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

by JT Sawyer

  She heard the ringtone of her phone on the table next to Brenner. “Can I answer that? My family back home is probably worried about me.”

  “It’s been buzzing constantly.” He grabbed it and handed it to her. “Stay in here with that and absolutely no word to the media on what’s going on.” He adjusted his felt-brimmed hat and then headed for the exit, pointing to one of his deputies at the far end of the tent. “I’ve gotta check on how things are going in the house so just stay put here and ask my man for help if you need anything.”

  She nodded in appreciation and then tapped in the password for her phone, quickly scanning the dozens of messages from Petra which ranged from intel snippets on his research into Kruger to concerned pleas for her to respond, heavily pronounced by exclamation points.

  Dev found an image of the old photo Petra provided which showed a man in his mid-fifties wearing a trenchcoat and brimmed hat walking outside of a bank in Switzerland. Only part of his lower face was visible. The much younger woman had her arm interlocked with the man’s but her head was turned to the right, looking at something.

  Dev scanned the rest of the texts for any enhanced images or details on the senior Kruger but found nothing. She speed-dialed Petra’s number, catching him at work in the mid-afternoon, Israel time.

  “Damn, it’s good to hear from you—I was getting worried,” he said.

  “Just some issues dealing with the law enforcement here. No wonder Mitch said leaving government work was good for his health. Do you have any new leads for me?”

  “The laptop of the former Stasi guy contained a lot of encrypted files, most of which our team has hacked through. The most significant one has the transmitter coordinates for six GPS trackers that are labeled according to individual names, with Mitch being one of them. I researched the rest of the names, cross-referencing them with Mitch and the Kruger case last year. They all have ties to one another, having met each other or interacted with one another at some point, except the warden.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “Nothing unusual jumps out. I mean, he was in charge at the time Anton Kruger died in prison but the warden’s record appears to be clean otherwise. Very squeaky clean, in fact.”

  Dev tried to recall Mitch saying anything about the warden but just drew a blank. “Keep tracking down anything on this woman with Kruger. Maybe she’s involved somehow. And let me know if you can locate the source of the GPS signals.”

  “What is your plan now?” he said with a hint of concern in his voice.

  She knew Petra was asking more as a friend and less as a work colleague. She felt like her leg was shackled to the table and was unsure what else she could do to speed things along with the investigation. The fact of the matter was that she had to stay put and wait for a breakthrough on Mitch’s whereabouts. Brenner seemed like a solid guy but she had to tread lightly around Roth, who was hell-bent on following his own agenda, whatever that was.

  “Just keep in touch with me and let me know when you’ve got something. And one more thing—do some digging around on Ed Roth.”

  ***

  Two hours later, as the crime scene and forensics personnel were still examining Mulhere’s property, Ed Roth stepped out onto the back porch away from the bustle inside. Despite the cold temperature, he felt a bead of sweat roll down the back of his neck. He pondered what bizarre twist of fate had led to the disappearance of Barbara Mulhere and several others connected with the Kruger case. He wondered if it was linked to his doings at the start of the Kruger manhunt last summer. I was too careful to cover my tracks with those counterfeit plates last summer. There’s just no way anyone could have known I’d taken them. And if they did, why wait for almost a year?

  He thought back to the night that Kruger was admitted to the hospital. Roth was the first federal agent on the scene when Kruger emerged into a semi-conscious state and he was eager to learn the whereabouts of the rumored counterfeiting master plates that were supposed to have been in Kruger’s possession. Roth had read through a case file on Kruger that was sent down from a DOJ intel analyst in Denver that night and he was intrigued by the criminal. Roth didn’t see any harm in doing a little preliminary questioning before the Denver guys arrived; plus, he felt his blood pressure rising at the annoying thought that they were on their way to Durango to dip their meddling fingers into his domain.

  Roth had the young deputy wait outside the room while he tried to question the heavily sedated criminal. All he could discern was that Kruger had stowed the plates in a false panel in the passenger’s side door which had remained intact during the vehicle rollover.

  Roth knew about the net worth of such an object on the black market and decided to see if Kruger was telling the truth. Roth had his chance to check the vehicle while the rest of the law-enforcement agencies focused on the aftermath of the manhunt in the ensuing weeks and after he discovered that Kruger was unable to recall his first few hours in the hospital due to mismanagement of his pain medication by the admitting physician.

  When things had calmed down enough in Durango, Roth made his way to the federal car impoundment lot and examined the wreck, finding the counterfeiting master plates. His withering conscience almost won out and he considered turning them in to the DOJ guys but he held on to them instead. Once he learned of Kruger’s sentencing, he decided to wait on locating a buyer for a few months until things settled down in the news. Roth saw to it that he was the federal case officer in charge who handled the transportation from the courthouse in downtown Denver to the state penitentiary. He presented Kruger with an ultimatum: release the name of his buyer in the U.S. or he would suffer at the hands of rival crime family members incarcerated at the prison.

  Kruger followed through and Roth found himself proceeding forward with his plans. Only there was too much attention put on his agency with the publication of a scathing article in the LA Times by a pesky woman reporter who was doing too much digging on the internecine conflict between the federal agencies involved in the manhunt. Roth decided to lie low for a while longer until he discovered that the reporter had put in a request to speak with Kruger for a book she was writing.

  Within twenty-four hours, Roth made certain that Kruger was found knifed to death by Serbian gang members outside the shower room. He’d paid off one of the warden’s men to make sure there were no guards in the area for several minutes during the attack. A few weeks later, the guard was found dead at home in his swimming pool from an alcohol-related head injury inflicted by Roth.

  With Kruger gone, Roth’s chance for selling the plates to the buyer dissipated like smoke in the wind. The news article drew too much attention to Durango and the Kruger case, placing the U.S. Marshals office in the spotlight. Roth would find a way to sell the counterfeit plates eventually. He was in too deep now to turn around and had to play the waiting game.

  Roth’s attention shot back to the present as he saw Dev step near the entrance of the canvas tent by the house. Damn, why’d she have to go meddling in all of this? Fucking Mitch Kearns is a sliver in my ass just like before! That prick waltzes up here from Phoenix last year and lays a claim on my territory, telling me and my guys how it’s going to be because he’s some shit-hot tracker. Hell, Anton might’ve gotten away and I could’ve dealt directly with him to sell the goddamned plates back to his group.

  He cleared his throat and spit on the grass. Mitch got what was coming to him—probably so did the rest of those fuckers who got plucked away by whoever’s behind this. He turned to walk inside, taking one last look at Dev but trying not to let his disdain for her presence show. Just hope this doesn’t lead back to me in any way.

  Chapter 17

  With the first rays of dawn piercing the dense canopy of the forest, Nicholas pried open his eyes. He had wandered too far from the log shelter and had become disoriented, eventually wandering in circles for hours. In the end, he was only three hundred yards from the others but it could’ve been miles for all he knew. The space blanke
t that he had gotten from the backpack earlier had been his salvation, keeping the cold and rain at bay long enough to fend off severe hypothermia. He stood up from the hunched position he’d tried to sleep in under a tangle of tree roots not far from a precipitous ledge near a side canyon. His knees creaked like the rusty hinges on an old door and he arched his back in a stretch. Then he walked out to the edge of the drop-off and unzipped his fly, relieving himself. He watched the steaming liquid cascade off the cold rocks thirty feet below while ravens in cliffside nests squawked in protest.

  When he finished, he stepped back a few feet and glanced over the vista of jumbled boulders below. From his waistline, he removed the one thing that had fueled his confidence during the long night—the .357 he had slipped away from Mitch while he was busy starting the fire. “Fucking Boy Scout—hate guys like that. Just a super jock who always gets the girl and has an answer for everything,” he muttered as he fondled the revolver like it was a stolen antiquity. He ran his thumb over the trigger and then flipped open the cylinder, inspecting the ends of the five remaining rounds. He spun it again and again, watching it like a gambler hovering over a roulette wheel. Nicholas shoved the cylinder back in place and held the gun out, centering the front sights on a blue jay perched on a distant branch. His arm grew fatigued and he was surprised at the weight of the weapon. He had only been shooting once in younger days with his stepfather and had walked away with an appreciation for vodka and sexist jokes that were a crucial part of the afternoon lesson in making him into a man.

  With the .357 in his possession, Nicholas could march onward without the others. He would make it to the cabin and snipe any bad guys following him. Then, he’d call for help and be there to greet the reporters, the pistol tucked in his belt and a few streaks of mud adorning his face.

  The blue jay in the distance stopped chirping, its monotonous birdsong ceasing to echo off the canyon walls. Nicholas scrunched his eyebrows together, trying to discern the meaning. Then he heard muffled footfalls behind him as something moved delicately over the damp pine needles.

  He turned, still holding the gun at his side, but the slashing action of the blade was already driving forward into his ribcage. He gasped and curled forward, the revolver clanking on the rocks and slipping into a deep crevice. Another downward strike drove into the soft flesh above his clavicle, the tip going deep enough to penetrate the aorta. He looked into the eyes of the attacker as he staggered back, the vein in his neck throbbing as the last few pulses of blood rushed through it.

  “You—why?” he garbled out, blood spewing forth from his wound.

  “For Anton, you greedy fool.”

  Nicholas felt himself teetering on the precipice of rocks as the glinting blade, alight in the rising sun, sliced across his trachea. Both carotids were severed and arterial blood pumped out like a broken waterhose. His network of thought and reasoning dissipated as he tumbled back over the ledge; only the last surge of pain emanating out from his failing nervous system reminded him that he was still contained in his body. For a brief second, he felt his figure lighten before it was shattered on the rocks below. His blood-rimmed eyes blinked one time with laborious effort as the blue jay flew over him and his last breath sputtered out from his lips.

  Chapter 18

  A continuous drip of water from the log ceiling above was tapping on the shoulder of Mitch’s wool coat as he awoke around the smoldering bed of embers in the firepit. He sat up fitfully, pressing his back into the logs behind him and regaining his awareness. He shook his head, hoping he’d wake up next to Dev and then saw that he was still trapped in this canyon hell. Dammit, I must have dozed off for a while. He looked outside the entrance and saw Daryl’s body beneath a low-hanging branch of a spruce tree. It reminded him of when a mountain lion kills a deer and buries the remains under a bed of pine needles, coming back every few hours to feed. Only what other scheme is the predator planning—and who the hell is the predator in the first place?

  He glanced around the inside of the shelter but the tracks were jumbled. Affixing his gaze outside again, he could see a series of fresh prints going off in opposite directions. The tread patterns were crisp and clear without the dimpling of rain drops in them which indicated they had been made recently since the rain had ceased just before sunrise. He stood up and made his way to the exit, noticing Lisa sitting on a flat rock slab a few feet away. Her knees were tucked into her chest as her hands clutched her muddy jeans.

  “Where is everyone?” said Mitch.

  “Out using the bathroom. I just got back myself. Nobody wants to be too close to one another so we all headed off in different directions though Julie and Brian were talking about hiking out on their own.”

  Mitch could barely hear her, her voice was so plaintive and wispy.

  “You OK—I mean, you feeling a little warmer?” He could see she was devastated by her actions in treating Daryl. Her facial expression seemed wax-like, as if she was a remnant of her former self, a part of her having perished along with her patient.

  “Yeah, sure.” She didn’t look at him and just lowered her forehead onto her knees.

  The wet needles on the evergreen trees were sparkling like a forest chandelier as the rising sun illuminated the beads of precipitation around them. In any other setting, it would have been a miraculous sight to behold but Mitch shoved away the aesthetic image and scanned the tracks near him again, walking outward in a concentric circle. No signs of Nicholas—wonder if he pushed on or is just lost? He saw where Julie had walked off to the left, stepping over some ferns rather than stomping them. Brian had walked straight ahead, his stride faster than usual as he plowed through a row of wild lilies, their purple heads trampled into the mud.

  Mitch went back inside the log structure and drank the remaining water from his bottle then tried to choke down some food from an MRE but it tasted like chalk, making his stomach more unsettled. He went back out to Lisa and placed his hand on her shoulder.

  “I need your help, before the others return.”

  “I can’t help anyone.”

  “Yes, you can. There isn’t much time. Come with me.” He held her arm and motioned for her to follow him behind the log structure. He needed to remove the implant in his back and felt like she was the only person he could rely on. Given the events which had unfolded since he met her, he was sure Lisa wasn’t involved in this crime.

  When they were far enough from the shelter, he sat down on a mossy log and removed his jacket then his three layers of shirts until he was bare-chested. “You need to pry out whatever is in my back.”

  “What? We don’t even know what it is. It could be something that can kill you. Besides, I don’t have a scalpel.”

  From his coat pocket, he removed the sliver of glass that he had collected earlier near the metal speaker. “Now you have a scalpel.”

  She pushed his hand away. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m the last person you want working on you.”

  He held her wrist, gently squeezing. “That wasn’t your doing, Lisa. Whoever is behind this killed Daryl. It wasn’t you. I happen to think you’re a good person.”

  She offered a lilted smile, her eyes showing some life again. “Thanks, but I…”

  “Look, if this is a tracking device, and I believe that’s what it is, then I need to remove it so I can have a chance at getting the upper hand today. Having them know my whereabouts is not going to help with that.” He moved her arm back towards her. “We don’t have much time before the others return so I need your precision surgical skills to do this. Besides, I ain’t double-jointed.” He winked at her to lighten the mood.

  “Alright, but I’m not going to be able to cover the incision with anything. This is real caveman stuff we’re doing here.”

  “Already got that handled,” he said, pulling out a golf-ball-sized glob of spruce sap that he had collected on the walk over. “This will make a good improvised bandaid, plus it’s antiseptic. It’s an old mountain-man solution.”

/>   “You constantly amaze me,” she said as she stood behind him and began looking over the incision site. “This is going to be a tiny cut and shouldn’t be too bad but get ready for a considerable sting.”

  He gave her a thumbs-up to proceed. Mitch saw her shadow behind him and felt the weight of his decision to be in such a defenseless position. He hoped he was right about her. He’d made his mind up though and put his fate in her hands. He thought about how weathered her fingers looked when he first met her and how he never would have pegged her as a physician then.

  “You must have horses—or do a lot of yardwork,” he said, trying to take his mind off the pain as she sliced into his skin. “My hands used to look like yours when I worked on a ranch fulltime in younger days. I mean, no offense, I actually admire that in a woman. It means she can handle herself and ain’t afraid of hard work.”

  “That’s a funny sorta compliment to toss my way when I’m holding a primitive blade to your back.”

  He winced as she squeezed out the pill-sized object and handed it over his shoulder. “Guess it wasn’t an explosive, eh?”

  He grunted a reply, trying to ignore the discomfort while studying the miniscule device. “Definitely some kind of GPS tracker. I’ve seen larger versions of these used on our attack dogs in the military.” He pulled it closer, wiping it clear of blood and scrutinizing the edges, which were lined with tiny wire filaments. “This also looks like it has some electrical pulse that can be sent through it.”

  “Like a Taser?”

  “Could be—who knows.” He tucked it into his pants pocket as Lisa finished up coating the tiny wound with pine sap. Mitch donned his layers and stood up.