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

by JT Sawyer

  “I used to be allergic to shrimp when I was younger but I’m not worried about that out here,” said Daryl.

  “And I broke out in hives once after getting bit by mosquitos as a kid,” said Julie.

  “That’s not the same as anaphylaxis,” said Lisa in an annoyed tone.

  No one else responded and Mitch leaned over to her. “Why don’t you take the Epi-pen and Daryl, you can hold on to the map.”

  “And Wyatt Earp gets the gun and tells us how high to jump,” said Nicholas, who greedily grabbed up his items.

  Mitch shook his head, jamming his gear into his BDU pockets and adjusting the hank of rope around his shoulder. “As I recall, Earp used to fancy breaking the nose of anyone in his group who questioned him in front of others—imagine that.”

  As Mitch headed to a nearby deer trail and began walking north, he wondered what kind of chess game they had just entered into against their own volition. Since he had awoken at the concrete wall he knew there weren’t any hostiles in that direction. Are they waiting along the route north or are there booby-traps lining the way? Are they planning to pick us off one by one or just placing obstacles in our way so we can’t make it out before the flood? He had no idea what to expect and each footfall was tense as his senses probed every sound, sight, and smell for something out of place. He had been in enough life-and-death situations before to know that there were always unknown variables that could affect the outcome but nothing like this—nothing with so many bizarre occurrences that made him unable to fathom the outcome they were going to face. How many of us will make it out of this canyon?

  Walking along, he thought of Dev and how she was on her way back to Israel, reclining in a temperature-controlled airplane while sipping on a Coke. How he longed to be with her. But he forced his concentration back to the unpleasant reality that he was in, feeling like a fly in a spiderweb. This sounds like some kind of bullshit exercise the military would have undertaken when I was in the Army. A survival game to see how many outcomes were possible. Then a bunch of think-tank guys would spend the next two years analyzing the results to publish in a pricey government research report that no one would ever read.

  He clenched his fists and focused his vision on the trail ahead as rain began drenching the forest. Whatever happens, I’ll get to the bottom of it but this trip is gonna be a dirty, cold son-of-a-bitch. I’ll get through it and destroy the bastards that did this. His mental haze had loosened its grip and was replaced by anger, which is what he knew he’d need to push through whatever lay ahead.

  Chapter 10

  On a heavily wooded finger of rock jutting out above the beginning of Animas Canyon, Alaric Mondragal leaned his suppressed M4 against the thick trunk of a spruce tree and rubbed a kink in his neck. The effort of placing all the limp bodies in the canyon that morning and the hike to the abandoned forest service canyon below had worn him out. His instructions for the final phase of this elaborate event were coming to a close. Soon, the rainstorm would pass and, with the coming of dawn, the last victim would be dead according to Kruger’s plan. Alaric and the others had been told not to interfere in any way with what was unfolding in the canyon. No contact for forty-eight hours until the signal from the cabin below was received. He wondered just what was happening in the wilderness below: was it a game of cat-and-mouse with Roan Kruger picking them off one by one or were they attempting to make it out of the canyon together while the master assassin dispatched them in one orchestrated chess move at the end after they’d suffered in the torturous terrain?

  Alaric thought back to the phone message he’d received from Kruger three days earlier as plans were finalized before the abductions. The computer-modulated voice of Kruger emanating through Alaric’s headset had been clear but unusually monotone.

  Insert all six unconscious bodies along with the dead body of Mulhere into the lower recess of the canyon by the dam foundation using the hydraulic winch system. You already have the current location for each person and recommendations on how best to subdue them, taking care to leave each person physically sound. Place the backpack in a small cave, a hundred meters to the east of the drop-off zone. The pack contents are complete. This entire event will transpire according to my design over the next 48 hours. I will kill the last victim before sunrise on Monday, a few hours before the canyon is flooded. At 0500 on that morning, you will meet me at the old cabin below Fischer Point.

  The voicemail was an automated message but it was preceded by Kruger’s authentication number used in his business communications so Alaric had no reason to doubt it. He simply wished to talk with his old mentor again. Soon, he would head down the trail and see what was required of him. The floodgates at the Bureau of Reclamation headquarters, miles to the north by the Animas River, would be opened later in the day by the oblivious workers. This would be the finishing touch that would flood Animas Canyon and erase any signs of the bodies. Alaric marveled at the end game but was still hazy on the details of what was unraveling below. For now, he trusted in Kruger’s meticulous planning and looked forward to the next sunrise.

  He walked up to a small wedge of rock that thrust out over the canyon. Sitting beside a single Douglas fir tree was Marcus, the other member of his three-man team, who was keeping watch on the trails below.

  “Anything in sight?” said Alaric, squatting down on one knee.

  The younger man with an anemic goatee shook his head then flung a small stick over the edge. “So, we sit here in the rain for the next day in case anyone comes along?”

  He chuckled, tapping the man on the shoulder. “You’re probably wishing you’d taken the duty at the old woman’s house right now, aren’t you?”

  “I’m guessing most of the people we placed by the cement wall will be dead by midnight. That’s how I’d do it—wait until nightfall.”

  “From what I gleaned from Kruger’s message, he has to be down there following them, waiting for the right moment to be the shrewd predator he is and remove his quarry.”

  “Why would he be so secretive about this and avoid contact with us? What makes you so sure he’s down there? Maybe he just rigged the place with booby-traps so they couldn’t make it out before the flood and he’s long gone?” Marcus leaned back, pushing the brim of his hat up. “Hell, Kruger’s a tough guy but running through all that brush at his age…pff…you can have that shit. If it were me, I’d just rely on IEDs planted in their vehicles or homes like we’ve done in the past. That’d be a lot less effort.”

  Alaric rubbed the salt-and-pepper whiskers on his chin, looking over a patch of fog that had settled over the center of the canyon. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen but you can assume that Kruger will see to it that they suffer considerably for what they did to Anton. As for his endurance, he could outrun and outfight either of us, I think. Never met a man with his Roman constitution before.”

  Alaric pulled the collar up on his coat, trying to keep out the biting wind. “I’m heading back to the vehicle to change out the batteries on the radios and check in with Jonas at the house. He should be finishing up with wiping down the house and packing up the remainder of our gear.”

  Before leaving, Alaric reached into his wool overcoat and removed a palm-sized GPS tracker. He noticed that the six green blips were on the move, only a few miles north of the lower dam wall where he’d deposited the former FBI agent. He smiled at the thought of how the people below were going to suffer, a smidgen of chewing tobacco clinging to his lower teeth. He scanned the misty treetops below and marveled at the breathtaking vista of raw wilderness. Shit, what a million-dollar view, even in this rain. This isn’t such a bad deal after all—a few days of back-breaking work and then a big payoff at the end.

  Chapter 11

  With the canyon light diminishing from the dark storm clouds above, the group walked in silence as Mitch led the way over the difficult topography which alternated between swaths of fallen timber and long stretches of car-sized boulders. Their progress during the first
mile was slowed by Julie and Nicholas, who kept slipping on the sketchy terrain. Julie’s clunky Italian fashion boots seemed to get hung up on every tree root while Nicholas stumbled along like he’d just exited a bar after happy hour. The floss-like strands of silver hair adorning his follically-challenged scalp kept dropping over his nose, causing him to huff out an irritated snort.

  Slowing his pace so he could keep everyone together, Mitch kept wondering if he was in some kind of nightmare. Who would have the power to pull off something like this? Is the older Kruger behind it? He’d certainly possess the motive and ability to orchestrate it. Or is some other player involved—maybe the mob that Anton Kruger was connected with? Shit, this is insane and no one knows I’ll even be overdue ’cause they think I’m visiting Mulhere. I wish Dev was here to help cover my back. Better yet, I wish I was with her anywhere else besides this canyon.

  As it started to rain, he stopped and glanced at the other hikers behind him. He was worried that their lack of suitable clothing would speed up the effects of exposure. Mitch was still clad in his wool jacket, pants, and hunting boots. His layers would be sufficient to endure a cold night but most of the group were dressed in cotton—jeans and sweatshirts along with tennis shoes or Oxfords. Daryl was dressed in fishing attire with a vest that would afford some protection and Gore-Tex pants. Brian seemed better equipped, with leather boots and the rugged outerwear typical of law-enforcement personnel. Out of all of the people on this macabre outing, Brian was the only one that Mitch was unfamiliar with. The man had a gruff demeanor, which wasn’t surprising given his occupation, but he was very aloof. Mitch couldn’t read the man with his stone-faced expression and that made him uneasy. Still, anyone who was a prison warden would be tough and Mitch figured he might be dependable in a tight spot.

  Mitch asked Nicholas and Julie to walk behind him so the rest of the group weren’t constantly waiting for them. While continuing on, Mitch kept studying the muddy substrate for tracks but if there were any, they had already been washed away from the last few hours of intense rain.

  “How much further is it to that cabin?” bleated Julie, who paused for a second to flick a glob of mud off the thick square heel of her leather boot.

  “You’re kidding, right? We haven’t even gone that far,” said Nicholas. “We just started walking an hour ago and Ranger Rick here is stopping to look at every flower petal.”

  Mitch ignored the latter comment as he ducked under a large fallen tree. “Another eight miles or so.”

  “I thought we determined from the map that the cabin was only eight miles from the cave,” said Julie.

  “As the crow flies, that’s true, but you have to factor in elevation gains along with time spent maneuvering around boulder fields and other obstacles.”

  “So this nature hike has just begun,” she said with a sigh.

  Mitch stopped and turned around to stare at her. He glanced over her fancy red fingernails and pleated slacks. “You probably never even ventured up that canyon where I tracked Kruger for two days, did you?”

  She brushed a lock of her wet hair from her nose. “I…uhm…I did my homework and checked out the place, of course. I hired a local guide to take me to that little shack where the shootout took place—where you wounded Kruger.”

  “You mean, he flew you into the site so you could snap off some photos before returning to your hotel room to belt out another chapter of your book.” Mitch continued walking while shaking his head. “I can count on one hand the number of journalists I’ve met over the years who go the distance to get their story straight. It’s a lot easier to recycle what’s online or pore over a few crime scene photos from the comfort of their desk.”

  “I won an award for journalistic excellence a few years ago, pal.”

  “Well, you probably blew your chances for hitting that jackpot again with your book,” said Nicholas. “I’ve never read such a trite piece of excrement in my life and I’ve seen an awful lot come through my law practice over the years. I only forced myself to sift through it to make sure I wasn’t misrepresented.”

  “Call it what you want, the readers and the Associated Press seem to think otherwise. I did my research and stuck my neck out in Eastern Europe trying to uncover Kruger’s story. Hardly what I’d call ‘poring over a few photos at my desk.’”

  “So, you’re telling me that you really buy into the whole ghost story about Roan Kruger, Anton’s father—that he’s alive?” said Nicholas.

  Mitch stopped atop a hummock of earth and turned around. “I delved into the old man myself when I was working with the bureau and didn’t find anything conclusive except a dated photo of someone reputed to be Kruger. Until today, I would have called bullshit on the rumor, but now, who knows.”

  “The older Kruger had a history of playing the waiting game,” said Julie. “One story from Bulgaria mentioned how he once took three years to plot out a revenge killing for someone in his organization who had been working with an undercover police informant. That’s a long time to stay focused and contain your rage.”

  “But still, you never found evidence of the man after 2014. That’s the last time he showed up on the radar, according to your writings,” said Nicholas.

  “You sure remember a lot of the details of Julie’s book,” said Mitch.

  “The curse of a photographic memory,” he replied.

  “There were four theories my editor and I came up with on Roan Kruger: that he died of natural causes; that he was murdered; that he retired; or that he just went underground again until he deemed it necessary to surface, for money or personal reasons.”

  Nicholas stumbled on a small rock and then corrected his balance. “And let’s say Kruger was behind what’s going on here—why not just snipe us in front of our homes instead of staging some elaborate and risky undertaking like this? If the guy’s some bad-ass killer for hire, he could just dispatch each of us at his choosing.”

  “Because he was never that kind of killer,” said Julie. “He was about relishing the job, and he was known for meticulous planning on a compulsive scale—one that bordered on the theatrical. Why, one time it was said…”

  A shout from Brian in the rear cut Julie off. Everyone stopped and saw the surly warden meander off the trail towards a waist-thick tree that had a steel audio speaker bolted to the trunk.

  Chapter 12

  The group flowed together towards Brian’s location and stood below the large aspen tree. A rusty speaker was attached four feet from the ground and had two bolts driven through side clamps. The blue paint on the speaker was weathered and some of the wiring had been chewed through by rodents, whose droppings littered the top of the metal platform. The device reminded Mitch of the audio devices found on military installations that were used for making announcements.

  “What do you make of this?” said Daryl, who stood with his hands in his vest pockets.

  “It’s old, like it’s been out here for some time,” said Brian.

  Nicholas stepped forward, seemingly relieved there was some sign of civilization amidst the monotonous tangle of trees and boulders. “Maybe it’s connected with that ranger cabin—a radio relay or transmission device of some kind.”

  Mitch circled around the tree. On the opposite side, he noticed a battery box and small transmitter antenna that emanated on an angle towards the sky. He flipped open the weatherproof plastic lid and inspected the four nine-volt batteries, then he walked around to the other side.

  “I remember when I was stationed at Fort Lewis in Washington, the Army Corps of Engineers had built a small water impoundment area for the town of Yakima to help control flooding. They put up a bunch of audio devices like this designed to drive out wildlife. The high-pitched noise blared for several weeks prior to flooding the impoundment. I’d say that’s what we’re looking at here.”

  “Ya think it can be used to send out a message?” said Lisa, whose weathered fingers kept nervously stroking the rock in her grip.

  Mitch res
ted his hand on the trunk, studying the unit and then smirking. “Nah, this is one way. They probably set up a bunch of these throughout this canyon and had a handheld remote up top to switch ’em on. Forest Service must’ve forgot to pull this one out when the dam was completed.”

  “Or didn’t care to. Such is the ineptitude of government employees—bunch of circus monkeys,” said Nicholas.

  Mitch walked back around to the other side and removed the four batteries, placing them in his coat pocket. Then he grabbed the diminutive electrical wires and forcefully yanked out several three-foot sections. On the ground beside his feet, he saw the broken shards of several glass beer bottles. He bent down and took one of the larger pieces and carefully tucked it into his coat pocket for use later as an improvised cutting edge.

  “You gonna fashion a ham radio and call in an FBI chopper to our location?” said Nicholas.

  “Never know when something like this might come in handy. Plus, the wire can be used for a primitive garrote if someone gets too lippy,” said Mitch as he drew the tip of his thumb across his throat while looking at Nicholas.

  “Haha,” he said. “I know your kind—seen it in the courtroom a thousand times, including during your testimony in the Kruger trial. You’re what I call the Paladin type—someone who needs to be on a quest to prove to himself that there is still good in the world worth fighting for.”

  “There is plenty of good in the world—just not much of it found amongst lawyers whose conscience extends as far as their wallet demands,” Mitch said, moving in until he was only a foot away from Nicholas’ face. “And yeah, I’m on a quest alright—to get out of this canyon before it’s underwater.”

  Mitch glanced down at the man’s lace-up Oxford shoes and then at the slender hands with their manicured nails. He wasn’t sure if he despised the memory of Kruger as much as he did his courtroom interactions with Nicholas during the trial in Denver. The man seemed more like a slick conman than an upstanding prosecutor with his pearly smile that he always presented to the media slugs slithering around the courthouse steps. Mitch had even questioned if Nicholas’ flamboyance and celebrity posturing during the trial was going to detract from Kruger getting everything he deserved to have slapped at him.