Hunt the Lion

by Chad Zunker

  A few minutes later, a man in his thirties with a buzz cut like the others and wearing a tan polo shirt with jeans made his way through the bar to an open stool next to her. His name was Levi Connor. After fifteen years of active duty in the marines, he now worked for an organization that lobbied on the Hill on various veterans’ matters. Natalie had met with Levi several times over the past two years when she needed a military perspective or insight on different stories. And sometimes when she needed help finding someone. Levi was a wealth of knowledge and connections. Something she sometimes exploited, since she knew Levi had a thing for her.

  “Didn’t figure you for a Redskins fan,” Levi said, glancing at the cap.

  “I’m actually not,” Natalie said. “The Chiefs are my team, but I needed the cap. Buy you a beer?”

  “Sure.” Levi ordered a pint of Pacifico from the bartender. He turned back to Natalie, glanced down at her left hand with wide eyes, and cursed. “What’s that diamond ring doing on your finger, Ms. Foster?”

  She gave him a tight grin. “I’m engaged.”

  “The Callahan guy?”

  She nodded.

  “Lucky fellow.” Levi sighed, clearly disappointed. “Guess I was too damn slow.”

  The bartender returned with Levi’s beer. He took a big gulp, drowning his sorrows, turned back to her. “So what’s on your mind? You sounded cryptic in your message.”

  She pulled a glossy eight-by-ten photo from her purse, set it down on the bar top in front of Levi. It was an up-close picture of the Hell Dogs tattoo from the security video inside Max’s Metro office. Max had printed off several photos for Natalie. So far, she’d been unable to find anything online that identified the tattoo or its potential association with the military. She was now hoping Levi could help.

  “Hell Dogs, huh?” Levi said, eyebrows pinched, studying the photo.

  “You recognize it?”

  He pressed his lips together. “Maybe. Looks vaguely familiar. I think it’s a platoon mascot, but I’d need to check around to confirm that.”

  “Can you do that for me?”

  He looked over at her. “What’s this about?”

  She pulled out a second photo, one that showed the face of her attacker. “I’m trying to ID this guy. The tattoo is on top of his right hand.”

  “This taken from a security camera?”

  Natalie nodded but didn’t elaborate. The less Levi knew, the better for both of them. She’d wrestled with even contacting him in the first place.

  “He has a gun in his hand, Natalie,” Levi stated.

  “Yes, I know. I need to find him ASAP.”

  Levi eyeballed her curiously for a long moment, clearly waiting for her to explain. She didn’t.

  “I can’t say any more, Levi,” Natalie said, putting a hand on his arm. “Can you please just trust me on this? I really need your help.”

  “Yeah, sure, of course. Anything else?”

  “Can I borrow your car?”

  THIRTY-THREE

  The Gulfstream landed on a private strip at Milan Linate airport just as the sun was setting over Italy. Alger Gerlach was the only passenger on board. While he was usually fine traveling commercial first class, the swift time line for this new job made it necessary for him to contract a private flight. After the plane finally settled on the tarmac, near a private hangar, a pilot appeared in the cabin and lowered the stairs.

  Stepping out, Gerlach breathed in the warm air. A car and driver were already waiting for him. Moving down the stairs, Gerlach quickly climbed into the back seat of a black BMW sedan. He turned down the driver’s offer to help him load his travel bag into the trunk. With what he had inside, Gerlach was not interested in the bag ever leaving his side. The driver sat behind the wheel and eased the BMW out of the airport.

  The drive to Milan’s city center took a brief fifteen minutes. After arriving at the luxurious Armani Hotel Milano, Gerlach generously tipped the driver, grabbed his bag, and checked in at the front desk. He found the elevator and ascended to the fourth floor, where he opened the door to a plush but simple hotel room. There was no need for him to book a suite. He wasn’t even sure he’d actually be spending the night at the hotel—that all depended on the success of the evening.

  Walking to the window, Gerlach pulled back the curtains. Night was now upon the city. The room had a spectacular view of the Duomo, the city’s ancient Gothic cathedral that was currently lit up in bright lights. Gerlach had been to Milan many times, although it was usually with excitable girlfriends who loved to shop, eat, and spend obnoxious amounts of his money. Few places drained the bank account like Milan.

  There would be no shopping or fine dining this go-round.

  He checked his watch, sat on the bed. Unzipping his travel bag, he pulled out a compact silver metal case. Opening it, he removed the black gun, screwed on the silencer, and carefully checked the calibrations.

  Another glance at his watch.

  He returned to the window, waited. The hours before a kill always required a bit of meditation, reflection, the exercise of calming his adrenaline. He closed his eyes, slowly rolled his head around his neck, and did a few breathing exercises. He didn’t have the luxury of a sniper shot with this job. He’d first have to find the target and then approach with the utmost caution—much like an animal stalking its unwitting prey.

  His cell phone finally buzzed. Gerlach stared at the screen. The trap had been set. Everything was in place. He quickly put on his skintight vest holster, inserted the gun, and slipped a black sport coat over it. He did one more inspection in the mirror; then he headed for the door.

  Time for the Gray Wolf to go hunting.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Around 10:00 p.m., the train dropped Sam and Tommy at Milano Centrale, a quick five-minute walk to Hotel Berna. Standing on the sidewalk across the street from the hotel, Sam considered their options for finding Mack. He studied the hotel’s front entrance—which showcased dozens of colorful flags representing different countries—and looked around to see if he could spot anyone else who might also be watching the hotel for the same reason. It was impossible to tell. The street was busy with cars, the sidewalks thick with people. Sitting on a bench beside him, Tommy was pecking away on his laptop as usual, the bright screen illuminating his face against the backdrop of night.

  “Any changes?” Sam asked Tommy.

  “Doesn’t look like it,” Tommy replied. “He hasn’t checked out of the hotel or used his alias anywhere else just yet. He’s got to be here in Milan somewhere.”

  Sam pulled out his burner phone, placed the call. When the hotel operator answered, he asked for Rod Luger’s room. Sam listened to the phone ring and wondered if Mack would actually pick up. He highly doubted it—even if he was inside his hotel room. But it was worth a try. When the phone call went to an automated hotel answering service, Sam hung up.

  He turned back to Tommy. “You got a room number?”

  Tommy nodded. “Room 513.”

  “Let’s go pay a visit.”

  Waiting for street traffic to clear, Sam and Tommy walked into the main lobby of Hotel Berna. Sam kept his eyes on high alert the entire time. He had no idea who else might also be out there trying to find Mack. The Russians? Others? He didn’t notice anyone suspicious hanging out in the small lobby. They headed straight for the elevators, where a young couple was already waiting. When the elevator arrived, they ascended along with the couple, who got out on three. Sam and Tommy went all the way up to the fifth floor.

  Room 513 was located near the end of the hallway.

  Standing in front of the door, Sam turned to Tommy. “Wait down the hallway a bit, okay? If he’s here, I don’t want to spook him. Mack likely has a gun.”

  Tommy did as told and waited halfway down the hallway toward the elevator.

  Sam swallowed, knocked. Come on, be there!

  He didn’t hear any movement from inside. He knocked a little more firmly.

  “Mack, it’s Sam!”
he said, just loud enough to be heard through the door.

  Still no answer. Damn. Sam looked down at the door handle, noted it was an electronic card-key lock system. Impossible for him to pick the lock. But he had to get inside Mack’s room somehow. Tommy rejoined him a moment later.

  “No luck?” Tommy asked.

  “No, but we have to get inside.”

  “Maybe I can somehow unlock it online,” Tommy suggested.

  “Not everything can be solved with a computer, Mav. I’ll be right back.”

  Returning to the lobby, Sam stepped up to the female attendant behind the front desk, who looked up and gave him a friendly smile. He read her name tag, matched her smile.

  “Hi, Martina, I can’t find my wallet with my room key. I need to get back inside to see if I left it in my room. Can you help me out?”

  “Certainly. Name?”

  Sam knew the only thing that could blow this was if Martina happened to be working the front desk shift ten hours ago when Mack had checked into the hotel. He had to risk it.

  “Rod Luger.”

  He received no second looks. That was good.

  “Room number?” she asked.

  “513.”

  “Do you have any ID on you, Mr. Luger?”

  “I’m afraid it’s all in my missing wallet.”

  Martina considered that for only a moment and then handed him a new card key. He quickly returned to the fifth floor, found Tommy hanging down the hallway from 513. They met up again at Mack’s hotel room door. Sam swiped the card key, and the door clicked open.

  “Nice work,” Tommy admitted. “But my way would’ve been more fun.”

  Slowly cracking the door open, Sam poked his head inside. He noticed the bathroom light was on, and so was a lamp in the corner of the hotel room. Listening, he still didn’t hear any noise coming from anywhere. Pushing the door farther open, he stepped fully into the room, Tommy behind him. They were alone. Sam checked out the bathroom first, finding a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, and other assorted toiletries. A wet towel was hanging on the back of the door, as if someone had just taken a shower. They walked into the main room, which held a disheveled king-size bed. The dresser top near the TV held a dozen different empty mini liquor bottles. Empty bags of chips, crackers, and candies stuffed the trash can. It looked like Mack had already completely emptied the minibar.

  Sam found a gray duffel bag sitting on the carpet and began sifting through it, finding nothing but wadded-up clothes that looked like they could be Mack’s size. Tommy was checking the drawers of the dresser but wasn’t finding anything helpful, either. Walking over to the small desk in the room, Sam spotted a computer tablet sitting among a variety of magazines. He pressed a button on the side, and the screen lit up. It was a generic screen front—nothing that identified it as belonging to Mack. The tablet was locked by a security password.

  “Tommy?” Sam said, holding up the tablet.

  Rushing over, Tommy took the tablet from him, sat in the desk chair, and immediately got to work. Sam walked to the window, pulled the curtains back. The view looked directly into other buildings across the street. Based on their findings, Sam felt certain that Mack planned to return to the hotel at some point. Should they just sit there and wait for him to come back? He didn’t really see any alternative. Milan was a city with more than a million people. And Mack was a person who probably didn’t want to be found right now.

  He turned back to Tommy, who said he’d already bypassed security.

  “Find anything?” Sam asked.

  “Maybe. Looks like he did a news search for Moscow and Zolotov, probably trying to see if he could find out any more information about the events of last night. But as we both know, nothing has been put out there yet. I’m now retracing the very last steps he took with the tablet. Mack had logged into a highly secure private website, one much like Leia’s Lounge, where you and I used to interact.”

  “Can you get in?”

  “Working on it.”

  A sudden knock on the door startled Sam. He locked eyes with Tommy and gave him the universal, one-finger-to-the-lips, “Stay the hell quiet” sign. Looking around the room, Sam searched for a reasonable weapon to use, if necessary. Mack wouldn’t have knocked. He’d just use his card key and walk right into the room. The best Sam could do was grab a blow-dryer from the bathroom counter. Could he take out a Russian assassin that way?

  Moving to the door, Sam cautiously let his eye settle in on the peephole, then exhaled. A woman in a hotel uniform stood with a cleaning cart. Some kind of hotel turndown service. He chose not to answer the door, as he didn’t want anyone, even a hotel maid, to put eyes on him inside the room.

  Another knock, followed by “Faccende domestiche.”

  “No, grazie,” Sam said, just loud enough to be heard in the hallway.

  She moved on to the next room.

  “Just a maid,” Sam told Tommy, the blood returning to his friend’s face.

  Tommy went back to work on the tablet. Sam continued to poke around the room to see if he’d missed anything.

  Seconds later, Tommy excitedly announced, “Dude, I got him!”

  Sam circled in behind Tommy for a better look. “What is it?”

  “Looks like your guy reached out to someone through this secure website this afternoon. He got a reply just an hour ago. Mack is MX889.”

  Sam read the brief message exchange between the user names MX889 and YX001.

  MX889: Contact needed ASAP. Black Heron dead. Team in disarray.

  YX001: Confirmed. Location?

  MX889: Milan.

  YX001: Anema e Cozze. Patio. 10:40.

  MX889: Confirmed.

  Sam looked at Tommy. “Can you find the ID of the other party?”

  “If I had time, I could probably piece it together. But we only have twenty minutes before Mack is set to meet with someone.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Sam spotted Mack sitting by himself at a small table in the back of the crowded patio of Anema e Cozze, a restaurant that sat along one of the city’s popular canals. The sidewalks on both sides of the waterway were lively this evening, with hundreds of patrons out for dinner and drinking at the dozens of different restaurants and bars. Standing on a bridge, fifty feet from Mack, Sam watched as various boats floated back and forth in the water below him. Tommy had gladly agreed to wait in a café much farther up the canal, where Sam could make sure his friend remained safe from any danger that might come their way.

  Sam still had no idea what he was about to walk into with Mack, although he felt his first real glimmer of hope since before Luis had been shot dead right in front of him. Mack wore a casual black jumpsuit with a matching black cap that both carried the logo of an Italian soccer team. Although the cap was pulled low on the man’s balding head, Sam clearly recognized him upon his initial pass of the restaurant just a few minutes ago. Other than his new clothes, the fiftysomething man hadn’t altered his appearance in any other dramatic way.

  Sam’s initial plan was to wait to see whom Mack met. He didn’t want to unwittingly step into a potentially bad situation. He needed to show patience and choose his moment wisely. Checking the time on his phone, Sam noted that it was already 10:45 p.m., and still no one had joined Mack on the patio. Who and where was YX001?

  Casually moving in behind a small crowd of people, Sam got even closer to the patio before standing in the shadows directly across the walkway, with his gray jacket hood up over his head. Another peek at the time: 10:50. Whoever was supposed to meet with Mack was running late. Sam surveyed the area all around him, trying to see if he could spot anyone else who, like him, might also be watching Mack. Maybe YX001 was also standing in the wings, waiting. He shook his head. There were way too many lingerers out to tell much.

  By eleven, Mack was done waiting. He got up from the table, left the restaurant, and headed down a street corridor away from the busy canal. Sam stepped out of the shadows, carefully followed him at twenty feet
. Where was Mack going? Had the meeting location changed? Or did he get spooked?

  The farther they moved away from the canal, the less busy the sidewalk traffic. Feeling too exposed, even with the hood over his head, Sam dropped even farther back. However, when Mack suddenly turned sharply into an alley between two old buildings and Sam temporarily lost sight, he rushed forward to keep up with the man. He couldn’t afford to lose Mack at this point. Blindly turning the corner into the same alley, Sam felt an arm suddenly whip around his neck, choking him and yanking him backward into the shadows, followed by a gun pressed to his temple.

  “Mack! Wait!” Sam pleaded. “It’s me! Sam!”

  Mack spun him around, gun still aimed, eyes slits.

  “Callahan?”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Mack looked like he was staring at a ghost.

  “Surprise,” Sam offered with a tight grin, pulling off his jacket hood.

  The man cursed. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you.”

  “Are you crazy trying to trail me like that? I could have killed you.”

  “Yeah, thanks for not doing that. How long did you know I was back there?”

  “Spotted you on the bridge fifteen minutes ago. Just didn’t recognize it was you.” He exhaled a deep breath, tried to gather himself. “How the hell did you find me?”

  Sam explained tracking his CIA alias to his hotel room with a friend’s help.

  “The Kucher kid?” Mack asked, obviously very aware of Sam’s relationship with Tommy from their engagement in Mexico City last month.

  Sam nodded. “He’s sitting in a café across the way.”

  Mack peeked out from the alley to the sidewalk, then turned back. “Anyone else with you?”

  “No, just the two of us.”

  “What about the others? Roger? Luis?”