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

by JT Sawyer

  “You fucking murderer. You…”

  “I know, I know, you want to give me the lecture: ‘You’re a madman—how could you do this. You’ll never get away with this.’”

  Kyle moved around the front of Schueller and took him by the arm, escorting the man inside the rear exit of the L-shaped building. They walked down the damp corridor, moving past several guards who were exiting rooms on the right. Kyle led him into the tiny laboratory which had several stainless-steel tables that were covered with brand new centrifuges, beakers, and microscopes. On the left side of the room was a decontamination chamber that led to a glass-encased quarantine room with a row of empty metal cages.

  Kyle sat down on the edge of the table in the main room, motioning to the still-stunned professor to sit down. “You see, the Beijing virus sample, as I call it, will in its current form devastate the body of anyone infected with it so I already have the means of mass destruction. I obtained this viral strain through my own fieldwork efforts several years ago.” He motioned with his hand towards the window. “Those poor souls out there died much too painfully and over a prolonged period. What I need from you is to refine the virus so it incubates longer in the body, for at least six hours, before being unleashed in a sudden fury, bringing death in seconds.”

  Schueller’s chest was pumping furiously and his hands were trembling. “I’ll not be involved in any part of this regardless of what torture you have in store for me.”

  Kyle sighed then laconically flipped up the laptop screen beside him. A few seconds later, a black-and-white video pulled up of a little girl in a floral-print dress running at a playground. “Your granddaughter is really cute. I mean adorable, much like her mother.” Kyle pointed to a dark-haired woman sitting on a park bench waving to her child. “Oh, and is that your lovely wife?” he said, looking at an older woman who had just walked up, handing the little girl an ice-cream cone. “Why, she doesn’t seem very distraught that her husband is missing.”

  Schueller squirmed in his chair and gasped, bracing his ribs with his hands and leaning over like he was going to vomit.

  “Of course, I had to use this type of emotional recruiting inducement. Torturing you would take too long though I suspect you’d be easy to break, but then your mind would be of little use.” He stood up and waved his hand at the laptop screen like a conductor. “Protecting your own tribe—that most primal of all instincts. It’s so deeply ingrained in our DNA.” Kyle lowered his eyes for a second, nervously twitching his fingers in his pocket. “Until it’s not, when even that has been stripped away.” He quickly leaned over and grabbed Schueller’s chin. “But you can be spared that agony, Professor. You have a choice. A choice that I was never given—never even presented. Do you know what it feels like knowing that you failed the ones you love? That kind of pain can extinguish your soul.”

  Schueller was fixated on the wobbly imagery of his family, tears welling up in his eyes. “And what kind of world will they be inheriting if I do this for you? If I weaponized this virus then they will be doomed along with the rest of humanity.”

  “You’re a man with principals. I like that and, frankly, it’s not something I’d expect in someone who has worked with the agency for so long. In that business you only survive by having a certain moral suppleness.”

  Kyle spun Schueller’s chair away from the video. “Then it appears you have a choice to make: you refuse to work with me and my man Viktor peels apart all three generations of women upon my command or…or you have the power to let them live—which will at least give them a fighting chance in this mad new world that’s about to unfold.”

  Chapter 22

  On the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur sat the Selangor Airfield, where Marco kept his plane, a used Piper PA-31. The eight-seater permitted him to take an entire family or a group of wealthy college kids on holiday from Europe to many of the off-the-beaten-path waterfalls or beaches.

  While Marco was inside the cabin inspecting the overhead gauges for the turbo prop engines, the others gathered outside to load up on food packets, water, and survival supplies.

  “Spent any time in the jungle before—and I don’t mean sipping margaritas beside a pool in Thailand?” said Mitch to Dev.

  “Can’t say I have. Most of our operations over the years have been in Africa or the Middle East. Frankly, I try to spend as little time as possible in the wilds—too many goddamned bugs. Reclining in the hammock in my backyard while reading a book is as close to nature as I want to get and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  Mitch handed her one of the parangs, which was the common tool of choice in the Indonesian jungles. “This is a more elegant version of the New World machete but it works the same. Just make sure you’re always aware of the follow-through or we’ll be fashioning you a peg leg out here.”

  She looked over the fine edge and then rubbed her thumb along the cocobolo wood grain of the handle. Dev did a few circular moves in the air followed by a single thrust. A wicked grin formed on her lips. “This would make a good everyday carry blade if it were just a little smaller so I could conceal it in my jacket.”

  Mitch looked at her, stopping to tie up his pack. “You know, I dig women and weapons but you just look a little too sinister right now.”

  “Don’t worry, cowboy, I won’t hurt you—unless you get on my bad side,” she chuckled while sliding the parang into its leather sheath.

  Marco came over and sidled up next to Dev, tipping the brim of his straw hat up. “Ten minutes, amigos. Hope you’re all up on your current vaccinations—lots of dengue fever in these parts.”

  Dev stood up and grimaced then shot a sideways glance at Mitch. “Did I mention I hate bugs?”

  “You just hang with me, little lady. Old Marco will take care of you.” His gold tooth showed in his crooked smile.

  Dev pushed him away. “I had heard that there were many anthropological curiosities to be found here but I thought all the stone-age relics were in the jungle.” She grabbed her pack and headed to the airplane, giving Marco an irritated glance.

  “Marco, Marco, you still have the same thick skull when it comes to women.”

  “I always figure there’s no harm in trying.”

  “Not until a women belts you across the face anyway.”

  Marco watched Dev walk away, his eyes following the sway of her hips, then he looked back at Mitch. “So you two aren’t knocking boots yet? What’s up with that? You still playin’ the Boy Scout, waiting for a woman with a halo to appear?”

  Mitch just looked at Dev in the distance, his eyes focused on her raven hair and slender neck. “Nah, she doesn’t have to be an angel, though that one’s pretty close to my idea of heaven.”

  “Listen to you, going so soft over a woman. Never thought I’d see that day.”

  ***

  The flight over the dense jungle was surprisingly bumpy and the passengers were constantly grating shoulders against each other or the cabin walls as Marco flew over the undulating ridgelines which resembled emerald vertebrae. Mitch sat in front, reviewing the topographic map while matching up landscape features down below. Flocks of cockatoos and orange hornbills darted from the canopy as the noisy plane flew over. Dev spotted a few of the small Malaysian elephants making their way along a well-worn trail en route to a clearing where others were already wallowing in a liver-shaped mudhole to cool off in the late morning heat.

  An hour later, Marco pointed below to a narrow slit in the canopy, a clearing in the jungle where there had once been a primitive airstrip. “Once we are on the ground, it’s a three-hour hump across the hills to the location—if they’re there at all.”

  “What’s the mileage?” yelled Dev above the din of the grumbling engine.

  “Only six miles but it’s gonna be a bitch of a hike with the undergrowth in these parts.” Marco craned his head back towards her and grinned. “Plus there’s a fuckin’ cobra under every bush.”

  Dev’s face flushed slightly and she diverted her attention ou
t the window.

  “Of course, you and I can always stay with the plane,” he said with a grin, winking playfully at Mitch before turning around.

  “You got a parachute in here or do I have to endure the rest of this trip with you?” she said.

  Marco slugged Mitch on the arm. “She’s got sass—I can see why you’re totin’ her around.”

  Mitch just shook his head and hoped this leg of the operation would be quick. He admired Marco for his fighting prowess and tactical abilities but the man was grating on his nerves again like he’d done a thousand times before when they served together. He knew they weren’t likely to find such a trusted local guide and the man’s services were paramount to gaining further intel. He just couldn’t wait for the plane to touch down so he could get out of the increasingly cramped quarters.

  The touchdown was rough as the tires hit numerous tree roots and muddy potholes along the primitive runway, which looked like it hadn’t been used in months. After they landed, Marco and Mitch covered the plane with a camouflage net and interspersed some foliage into the gaps.

  The path through the jungle was along an old trading route once used by the natives. It followed the steep hillside to the north and then plummeted into a jade-green valley beside a river. Within the first mile, the group was soaked in sweat and their shirts revealed hundreds of fabric lacerations from the thorny foliage. Marco led the way, his parang skillfully hacking a limb aside every twenty feet while the others followed single-file. The air was rife with the smell of rotting vegetation and the humidity was like a smothering wet towel that made each inhalation a labor. With the triple-canopy above them obscuring the sky, only a few slivers of sunlight managed to drive through. The cacophony of monkeys was deafening but it was occasionally drowned out by the sound of intermittent rapids from the many jungle tributaries that ran through the region.

  Two miles in, Marco paused at a bend in the overgrown trail and slammed his parang into a tree trunk. He took a swig of water from his canteen and then yanked the GPS unit from his shirt pocket. Despite the large man’s size, he had hacked tirelessly for the past hour without revealing a hint of fatigue. A few minutes later, he tucked the device away and looked back at Mitch, who had also been analyzing his own GPS. The two men nodded in confirmation that they were progressing along the correct route.

  Marco looked back at the others and waved them over next to where he was standing. “You see this vine here—this is the equivalent of wild ginger found in the States. In fact it can be used in the same way for cooking and such.” He pointed to an exposed section that had a thumb-sized protrusion growing from the side. “When this vine is cut, chewed, or disturbed it starts to grow a new tendril from the wound. Now someone like me who knows a little about the jungle can tell that this cut was made two days ago by the growth pattern of that little knob sticking out.”

  “That doesn’t look like a deer chomped on it,” said Dev.

  “Good observation, darlin’. This is from a parang and there aren’t too many natives in these parts anymore so I’m guessing it might be connected with the folks we’re looking for.” He moved close to the vine and inhaled the aroma. “Damn sloppy machete work if you ask me.” Marco lowered one hand, scratching his groin, then looked at David. “Forgot to bring some baby powder. Damn jungle rot is always making my sack itch. You wait, it’ll happen to you too.”

  David tried to contain his disgust at the man’s uncouth behavior while looking at Petra, both men giving each other a who-is-this-idiot look.

  Marco stepped back and surveyed their surroundings and then moved over to an area that had a streak of sunlight piercing through the canopy while the others followed. He stopped and removed his pack then leaned against a large tree.

  “Alright, let’s take five to rehydrate and adjust the kink in your underwear.”

  “How much farther?” asked Petra, who was dragging a shirt sleeve across his grimy forehead.

  “We’ll hike for another half mile and then make camp before sundown.” Marco glance up at the canopy, studying the movement of a monkey that was precariously perched on a bent limb. “I’d say we’re about halfway, Leonardo.”

  Petra and the others gave the burly man a puzzled look.

  “Doesn’t he look like a fucking Israeli Leonardo DiCaprio?” said Marco as he glanced over at Mitch then back at Petra. “Shit, son, if I had your looks I wouldn’t be hoofing it through this green hell lookin’ for bad guys. I’d be swinging in a hammock in Maui, knee-deep in beach bunnies.”

  Petra let out a sigh and then smirked. “I’ll be sure to get with a Hollywood agent when I get back from this mission. And maybe I’ll see if they’re in need of an annoying sidekick with a forty-six-inch waistline while I’m at it.”

  Marco’s face grew solemn like a bull before a Matador. The large man swiftly removed his parang from the tree and moved forward a foot. “How ’bout I pound you into the ground like a bamboo stake.”

  Mitch moved between the two men, palming Petra’s hand which was over his sheathed blade. “Easy, fellas, the jungle heat is a little intense right now. Let’s cool off some.” He moved towards Marco and yanked him away by the arm. The two men walked off twenty feet towards the river.

  “Look, my old friend, these folks—they’re new to the jungle and not as hardened as you are. This is probably a little out of their element so go easy on ’em, alright.”

  Marco let out a deep breath and threw his massive shoulders back. “Yeah, sure.”

  “You’ve gotten us this far. I’m not worried about you and me, frankly.” He paused, pulling Marco closer and whispering, “But these Israelis are used to running ops in the fucking desert, know what I mean.”

  “Right, right.”

  Marco looked at Mitch, his narrow eyes relaxing from their former fury. “Anything for you, Mitch, you know that.”

  “OK, now, how much further do we have on this trail?”

  “Mmm…a few more miles and then we follow the river’s edge to a small log bridge as I recall from the directions my contact gave me. Assuming it’s still there after the last floods. If we can get across on that, then it should only be another half mile or so to the old encampment.”

  Mitch unfurled the laminated topographic section from his cargo pocket and pointed to a narrow section of the river. “Is this the region you’re talking about?”

  Marco slid his grubby finger along the contour lines and nodded then he abruptly pulled it back, his eyes shooting upward at the canopy. “The monkeys—their chatter has changed.”

  Mitch looked around but didn’t share Marco’s intimate understanding of the sounds.

  “It’s gonna downpour very soon,” Marco said. “We’ll be able to refill our canteens which is good but it’s going to turn the trail to snot. We should push on and find a place to sack out for the night.”

  Chapter 23

  Crenna peered out the window of the small cargo plane, his eyes trying to penetrate the inky jungle canopy below on the island of Sumatra. He had used the sub-dermal GPS tracker that Von had inserted into his forearm. It was standard protocol for Crenna’s field operatives though outside of agency knowledge.

  At a remote airstrip, he rendezvoused with a team of Egyptian mercenaries that he used on occasion for specialized wet work. Their dark complexion allowed them to blend in better than his European teams and these were men who’d loyally served him for the past six years. He’d made the acquaintance of the team leader, Masala, a clean-cut fighter with a flattened nose, during his days running kill squads for the Jordanian government, when he was on loan from the agency.

  Now, he needed their services once more to contain a rapidly escalating situation with Kyle. Crenna rubbed the sides of his temples, trying to ease his tension. It was still possible to cover his treasonous betrayal if he could locate Kyle’s center of operations and eliminate everyone involved, including Von, whose location revealed itself as a red blip on Crenna’s GPS tracker. Either Von was in hiding o
r he had been captured, given the stationary image of the signal over the past two days. Crenna knew if it was the latter, then Kyle would fill the young agent’s head with his side of the story in order to sway his resolve. Crenna sighed at the thought of losing Von. He’d become an outstanding agent and protégé but Von might soon be privy to what happened in Beijing years ago which meant the man was nearing his expiration date.

  The moon was rising and spreading light upon the undulating treetops below. Crenna looked at the GPS unit and knew the drop zone was approaching. He unbuckled and made his way to the back, passing five surly mercenaries who were busy doing a last-minute gear check on their parachutes. Crenna hunched over Masala and whispered in his ear, “Remember, retrieve any pertinent intel and laptops then burn the place to the ground along with anyone still inside.”

  Masala nodded, giving him a thumbs-up as a light on the wall turned from red to green. The large figure stood, dwarfing Crenna, and motioned to his men to line up as the rear cargo ramp lowered. Crenna grabbed onto a looped handhold near the ceiling, the humid wind whipping his flossy gray hair around. The other men filed past him, jumping off the platform over the treeline below.

  ***

  The jungle floor came up fast and Masala just cleared the edge of the forest, landing in an oval-shaped swath of grass. He had done his share of airborne operations when he worked in the Egyptian Elite Forces but he never liked night drops in the jungle where you could get hung up in a tree or slam into a shallow riverbed. His other men touched down nearby and they quickly re-assembled by a thick cluster of young palm trees. Masala knelt down and opened up his small tablet, studying the faint green screen for the location of the former Japanese base where his targets were located according to Crenna’s hastily provided intel.

  “Three kilometers to go and we’ve got five hours until sunrise.” He motioned to the man next to him to take point while he tucked his device into a cargo pocket on his pants. He stood up, taking in a deep breath and feeling the assault of mosquitos already homing in on his neck. Masala preferred more open landscapes like the desert but he went wherever the American sent him. One short gig with the old man and Masala wouldn’t have to work again for nine months. He dropped his usual bodyguarding work when the American with the raspy voice called, identifying himself solely by the phrase, “I’m calling about a new invoice from Cairo.”