by Jack Carr
High ground, an advantageous position, Reece found himself thinking.
“This place looks like a screen saver,” Katie remarked.
“It really does, doesn’t it?”
“I’m so happy to be here with you, James.”
She turned to face him, looking up at him with a devilish grin. “Now would be a good time to kiss the girl.”
Reece didn’t hesitate, leaning forward and taking her face in his hands. She wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him back toward her and kissing him deeply. They both lost themselves completely in the moment. Reece finally pulled back. “Welcome to Montana.”
CHAPTER 28
Kumba Ranch, Flathead Valley, Montana
KATIE SHOWERED WHILE REECE began to prepare dinner. He would introduce her to the Hastings family soon but tonight it was just the two of them. The guest cabin had come with a Traeger grill and Reece had become very proficient in its use as he cooked his nightly meals lakeside, enjoying the age-old ritual of smoking wild game. With the smoker going out back, he worked diligently in the kitchen.
He rubbed an elk tenderloin with a mixture of freshly chopped herbs and sliced the makings of a fresh salad, enjoying a glass of Tuck Beckstoffer’s finest pinot noir as he prepared their meal. A stack of logs crackled in the large open fireplace, bathing the room in a flickering golden light. He heard the door open and looked up as Katie emerged. She was barefoot and her hair was down. She looked right at home in jeans and a flannel.
“It feels so great to be out of D.C.”
“I’ll bet.” Reece smiled. “Wine?”
“Absolutely!”
Holding the glass by its stem, she swirled it twice. She held it up to the last light of the Montana evening and took a moment to enjoy its aroma before taking a sip.
“Is this a French burgundy?” she asked, puzzled.
“Actually, it’s a pinot noir from the Sonoma coast. It’s called Semper.”
“I’ve always wanted to try that! I love the name. It isn’t like any pinot I’ve had before. It’s tremendous.”
“The winemaker hunts with Raife on the property. He always comes equipped with a few cases of his favorites. I liberated tonight’s selections from Jonathan Hastings’s wine cellar.”
“I knew those SEAL skills would come in handy. And, what are you preparing to accompany such a splendid vitis vinifera?”
“The pinot goes with the chips and salsa.” Reece smiled. “For the main course of elk tenderloin, we’ll switch it up.”
“Elk? Is that what this is?” Katie asked, pointing to the mounted bull on the wall.
“It is. My dad shot that bull years ago.”
“Admittedly, I don’t know much about hunting, though I did love the venison your dad would drop off as I was growing up.”
“How’s your dad doing?” Reece asked.
“For someone his age, he couldn’t be better. He retired from his medical practice and plays a lot of golf. I think he’s driving my mother crazy.”
“Good for him.”
“Can I help?” Katie asked.
“Nope, I’ve got it handled. You just relax and enjoy your wine.”
“So, did you catch this thing?”
“Catch it?”
“Catch it, kill it, whatever you’re supposed to say.”
“Ha! Well, you can say kill or harvest. I typically like to use both, as harvest sounds too much like you are picking corn and kill doesn’t convey to people that you are actually eating the meat. I was a little busy last fall, so this comes from Raife’s freezer. The Hastings clan has enough venison in their combined freezers to feed a small army.”
“It looks really lean.”
“It is. It’s also good for you. About as organic and free range as you can get. You hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Good. Let’s toss it on the grill.”
Reece carried a platter outside and Katie shivered as she watched him put the meat and sliced vegetables onto the charred steel grating.
“Gets cold here when the sun goes down, even in the summer,” he said.
“It’s probably still eighty and humid in D.C.”
“Let’s fix that,” Reece said, walking a few steps toward a stack of firewood and picking up a propane tank with a hose attached along with a Bic lighter. He opened the valve on the tank and the fuel began to flow from the tubular attachment at the end of the hose. He sparked the lighter and a foot-long flame erupted from the nozzle. He picked up the propane tank in one hand and held the nozzle in the other, walking toward the stone fire ring that sat between the Adirondack chairs. The nozzle bathed the stack of split logs in fire, starting them ablaze almost instantly. He worked the flame back and forth until he was satisfied before closing the tank’s valve.
“What is that thing? A flamethrower?”
“Montana fire starter. Come get warm.”
They sat together, sipping wine as their dinner cooked nearby, staring into the open flames as the last light of day slipped away.
Even with Katie by his side, Reece couldn’t help but think that halfway around the world, teams of special operators were just returning to base after hitting a target. He knew the only time most would hear or think about them was if something went wrong and it was reported on the news. They’d be returning sweaty, dusty, possibly bloody. They’d turn over any enemy detainees to the proper authorities, top off magazines, replace batteries in IR lasers and flashlights, and get ready to do it all over again tomorrow. Those men and women on the front lines provided the blanket of freedom that allowed Reece and Katie to enjoy this evening by the lake. Reece would never forget that they were out there. Not long ago he had been one of them. He’d never witness another sunset without thinking of them and sending a silent prayer their way.
In response to Katie’s questioning look, Reece glanced at his watch and jumped up to attend to the cooking. He flipped the tenderloin and took the vegetables off the fire to cool, standing vigil over the grill for the last few minutes that the elk needed to complete the outside sear.
He probed the meat with his knuckle and, satisfied, pulled it from the fire.
“Let’s go inside. Almost ready.”
As the meat rested, Katie found a candle in one of the kitchen drawers and placed it next to the bouquet that she’d put in a vase on the table. Reece added a light dressing to the salad and tossed it with two large forks, placing a portion on each of their plates. He flanked the salad with slices of grilled squash and zucchini and drizzled them with balsamic vinegar. Finally, he sliced the tenderloin into half-inch sections, inspecting the meat as he cut. The outside was charred, and the center was a warm, red medium-rare. Perfect.
“This looks amazing. I didn’t know you could cook.”
“I’ll be out of recipes in two days. I didn’t want to burden Raife’s family with feeding me, and there’s obviously no restaurant nearby, so I’ve been doing a lot of grilling. I don’t think I’ve ever turned the oven on.”
“Then grilling it is.”
“Are you ready for the next pairing?” Reece asked as he set their plates on the rustic farm table.
“You know I am. What has Jonathan Hastings’s wine cellar produced for us next this evening?”
Reece held up the bottle next to a glass decanter, “It’s named for To Kill a Mockingbird.”
“One of my favorite novels of all time,” Katie declared.
“Mine, too.”
Katie opened cupboards until she found what she was looking for.
“For a wine as special as Mockingbird Blue, we need the right glass,” she said, pulling two large Bordeaux glasses from the shelf.
Tuck Beckstoffer’s famed cabernet had been breathing in a decanter since Reece started preparing dinner. He gave them both a healthy pour as they sat down to eat.
“Cheers,” Reece said, as they clinked glasses.
Katie swirled the wine and held it to the candlelight, admiring its legs. She then closed
her eyes and breathed in its aroma through her nose before taking her first sip.
“What an elegant red,” she noted. “Great balance for such a full-bodied cab.”
“How do you know so much about wines?”
“My little secret is that I didn’t start out to be a journalist.”
“Really?”
“I did two years in the viticulture and enology undergrad program at UC Davis.”
“I’ll have to look both those words up next time I get cell service.”
“Let me help you. Viticulture refers to growing grapes. From the Latin word for ‘vine.’ And enology is the science of winemaking.”
“What made you switch?”
“Honestly,” Katie said, “the war. My dad. Your dad. I felt like this country had provided my family so much opportunity. Seeing those freedoms squandered and eroded by pandering career politicians while young men and women who stood up to volunteer to defend the nation kept coming home in caskets made me angry. When Ambassador Stevens, Sean Smith, and your friends Ty Woods and Glen Doherty were killed in Benghazi, I knew I had to do something. Politicians left them to die. Politicians who would never be held accountable. So I transferred to English at Berkeley and then went to Columbia School of Journalism for my master’s. That’s where I started work on The Benghazi Betrayal.” She paused. “Sorry to get so serious.”
“In vino veritas,” Reece said, bringing the red wine to his lips.
“ ‘In wine lies the truth.’ I knew I liked you, Mr. Reece.”
“What do you think of the elk?”
“It’s delicious. I could eat this every night.”
“That’s good because it’s about all we really have available,” the former frogman said with a wink.
“It’s so peaceful, Reece. I can see why you came here.”
“This feels like home. I felt this way in Mozambique until they found me.”
“What did you think about when you were in Africa?” Katie wondered aloud.
“Ah, a lot of things, I guess. I went to Mozambique to die and ended up learning to live again. I found purpose out there, using my old skills to counter the poachers. I thought about my family. And, I thought a lot about the people who had helped me in the U.S. after Lauren and Lucy were killed. I wondered if I’d put them in danger or if the government was going to figure out who had assisted and take legal action against them.”
Katie nodded and gazed into her glass.
“And,” Reece continued, “I thought about you.”
“You did?”
“That might have been the only thing that kept me alive. This sounds strange, but even though I thought I was dying, thinking of you gave me hope.”
Katie swallowed, her eyes misting over as she thought of all he’d been through.
“I thought of you, too, James. It drove me crazy not knowing if you were dead or alive.”
“I’d been living for so long thinking I was a dead man, I didn’t know how to live believing I had a future.”
“And now?”
“And now I’m figuring out that future.”
Katie took a breath.
“Well, this is certainly a good place to do it,” she said, looking around the spacious lakefront cabin.
“I think so,” Reece confirmed.
“Now on to more important topics, like if there is any more Mockingbird Blue?” Katie asked, holding up her empty glass.
Katie moved to the living area as Reece refilled their glasses from the decanter in the kitchen. She sat on the couch, her legs pulled beneath her.
Reece carefully handed her the wine before taking a seat, her knee lightly touching his thigh. They were both aware of the contact and neither made an effort to move.
“Are you going to go back to work for them?” She didn’t have to specify whom she meant by “them.”
“Possibly. I’m connected as a contractor right now. There’s something I need to do, and they might be the only ones who can help.”
Reece didn’t offer more, and Katie didn’t push, instead asking, “When you got quiet out by the fire, what were you thinking about?”
Reece paused. “What I always think about when the sun sets: that somewhere the enemy is out there, planning, getting ready to hit us again, and that there are a select few getting ready to take the fight to them.”
“Do you feel guilty that you are not with them?”
She was extremely perceptive, from a women’s intuition or a journalist’s savvy, Reece wasn’t sure.
“Not really guilt. It’s more like I feel a responsibility to keep fighting.”
She put her hand on his. “You’re safe here, James. Take some time. I’m here to help.”
They each took long sips of wine and stared into the fireplace. Reece broke the silence first. “I don’t know how safe it is. What happened in Odessa, it’s not over.”
“Let me face it with you, James.”
She was brave. Reece felt choked up as he remembered her black-and-blue face, blood trickling from her nose, neck wrapped in explosives, looking up at him with pure terror in her eyes.
“Katie, I knew that det cord wouldn’t blow.”
Katie’s blue eyes connected with his of piercing brown. “I know.”
They kissed one another breathlessly, each of their hands caressing, exploring. Katie rose without another word. Taking Reece by the hand, she pulled him to his feet and led him to the bedroom.
CHAPTER 29
Saint Petersburg, Russia
GREY WAS LIVING IN his office, monitoring events in Montana as best he could without making direct contact with the team on the ground. Tanya, the female asset sent in from New York, was making her daily social media posts. These seemingly innocuous ramblings and photographs, mere cells in the entire biosphere of web traffic, were a direct signal to Grey that the ground team was on track. Since Reece’s movements were never exact, especially given the holiday weekend, the team had moved into position and would remain in place until he appeared. As soon as the secondary team received word that Reece was down, they would move in on Raife Hastings and finish the job.
Accounting for Daylight Savings Time, there was a nine-hour time difference between local time in Russia and Montana. Eight a.m. local at the target was 5:00 p.m. for Grey, which meant that late nights were part of the program. It was approaching 10:00 p.m. now, and he had been in the office for more than fourteen hours. His freshly laundered dress shirt was wrinkled, his tie was loose, and his jacket was hanging in its usual spot on his office door. For Grey, the monotonous hours of waiting for a subject to move was nothing new, but, given his personal connection to this target, that experience didn’t make this wait easier. He grabbed a pint of good local vodka from his desk drawer and took a long pull before pouring a splash into the tea that Svetlana had delivered to him before she left for the evening.
The target vehicle had moved on Thursday, making a stop at the airport in Kalispell, no doubt picking someone up for the weekend. The reporter? Maybe that explained why he hadn’t left his cabin this morning, despite the late hour? Sooner or later he would have to go to town and, when he did, the hit team would be waiting.
CHAPTER 30
Flathead Valley, Montana
VITYA STARED AT THE screen of the tablet, trying to will the blinking light that represented the target vehicle to move, but there it sat, in front of the lakefront cabin. He and his team had hiked to the high ground above the ambush site the previous afternoon, setting up camp three hundred yards from the road in the dense forest. The GPS tracker would give him at least thirty minutes’ notice that the target was on its way, which was plenty of time for them to set the trap. For now they rested in shifts, fiddled with their weapons, ate salty dehydrated meals out of plastic bags, and drank enough coffee to give them all atrial fibrillations.
Vitya’s team was tasked with killing James Reece. He was the primary target and would be eliminated first. Then the second team would kill Raife Hastings.
He walked down to the ambush position for the twentieth time and surveyed the scene. The IED was positioned at just the right angle to rake the road with its 700 3.2mm steel ball bearings, which would shred everything in their path at 1,200 meters per second. The convex mine was concealed under a bed of pine straw at the base of a tree. Its wire was buried along the path. Vitya carried a green plastic firing device in his jacket pocket. He’d used the M40 test set included with the mine to confirm that it was working properly and would send the electric pulse necessary to power the blasting cap and fire the mine’s plastic explosive. He couldn’t risk a premature explosion so he would only connect the detonator when he had confirmation that the target was on his way. It would be a shame if the bait was caught in the powerful blast; he hadn’t even had a chance to sample the goods, but that couldn’t be helped; every battle had collateral damage.
He looked down at the AKM slung at his side. It was spray-painted in a green and brown camouflage pattern to eliminate the glossy shine that had burnished through the original finish by years of rough use. After spending the preceding weeks with the iconic weapon, he had become interested in its origin and often wondered about the stories it could tell. Its stamped steel receiver differentiated it from a true AK-47, though that name would forever be associated with Kalashnikov’s deadly design. He saw the arrow-in-triangle proof mark of the Izhevsk Armory, the small-arms factory turned “machine building plant” that had armed Russia’s fighting men and women with everything from muskets to machine guns since the early nineteenth century. Behind the arsenal mark was the year the rifle was built: 1975. Vitya was younger than his weapon.
The name “RICARDO” had been carved into the wooden buttstock by one of its previous users, trench art from the latter days of a Cold War battlefield now relegated to the pages of history. Ricardo was probably a Sandinista, given the weapon’s Central American pedigree, but due to the widespread distribution of Russian weapons, Vitya couldn’t be sure.
Was Ricardo waiting to ambush a group of CIA-backed Contras when boredom took over and he decided to carve his name into his weapon? Had Ricardo survived?