholic mess, a loner and a filthy genius teetering on the brink of disaster. Like a puppy from the street, Zharkov had cleaned him up, fed him, and given him a purpose. And, just like a dog, Grey had given Zharkov loyalty in return.
“This is a good plan, Oliver.”
“Thank you, Pakhan. With the appropriate resources, we can eliminate the target.”
“I agree. There is something missing, though.”
Grey looked perplexed.
“It is a very thorough plan to kill Mr. Reece but it says nothing about his friend Raife Hastings.”
“Why would we kill him?”
“Because I don’t want him coming after us when we kill his friend.”
“I see. That is going to require more resources, more people. It will complicate the plan significantly.”
What Grey did not know was that Zharkov had done his own intelligence gathering. A jet belonging to Hastings’s father-in-law had taken off from Nice, France, just hours after the rocket attack that killed Grey’s mentor, Vasili Andrenov, in Basel, Switzerland. Andrenov had left behind a fortune. Zharkov had many associates in common with the late Russian expat and made some quiet inquiries as to whether there might be a reward for bringing to justice those responsible. Andrenov had surrounded himself with an extremely loyal group of advisors who now controlled the resources of his lucrative foundation.
In exchange for killing James Reece and Raife Hastings, Zharkov would quietly receive a ten-million-euro reward. The money would go into his own pocket and Grey, out for his own revenge, would repay Zharkov with a lifetime of gratitude.
“Add Raife Hastings to the target deck, and you will have my support,” Ivan declared. “Kill them both.”
CHAPTER 22
Yaak River Valley, Montana
DIMITRY HAD FLOWN THROUGH Moscow and New York and finally into Seattle. He’d driven the breadth of Washington State, picking up the weapons in Spokane. The Sinaloa Cartel’s network throughout the United States was an extensive web of hubs and spokes, allowing for the efficient transportation of contraband throughout the country. Though designed to move narcotics, that same network could move anything from teenage girls to weapons, including the dozen AKM rifles that his team would use on this operation.
Personally, Dimitry preferred the AK-74 he’d used during his own military service, a weapon that fired the smaller, high-velocity 5.45mm round rather than the more venerable 7.62mm Russian cartridge, for which the AKM was chambered. He loved what the little 5.45mm did to flesh. It created wounds so devastating that the Afghan muj called it “the Devil’s Round.” The arsenal mark indicated its Russian origin, sent no doubt to feed some insurgency in Central or South America during the 1980s. A rifle was a tool, and these tools would work fine after a good cleaning.
He steered the panel van through the darkness, following the directions that had been provided to him by the local asset. Rumor had it that Tanya was a tasty thing. Maybe he’d get a chance with her at some point during this operation. She had rented a remote farm in the Yaak River Valley, an extremely distant corner of Montana known simply as “the Yaak.” Situated only miles from the Canadian border, the Yaak was the kind of place where people minded their own business. A place where gunfire wouldn’t raise many eyebrows. A place where men could gather and train.
He crossed over the East Fork of the Yaak River and saw a sign that said “Stabin’ Cabin 100.’ ” Dimitry caught the landmark but his English missed the pun. The gravel road wound through the trees, his headlights catching the movement of small clusters of white-tail does who rose from their beds as he steered among the thick pine trunks. The landscape finally opened up to a lakefront clearing with a cluster of structures arranged near the waterfront. There was a sprawling main house, two smaller cabins, and a large barn, plenty of room to accommodate his team and their equipment. Best of all, the closest neighbor was miles away.
Dimitry backed the van up to the doors of the barn and shut off the engine. A tall man with a shaved head walked toward him, his eyes squinting in the headlights. He opened the door of the van and stepped out, just as the figure reached him.
“Dimitry?”
“Da.”
“I’m Vitya.” The men shook hands, sizing one another up like a pair of male lions assessing dominance. Vitya was taller and thinner than the new arrival but looked to be close in age. Losevsky Vitaliy Vasilievich was a Saint Petersburg native who had served in the GRU, Russia’s military intelligence agency, attached to a spetsnaz commando unit. He was trained in collecting intelligence in forward areas, helping some of Russia’s fiercest warriors access and exploit their targets. He had served in South Ossetia in 2008 and, after returning to civilian life, found his skills were marketable to Ivan Zharkov and the Tambov Gang. He had been sent to Brighton Beach, but bounced around the United States, living primarily in Miami and Los Angeles. Unlike most of the Brotherhood, Vitya had no criminal record, so he was able to move freely on his own passport rather than one procured by Zharkov’s son.
“Any trouble with the weapons?” he asked.
“No problems. Come help me unload them.”
Dimitry opened the back doors of the van and dragged one of two long Rubbermaid tubs toward the bumper, nodding for Vitya to take hold of the other end. Each tub was loaded with a half dozen rifles that had been smuggled across the southern border. Ammunition was easier to acquire in the United States and Vitya had bought a sizable quantity in Nevada on his way up from LA. The men stacked the two weapons containers next to three wooden crates stenciled with a mixture of Cyrillic and English markings. Each crate held two 700-round sealed metal “spam cans” of 123gr. FMJ ammunition with lacquered steel cases. The ammunition was loaded in Russia by Barnaul and exported worldwide to feed the millions of AK-series rifles built during the Cold War. The guns and ammo, often carried by illiterate child soldiers, fed insurgencies, dictatorships, and drug wars, and helped keep women subjugated across the developing world; the Soviet Union’s everlasting gift to humanity.
Dimitry pulled a tarp over the arsenal in the unlikely event that someone might wander into their secluded training site.
“There has been a slight modification to the plan,” Vitya said.
“Oh?”
“We now have two targets.”
Dimitry nodded. “We will have enough men to take out triple that.”
“Let’s have a vodka, friend.” Vitya motioned toward the main house.
Dimitry didn’t argue. It wasn’t in his nature to turn down a drink.
CHAPTER 23
SVR Headquarters, Moscow
THE PHONE ON ALEKSANDR’S desk rang twice and then went silent. Thirty seconds later it rang once and then cea
sed. He looked at it and sighed. He was tempted to ignore it but knew that he was not yet at that stage.
He pushed himself back in his chair and marched from his private office. As deputy director of Directorate S, he didn’t owe anyone an explanation of where he was going.
Aleksandr made his way toward Gorky Park, named for writer and activist Maxim Gorky. Stopping to gaze into shop windows from time to time, he used the glass to look for tails. He doubled back twice, but didn’t notice any familiar faces, even ones hastily disguised with a different hat or sunglasses.
Aleksandr missed the old park. It was so much easier to conduct business back before the vacant buildings and crime-ridden paths were transformed into clean and Wi-Fi-enabled eco-friendly family zones.
The intelligence officer fished a phone from his pocket and dialed a number.
“What do you know about an American family named Hastings?” Aleksandr’s father did not waste time with pleasantries. It was important for him to maintain his dominance.
“Context?” Aleksandr inquired curtly. It was also imperative for him to establish that this conversation was about business and not about being controlled by a domineering father, head of the bratva or not.
“Roots in Rhodesia before the unpleasantness. Son was an American Navy SEAL; first name, Raife. They may be connected to another SEAL who interfered in the assassination attempt of the U.S. president last year, the same event that was successful against President Zubarev.”
“Commander James Reece. I know the name. I’ll look into it. Anything else?”
“Yes, status update on the situation in Africa,” he said, referring specifically to the Central African Republic.
“My directorate’s assessment has been forwarded through the proper channels as requested. They will arrive on the desk you specified.”
Aleksandr knew the desk in question was that of the foreign secretary and that the bratva had already exerted the proper encouragement to sign the papers. In this case it was half a million euros in a Swiss bank account and pictures of his grandchildren playing in this very park. The message was clear.