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

by JT Sawyer

  “We’re overdue on a chat about Bob Schueller and since I’m pressed for time and have no compunction about spilling blood in a chapel, you better begin talking before I start slicing.”

  Her lip was bleeding and she began crying. “Please, mister, why are you doing this? Just take my purse and leave me alone.” He told her to move her hands up high on the wall and stand still.

  Mitch twisted the tip into her neck, causing a rivulet of blood to run down her collarbone. She winced and then stopped sobbing, her voice deepening. “You fuck, you’ll pay for that.”

  “That’s a damn pretty face to carve up.”

  “Schueller’s yesterday’s news. What you really want to know is what I obtained from a frumpy old fuck like him,” she said with a crooked smile while letting out a laugh.

  He felt his phone vibrating and knew that Dev was probably trying to contact him. “I’d like to know both, actually.” He struck Yin on the back of the head with the steel pommel of his knife. As she slid to the floor, the chapel doors opened and in walked Yin’s bodyguard Edward, his face red with rage as he rushed towards Mitch.

  Yin used the distraction to shift away from Mitch, delivering a leg sweep against his calf. Mitch lost his balance and fell backwards but used the momentum to ball up and roll to the side away from Yin’s next kick. He sprang up with his blade just in time to sidestep the massive brawler whose hands were nearly upon his neck. Mitch sliced the man deeply across the right quadricep which caused his leg to buckle. The surly brute grunted and grabbed his leaking appendage. Yin started to bolt for the door but Mitch seized her coat and yanked her back.

  While Mitch tried to halt Yin’s escape without mortally wounding her, she spun with a vicious scream while delivering a right hook at Mitch’s face. He bobbed enough to miss the full blow but her knuckles grazed his cheek then slid off his ear. He parried the next punch and sent the toes of his boot into the side of her knee. Mitch began a downward slash with his blade, aiming at her deltoid but felt a sharp blow in his back as the injured man managed a weak punch to his kidneys.

  Dev rushed inside, quickly closing the door and running towards the hulking figure who was swinging at Mitch. Dev drove her boot into his chest, slamming him into some pews which folded under his weight like bowling pins. Edward came up with a large folding knife, the steel glinting in the fluorescent lighting. Dev dodged his feeble thrust, doing a disarm by grabbing the hand and violently turning the wrist back on itself. She heard the popping of ligaments as the knife fell to the floor. She had removed her pistol from its appendix sheath and drove the butt into the man’s temple twice until he slumped to the floor.

  While Mitch regained his hold on Yin, she deftly removed a wooden spike from her bun and drove it into Mitch’s forearm. His leather jacket lessened the impact but he still felt the slight sting of the tip pierce his skin. The surprise move was enough to cause his grip to loosen on Yin’s jacket and she slid back, limp-trotting for the door, gliding into the crowd. Mitch glanced back at Dev and the unconscious figure on the ground then yanked open the handle and headed into the throng of people.

  He could see the unsteady gait of Yin ahead as she tried to weave amongst the crowd. She looked back at him then increased her stride, heading towards the escalators that led to a tram. Several police officers were making their way to the left, heading towards the chapel. He hoped that Dev had fled by now and he stopped by a magazine stand, lowering his ball cap slightly as the officers rushed past.

  When he looked up, Yin was gone. He paused and scanned the escalator, spying the dark-skinned man from earlier heading up then disappearing into the crowd. Mitch glanced to his right and left near the food vendors for any signs of Yin. He searched for a limping pattern then for her short crop of black hair. As he reached the escalator, he stepped off to the side beside a square-shaped recess lined with potted plants and some benches. Yin was sitting down, her head leaning against a small palm tree whose branches obscured the area. He moved towards her slowly and saw two round puncture wounds in the side of her head above the ear. There were no exit wounds, making him conclude they were .22 caliber rounds. He sat down beside Yin, examining the wounds again. Neat and clean with no mess. Probably a suppressed pistol at close range with an expanding bullet. Mitch rummaged through her pockets, trying to avoid drawing any attention to his actions as the crowd surged onto the escalator. He found her ticket, which indicated she was flying to Kuala Lumpur, then removed her cellphone and tucked it in his pocket.

  An elderly couple came into the sheltered grove and sat down across from Mitch. The woman was holding onto a cane as her portly husband helped her to the bench. Mitch just lowered his head and got up slowly, looking into Yin’s glassy eyes. As he pushed his way through the crowd, Mitch heard a scream come from the old woman followed by her pointing in his direction. He saw several police officers leaning over the second floor railing, their eyes scanning the throngs of people in his vicinity.

  Chapter 12

  Mitch ducked into the restroom, grabbing a trench coat that was folded on top of a suitcase beside a closed toilet stall. He flung his ball cap into the trash and tussled his hair then slid on the coat and pulled out his sunglasses. He’d been through enough urban evasion courses in the military and later apprehended fugitives in the city to know that if you can’t initially gain distance from your pursuers then you had to conceal yourself amongst them until an escape route presented itself.

  Once outside the bathroom, he blended into the flow of pedestrian traffic, stopping beside a wall-mounted row of TV screens. He pretended to search the incoming flight rosters but instead was scanning the emergency exit diagram on the wall. His plan was to continue following the crowd and make his way out of the main terminal. An evader had three choices: to stay put and blend into the masses, hoping the searchers would overlook you in their haste. That rarely worked with modern security cameras and given that more officers would be brought in to flood the search zone. The second alternative was to make an all-out sprint from the area of operation and hope that your stamina would hold up over several miles of parkour-like moves through the bowels of an unknown city. Mitch had apprehended plenty of thugs who employed this method and it never ended well for the fugitive, who usually wrenched an ankle hopping fences or succumbed to police dogs and helicopters. The third choice was to become a chameleon during the first few minutes of escape. Blending in allowed you to assess your surroundings, look for the less risky egress routes, and most importantly, calm your nerves so you didn’t look guilty or have an awkward, panic-driven stride.

  He and his special operations unit had once undertaken an urban survival and evasion course that saw each man getting dropped in Boston with only $5 in their pocket while having to make it back alone to Fort Bragg within 48 hours without any outside assistance. Nine out of ten guys made the timeline through adaption and improvisational skills. In Mitch’s case, he knew that the best way to disappear in the city and gain intel about your surroundings was to blend in with the homeless. There he obtained a different set of clothes, learned where the police were most concentrated, and discovered where the local shelters were located so he could obtain a free meal. Other unit members who weren’t in evasion mode were on the lookout for Mitch and his men. If you dared to call a family member for help or money, as one scheming soldier did, you were booted from the program.

  While passing through the south end of Boston, he ducked into a tourist hostel to use their free internet service, where he searched for Craigslist postings for traveling indie bands that were in need of loafers—unpaid workers to travel with them on tour and help with setup and takedown. Mitch was in his mid-twenties and had a scruffy enough appearance that when combined with his new wardrobe and a forced slouch, would allow him to not get singled out as military. He used an anonymous email to contact a prospective group, and that night, he was able to hitch a ride on a band’s refurbished school bus to their gig in Raleigh-Durham, which put him only sixty miles away
from Fort Bragg. Craigslist and similar sites provided a wealth of online evasion tools for remaining low-profile and permitted him to stay off the public transportation systems, which would have been monitored.

  There were two assignments along the route back. One was to construct an improvised weapon and the other was to sneak in and out of the Amtrak train station in Newark to obtain page 337 out of the Yellow Pages in a phone booth without being spotted. He made a modified stick-weapon by using a folded newspaper that he had filled with several short sections of rebar obtained from a construction site he came across after leaving the homeless encampment. One of his unit buddies would trump them all with his clever use of a child’s squirt gun he’d found in a park and later filled with bleach obtained from a janitor’s cart at a downtown soup kitchen.

  His thoughts returned to the present and he spied a distant exit to the right. It was the least congested and he knew he’d have to move fast before the area was shut down as the officers tried to narrow their search corridors. Mitch made his way next to a single woman who was pushing a stroller. He stayed a foot behind her with each step. As he neared the door, he moved up and held it for her as they all walked to the curb together. He looked over his shoulder towards the entrance and saw two policemen heading his way. Mitch strode down the sidewalk and crossed a pedestrian walkway, heading towards a row of taxis then sliding inside the first one that was vacant.

  Mitch had the driver take him a few miles into the heart of Munich and drop him near the downtown area. After he exited the taxi, he walked along the streets, blending in with the other tourists and mulling over Yin’s bizarre ending. Who the hell did she have on her trail? Was it that guy from the estate? He must’ve been the shooter who took her out. He thought about the carnage he had witnessed around the estate and the skillful execution of Yin. Someone is in a hurry to cover their tracks, but who? This has to be larger than Yin and even Bob. He needed answers—answers to her death, her dubious connections, and the whereabouts of his friend. With Yin out of the picture, he felt his chances of ever getting those questions resolved evaporating like the chill of his breath in the night air.

  Chapter 13

  Kyle swigged down the last of his brandy and then stared out the window of the jet as it flew south of India towards Malaysia. The string of tropical islands below resembled emerald eyes gazing skyward. In another hour, he’d land in Kuala Lumpur and then be picked up by helicopter to finish the last leg of his long journey.

  He returned his gaze to the laptop and scanned Schueller’s data. Everything was unfolding according to the timeline which should have given him cause to relax somewhat. However, he hadn’t heard back from Jessica and there was no indication that she had boarded her flight in Vienna.

  Since the loss of his wife nearly three years ago, Kyle hadn’t sought out the company of women or even shown the slightest interest in their presence—until Jessica emerged back into his world. He had found her to be an excellent operative in their time in Beijing but the necessary distance of her surveillance work had kept him from getting to know her well though he had entrusted his life to her there for so long that he never questioned her loyalty. Later, her cat-like demeanor and sultry air awoke something in him. Jessica seemed as ruthless and controlling as he was and she had a wounded vulnerability behind her steely eyes that he understood. He kept any glimmer of feelings for her at bay during sexual encounters and reminded himself that having a conscience in his business was a liability he would never allow himself again. She was just another asset—a great one with amazing skills and silky legs but still just a tool in his arsenal.

  With Schueller’s assistance, coerced or otherwise, Kyle would be able to complete a refined version of the bioweapon he’d formulated for the Swedish experiment. The original sample was obtained from a hidden cache site in Beijing when he’d stolen some vials before his capture. This provided him with the base organic strain from which he was hoping, with Schueller’s involvement, he could either create a more refined aerosolized form or an injectable version that would infect a person and spread via close contact. He’d kept some of the Chinese samples as leverage, never dreaming he’d need to use it one day. Soon, he’d have enough of the pathogen to unleash on Jakarta on January 18, two days from now. This time, he planned to have a modified virus with an incubation period of 48 hours, allowing for greater transmission once passengers reached their destination cities around the world.

  Kyle pulled out a folding map from his laptop case. He still preferred the old hard copies over a digital image. It allowed him to scrawl handwritten notes, draw diagrams, and even the occasional smiley face on target cities. His gaze zoomed in on the expanded version of Jakarta where he focused upon the international airport. Fifty thousand travelers a day who will be carrying more than their luggage aboard the planes.

  The date would be historic not only for the thousands that would be infected at the airport but for the global ramifications. The President of the United States was arriving shortly for a ceremony celebrating the signing of the U.S.-led Trans-Pacific Partnership. Accompanying him would be fourteen member countries who were signing the pact which would enable the U.S. to design the rules of international trade in Southeast Asia for the next century, squeezing China out from dominating commerce in the region. The member states, which included Japan, Canada, Chile, Singapore, Malaysia, and Australia to name a few, would retain control of over fifty percent of the global economy. Even if the virus was contained on the Indonesian mainland and his plans for global dispersal were disrupted, managing the outbreak would foster severe disruptions in trade in Southeast Asia along with the considerable investment required to formulate a vaccine. Just a single canister would grind everything to a halt in this region and have a devastating ripple effect felt by every nation, especially the superpowers of China and the U.S.

  Kyle marveled at the scope of the plan and knew it would further impact foreign relations with China. With the release of a virus on the Indonesian mainland, the Trans-Pacific Partnership would be postponed while the nations grappled with the arrival of the virus and the resulting crippled economy that would send shockwaves throughout the world for years to come. A pandemic would reshape societies as infrastructure collapsed and services broke down. Too many worthless people on this planet anyway, particularly in Washington. Nature should have culled the population long ago but we keep interfering, keeping the weak alive and the powers that be in place.

  Kyle leaned over and tapped his fingers on the seven-foot rectangular metal crate strapped to the floor beside him. There was a faint sound emanating from inside—a garbled voice of someone in distress. He caressed the stainless-steel edges. “Soon, soon. Be patient just a little longer.”

  His phone rang and he picked it up, hearing the pensive voice of his business associate, Anton Tokarev. The man’s heavy Russian accent pierced through Kyle’s ear like a corkscrew as he inquired about the operation.

  “We are still looking at a minimum forty-eight-hour timeline once I get things underway back at the lab,” said Kyle.

  “Good, the last of the supply crates you requested should arrive the day after tomorrow. They’ll be brought in by boat so we don’t draw too much attention to the area with any more helicopter flights.”

  “But no later than that. I need those dispersal devices and timers.”

  “Yes, yes, my friend. Everything is taken care of. After this is over, we should meet again on my yacht and discuss phase two in more detail.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Anton. Success in life only happens one step at a time and we have a few more stairs to climb.”

  Chapter 14

  Inky black, vibrations under his body, the muffled sound of his breath, and the rough edge of the zip-tie cutting into the flesh around his wrist—these were the things rushing through Bob Schueller’s groggy mind as he awoke from sedation.

  His eyelids fluttered as he forced them open but there was nothing to grasp onto in the
darkness. He tried to probe the depths of his surroundings but no data returned, like a satellite that has been ripped from orbit and is hurtling into an unfathomable galaxy. His ears tried to compensate, stabbing through the stillness which was only interrupted by his garbled exhales that resembled a patient on life-support. For a second, he wondered if he was in a coma, in some kind of induced hypothermia but then he felt the sweat that had formed between his shoulder blades and the cushioning underneath him, his cotton shirt sticking to his frame.

  A vibration followed, rocking his entire body and then the surface beneath him as if he was in a torpedo shaft being propelled forward, followed by a sudden drop. His heart raced and his raspy exhalations increased. He tried to move but the sides were too narrow and his knees couldn’t even flex. Sitting up only resulted in his forehead impacting the low ceiling and he fell back to his supine position. He tried smashing the foot section but only got out a slight heel tap on what sounded like a metal surface. He elbowed the sides around him and noticed they had the ring of thick steel. He began shouting then screaming then finally smacking his head side to side and thrashing, the zip-ties reminding him that their density was greater than his soft flesh. Settling back, he felt another surge of gravity, his stomach dropping and the entire structure angling up so his feet were higher than his head by a foot or more. He was still, trying to pace his breathing and calm his racing mind before panic consumed him. For the first time, he felt a band around the back of his head and noticed it ran past his cheeks and attached to the plastic mask covering his airway. He concentrated on the echo of his exhales, feeling the warm moisture flooding against his nose and mouth with each breath.

  His head was pounding and his thoughts turned to Heathrow Airport—walking up the muggy runway, the smell of the food vendors near the new arrival area, and the blonde-haired woman. That woman—the one with that velvety hair who was so talkative. He remembered their conversation in the café and then escorting her to the parking garage. His stomach still felt bruised from the savage gut punch he received from one of the surly goons who was lying in wait by the limousine. He recalled very little after that and surmised that he must have been drugged from the glass of water the woman gave him during their drive away from the airport.