Mitch Kearns Combat Tracker Series Boxed Set, Volumes 1-3: Dead in Their Tracks, Counter-Strike, The Kill List

by JT Sawyer

  Monroe shook his head, laughing and pouring himself another drink. “Cheers, my good man.” Raising the golden elixir to his lips, he heard the crackling of wood to his right, realizing it was opposite the fireplace and a higher pitch than the burning aspen. The ear-splitting sound had emanated from the guard by the rear door as his cheekbone split open from a single round, the man collapsing to the oaken floor. Before Monroe could stand, another round sliced through the glass in his own hand, spraying shards into his face. He fell back into the recliner and began yelling as the second guard was cut down by two rounds that pierced his neck.

  “We’ve gotta get out of here,” said Monroe, reaching for the walkie-talkie on the mahogany table beside him. “Guards—guards, get up here,” he yelled while flopping to the floor on his belly.

  “They’re dead, you fool,” muttered Nelson. “If these two are already gone, then you can bet we’re all alone.”

  “Those fucking Iranians. It has to be them…but how did they find us up here?” said Monroe, his fear rising like tendrils of smoke.

  Nelson slithered towards his briefcase to extract a pistol. Just as he reached it, he felt the sting of his kneecap explode, as if a mighty hammer had been driven from above. He recoiled into the couch, his body going fetal as he screamed and looked into the face of Dev Leitner walking through the back door.

  She was dressed in black, with inky streaks running diagonally across her face, her brown eyes magnified by the firelight as if they were conspiring to consume the cabin. Dev turned towards Monroe and stepped on his injured hand as he tried to reach for an iron poker near the hearth.

  “I really thought about making this look like an accident. I really did,” she said. “I had a couple of well-planned scenarios but I just had to be sure that neither of you sons of bitches got away by some stroke of luck.” She stood over Nelson, her pistol steady. “Some people are opposed to violence…and they are protected by those who are not.” She fired a round into Nelson’s head, which blew apart and sent rivulets of blood into the fire.

  Monroe’s wailing increased as she moved closer, and he simpered like a pig set upon by wild dogs. “Please, it doesn’t have to end this way. I have considerable power at the DOD that could be to your benefit.”

  She removed a bronze dagger from her vest and leaned over, driving it into his chest. “Time to pass that on to your successor,” she said, slamming Fareed’s old blade into the plump man’s chest a second time. Dev stared into Monroe’s glassy eyes then stood up and knocked the bottle of brandy off the table towards the fireplace. Its contents quickly became engulfed with flames that spread along the oaken floorboards towards the two splayed figures.

  As the chalet became consumed by the intense fire, she hurried to the back door, stepping over the deceased bodyguard and trotting down the back stairs of the porch. As Dev slipped into the spruce forest, the A-frame behind her was illuminated blood-orange as she strode over the soft matting of old conifer needles. She felt the rage born of loss flow over her as if the conflagration was emanating from her body. The falling snow covered her tracks and dampened the sound of the forest until even the crackling of consumed timber behind her faded. Dev walked another two miles to a narrow dirt road, below which the jeep she stole earlier was concealed in a thicket. She got in the vehicle and headed down the mountain, towards the pitch-black horizon, the flames on the mountainside stabbing upward into the clutches of the sky.

  Chapter 41

  Three weeks later, after the trial had been dismissed and Aeneid’s doors shuttered, Mitch found himself adrift. His involvement in the whole affair had been shown to be instrumental in thwarting the terrorist attack. Ryker had gone to considerable effort to make sure Mitch’s record was expunged of any local and federal law enforcement misdeeds. Perry was officially listed as KIA in the line of duty while his records, files, and personal life were being investigated by a bureau panel for his connections to Aeneid and other potential sources that he may have leaked information to. Publicly, blame was cast upon Fareed and his radicalized group of disillusioned friends, his previous visit to Yemen cementing his lone-wolf plot with arms dealer Gamal, who had apparently committed suicide afterwards. This story allowed the national outrage to be channeled enough to divert attention from the mess created with Monroe’s and Aeneid’s involvement.

  The usual statements of deniability were issued between the U.S. and Israeli government while keeping the matter of Monroe’s nebulous undertakings out of the media spotlight. All of the credit was directed at Bureau Chief Evan Ryker, who was in the spotlight, relaying the FBI’s investigative work that led to thwarting the attack.

  After learning of the Leitners’ involvement through Mitch and with the state department looking for an excuse to patch up strained relations with Israel, Dev’s participation was never officially recognized as the only witnesses to her involvement were Perry and Ritter. Her face was removed from the FBI’s Most Wanted list after Perry’s meddling was uncovered.

  A few days after returning to Arizona, Mitch headed straight to his friend’s ranch, where he spent time building a new bunkhouse and doing a lot of campfire cooking for the crew. He stayed in a small twelve-by-sixteen cabin near the horse pasture, enjoying catching up on whittling, reading, and tracking animals.

  Early one morning, when the purple finches were singing in the cottonwood tree above his rustic abode, he heard the ranch hands near the entrance gate talking to someone who had just driven up. A few minutes later, a red Prius rolled down the hill. Dev Leitner had never looked as stunning as when she stepped into the sunlight. She wore a red tank-top which hung slightly over her jeans.

  She looked over at the framework of the bunkhouse and then made a beeline for Mitch. He stood up and walked down the steps of his tiny porch, meeting her halfway.

  “The new place is coming along nicely, though not as rustic as the original.”

  “A few years in this weather and it’ll look as old as the first one.”

  He tossed the stick that he’d been whittling on the ground and put away his folding knife. “You know a funny thing happened—about two weeks ago, the owner of the ranch gets an anonymous check in the mail. Says it’s from an overseas company out of Tel Aviv that donates to various causes and that he should apply it towards renovation of a historic structure on his property.”

  “Huh…wow…isn’t the mail wonderful. I mean, you can just get those kind of surprises through your mailbox.”

  “Yeah, I told him he oughta blow most of the money on beer and new saddles but he managed to save a few pennies for nails and lumber.”

  She folded her arms across her chest, giving him a fierce stare that then turned into a grin. “Mitch Kearns, you’re sounding more like a cowboy than a federal agent with each sentence. You sure you’re the same guy I met a month ago?”

  He arched his back up to the blue sky and stretched his arms out to his sides. “I’m back home where I belong, at least for now. Got my old job back with the feds if I want it but I’m still thinking about that one. What brings you out to these parts again?” he said jokingly while looking up at the ridgeline, half-wondering if there were any surprises.

  They walked up to the porch, where he offered her his only chair while he leaned against the railing. For the next few hours they spoke about the trial, the FBI, Anatoly, and geopolitics in Turkmenistan.

  “It looks like your father’ legacy will remain intact. He’s done a lot to ensure their way of life will continue and I know he’d be damn proud of you.” Mitch lowered his head, thinking of the warrior philanthropist and what he had risked for so many over the years while remaining in the shadows. “He was a helluva guy. Tonight we’ll have a campfire and meal in his honor.”

  “I wish I could but I should be going. I only drove out here to say goodbye and to—” She paused, looking up at him and smiling. “To thank you for putting so much on the line for me when you could’ve looked the other way.”

  “My pleasure,
ma’am,” he said, tilting the brim of his white cowboy hat.

  He got up and went inside his cabin, removing two beer bottles from his cooler and returning. He removed the caps and then handed her one. “We have to at least give a cowboy salute to the heavens above for not getting rained on this time.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” she said, standing up.

  He took a long swig and then leaned against the wall. “You know that was pretty shocking what happened in Lake Tahoe to the assistant sec-def, Ritter, and his entourage. Don’t know if you read about it in the papers?”

  She just raised an eyebrow and continued fixing her gaze upon the ground ahead. “Pretty shocking.”

  “Some Iranians connected to Fareed and his guys—they think, though that’s not official.” He strolled over to her, reaching a hand up to the porch rafter and staring out at the cottonwood trees. “Gotta be careful when you wander into the backcountry.” He tilted his head towards her, looking into her brown eyes. “Know what I mean?”

  She just smiled and tucked a thumb into her belt loop. “Yep.”

  “Sure you can’t stick around? We could do some horseback riding and run across mesas for fun.”

  “Sounds swell—but, you know, I should be getting back home.” She walked around the front porch, the railing between them, resting her hands on the cracked wood. She wanted to stay—to get to know him better without the chaos of what they had endured—but she felt herself closing up inside. She needed to get back to Israel, to her mother, to her father’s company, and to piece together her fractured heart.

  “You never can tell when I’ll be back in these parts though—hopefully on more pleasant business.”

  He extended his hand over hers, caressing her wrist with his thumb. “Until then, I hope you’ll remember us rednecks.”

  She grinned and tossed her head back, flinging her raven hair over her shoulder. “Shouldn’t take too much effort.” Dev turned and walked to her car, climbing inside and pausing to wave one last time then driving up the dusty road.

  Chapter 42

  A month later, after all of the debriefings had finished and Mitch had used up the rest of his considerable vacation days, he walked along the battleship-gray carpeting on the second floor of the FBI building in downtown Phoenix, striding by familiar faces who cast lilted smiles of recognition. He didn’t care—there were few people there that he desired to work with and he wondered how he had pressed on in that stifling job for so long.

  Mitch walked into his office and began packing his items. He wasn’t sure what was next for him but it had to involve being outdoors and entail travel. No sitting still or checking endless emails or hunting two-bit fugitives. Maybe he’d find work on a ranch for part of the year. Then again, he knew that was back-breaking work best suited towards a younger man with a more pliable body.

  “Leaving without a farewell?” said Ryker, who was standing in the doorway. “So, that’s it—unravel a terrorist cell and internal corruption and it’s time to hang your hat up.”

  Mitch had come to respect the man, though he still didn’t like him very much. They were just too opposite in every way. “Thought I’d take some time off and go on a long horse-packing trip, maybe up on Apache land for a while.”

  “I can still use you if you ever get tired of roastin’ corn over da campfire,” he said in a weak attempt at a cowboy accent that sounded more like someone from Georgia.

  “Thanks. I think my next job will involve a little less bureaucracy and suit-wearing.”

  Ryker walked forward and extended his hand. After they had shaken, the bureau chief turned away then came to a halt. “Almost forgot—this was dropped off at the front desk below,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and removing an envelope. “It’s already been scanned so no surprises inside.”

  Ryker closed the door. Mitch tapped the envelope against his palm, noticing it was post-marked as international mail. He removed his small folder and slit open the edge. The sentences that followed were penned in beautiful blue cursive.

  Mitch,

  It seems the Israeli military wants to revive their combat tracking program! They are looking for independent contractors to provide training and your name may have made it into their queue. Tel Aviv is lovely in the fall. What do you say, cowboy?

  Dev

  He put the letter down and walked over to the tinted window. Mitch stood with his hands on his hips, gazing at the cobalt desert sky and tracing it down to where it melted into the horizon. What indeed?

  THE END

  Counter-Strike

  A Mitch Kearns Combat Tracker Novel

  By JT Sawyer

  Copyright

  Copyright April 2016 by JT Sawyer

  Boxed Set, Copyright April 2017 by JT Sawyer

  Edited by Emily Nemchick

  No part of this book may be transmitted in any form whether electronic, recording, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction and the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, incidents, or events is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Chapter 1

  New York, John F. Kennedy International Airport

  Professor Robert Schueller strode past the brunette stewardess inside the entrance to the 747, giving a perfunctory nod as he pushed by her with his black laptop bag. He could detect the faint fragrance of her hairspray, which resembled peach blossoms.

  He moved through the narrow aisle towards his first-class seat in aisle 4B and plunked down next to the empty blue seat. Maybe I’ll luck out and have the row all to myself. That would make for a good flight across the Atlantic. I could certainly use the time to review my research notes before this conference. As he adjusted a lumbar pillow behind his back, a petite half-Asian woman with her dyed blond hair in a long, braided ponytail, approached the aisle and scanned the seat numbers then glanced down at her ticket. She was wearing a white button-up blouse and a blue skirt with high-heels. Her light pink lipstick accentuated her sculpted cheekbones and brown eyes. Wow, I get to spend the flight next to such a beauty.

  “Hello,” she said. “I just made it—another ten minutes and they said I would’ve missed the flight. I think my taxi driver must have been on his first day of work.”

  Schueller detected a slight hint of an Oriental accent and her appearance indicated she was probably a businesswoman. The aroma of cherry hovered around her as she swished her hips past the armrest and bobbed into the chair beside him. He inhaled deeply while giving an awkward smile. Schueller tapped a foot nervously on the carpeted floor beside his laptop case. As she got comfortable, he made sure to keep his eyes forward and not stare at her shapely legs. Though he had been happily married for thirty-seven years to his wife Margo, he relished being in the presence of a beautiful woman. He reminded himself that she was half his age as he ran a hand over his follicly-challenged scalp, recalling his personal code when it came to other women: It doesn’t matter where you get your appetite as long as you dine at home.

  He opened his laptop and began reviewing some of his bullet points for his upcoming speech, hardly noticing the cabin door being closed.

  “Eek, that’s an old device. How can you even read the screen on that anymore?” she said. The woman half-giggled and swung her ponytail onto her shoulder. “Sorry, I just came from the consumer electronics convention in the Big Apple and I’m still seeing recurrent images of laptops every time I close my eyes.” She muttered to herself, “You’re not sitting at the trade booth anymore, girl.”

  “Are you a sales rep?” he said.

  “Sort of—I work as a software engineer for SONY.” She crossed her legs and leaned towards him, pointing to his laptop. “Chances are that my company did half the upgrades on your device there as that model was expanded back in 2014.”

  She touched his arm. “Oh my God, I just can’t turn the
techie in me off. I’m sorry.”

  He smiled and turned sideways. “Not a problem. I know how consuming work can be.” He extended his hand. “Bob—and all I know about computers is how to turn ’em on and off.”

  “Jessica.”

  He closed his laptop and tucked it away in his briefcase, amazed at the animated delivery she just provided of something so mundane. “There, I’ll give you a break for a while so you can forget about work.” He was so taken with her scintillating personality and striking eyes that he never noticed the plane accelerating.

  “Ah, work, yes—this seven-hour flight is the only break I’ll have for the next week,” she said.

  “Me as well. I’ve gotta blab in front of a bunch of my colleagues in London.”

  “Are you a professional speaker—or an author?” She squirmed in her seat and touched him on the arm again. “Oh, I’ve never sat next to an author before.”

  “No, I hate to disappoint you. Not an author—just a college professor who stares at lab slides all day long, though I have written a few technical papers.” Their bodies fell back into their chairs as the plane angled upward into the sky.

  She laughed barely pausing to take a breath in between sentences. “Well, there you go, I am sitting next to an author after all.” Jessica yawned and sunk her shoulders into her seat as the plane levelled off. “Oh my, the steam is draining out of me. I knew I’d crash hard after this convention.” She looked at him with wide eyes then leaned towards him to whisper, her eyes darting around the cabin. “I didn’t mean actually ‘crash,’ you know.”

  He just grinned and then looked at the window, realizing how high they’d ascended. Whew—if this is what she’s like when she’s tired then what’s she like the rest of the time? If only I had her energy.