The Hunted

by James Phelan

  “That could be forever.”

  “Told you it was good news,” McCorkell said, hitting the walk button and waiting at the crossing of Pennsylvania Avenue outside the Hoover Building. He looked at Hutchinson, the Special Agent near-on forty years old and as good an investigator as the Bureau had. “What, you’d rather be stuck here in DC, behind a desk, looking into corrupt bankers and insider trading and sexting crimes?”

  “Sexting crimes?”

  “Feds don’t look into that?” McCorkell said. He grinned, added, “What about if it’s a member of the House sending some junior staffer pictures of his, ahem, undercarriage?”

  “Undercarriage?”

  The walk signal changed. They crossed the road. McCorkell was fit for a man his age and he clipped along at a decent rate. Hutchinson was full of recent war wounds, and a swollen knee slowed the pace.

  Hutchinson said, “And the bad news?”

  McCorkell shook his head, said, “No one back there believes in Zodiac. They think we’re chasing shadows. Until we or Walker get some kind of proof of a pending terror attack, you and Somerville are all the resources that we’re going to get from the Bureau.”

  “Gee, well, shucks . . . that makes me feel real wanted. By them, and you.”

  “Chin up,” McCorkell said, slowing for his colleague. “Day’s not over.”

  •

  Walker saw the movement coming from two directions at once: the northeast and southeast. Crashing through the foliage, within ten yards. Even with the darkness that spread from their position, he knew danger was coming in fast.

  He dropped down to the Berettas, picking up one in each hand. The possibilities raced through his mind as he stayed on a knee and raised the pistols, applying pressure to the trigger of the unsafed left-hand weapon and thumbing the safety off the other. It wasn’t bears—they didn’t hunt in pairs. Unless it was a mother and cub, and this was some kind of tutorial in how to disembowel campers. Maybe mountain lions. He doubted wolves, not with the fire and all the easier prey that would be here. Unless they’d decided to camp in the middle of their territory. Damn . . .

  He realized as the pistols came up in his straight arms that it could well be anything crashing toward them. And that their campsite, while elevated and clear, had those two critter tracks converging through it—it was a virtual smorgasbord.

  An amateur mistake.

  And what unfolded happened within three quick beats.

  In the first second, Walker saw the form of the first man emerging from the northeast into the glow of the firelight.

  Walker sighted his left-handed weapon on the guy’s center mass.

  He spent the third second calculating whether or not to shoot. What if it was Murphy? At the end of that third second, the form of a man appeared to the southeast, rushing in.

  Walker’s right-handed weapon tracked the form.

  Murphy was out here alone, wasn’t he? Just him and his family—a wife and two or three kids.

  Walker wasn’t sure enough, with the light close in to him, to fire blindly at these apparitions. So, even as his fingers tightened on the triggers, he hesitated. Each Beretta with its safety off and the single-action pull required five-and-a-half pounds of pressure to engage the trigger mechanism and release the firing pin. As the pressure increased, he knew he could not afford to shoot Murphy.

  And so, by the end of the fourth second, Walker was full of regret, for then two more men appeared, one behind each of the rushing figures. Their firearms became clear—HK416s. Serious military weapons. And commands were shouted from all angles:

  “Down-down-down!”

  Four barrels pointed down at Walker. The men were now in the small clearing, within five yards. None would miss. Their stance and demeanor showed they were men of considerable training, Special Ops of some sort. And American, by their accents. Maybe this was the NCIS team headed in to help out Murphy? Maybe they’re the good guys, and this will soon blow over as a misunderstanding, and by sunrise they’d all be on their way, together, to get to the rescue of the final SEAL.

  Walker held his hands up and out, the Berettas loose in his grips. Five seconds, beginning to end.

  One of the operators came in close, his HK held just by the pistol grip, pointed close at Walker’s face as he took the pistols in his hand.

  “Clear!” the guy said.

  Another rushed to Squeaker, who was sitting up and wide-eyed at the sight of four big men covering them with automatic weapons.

  “Relax, guys,” Walker said to them, his hands raised, one knee remaining on the ground. “I think you’ll find we’re on the same team here.”

  “I doubt that,” a voice said. Menzil entered the clearing.

  Walker’s hopes faded fast on seeing the guy. This was no NCIS outfit. Ex-military led by an ex-cop. The kill team.

  Menzil said, “Tie them up, and be wary of him.”

  The first operator passed the Berettas to another crew member and then took flexicuffs—proper riot-control ones—from a pouch in his combat pants.

  “I take it you’re not with NCIS,” Walker said as his hands were secured behind his back in a second. The guy didn’t answer, just moved on to Squeaker and did the same with her wrists, then he patted them both down for weapons. Walker turned his attention to Menzil. “They’ve got a team headed out here. You know that?”

  Menzil was quiet. He took a cell phone out, and watched the screen while walking around and checking for a signal. Clearly he got none, for there were no towers in these dense, unpopulated mountains, and he put the cell phone away. He then approached Walker.

  “You know where Murphy is?” Menzil said.

  Confirmation: the kill team.

  “Sure,” Walker lied. These were the guys who had gone after the other SEALs. Trained American ex-Special Ops, turned mercenary to hunt their own. Walker looked forward to hearing the final breaths emanate from each. “It’s just a couple hours’ hike from here.”

  Menzil looked at the campfire, then back to Walker. “Then why’d you make a fire and set camp?” he asked.

  “We didn’t want to sneak up on a trained killer at night,” Walker said. He couldn’t get a read on Menzil. He wasn’t dressed in the uniform manner of the others, nor was he as fit and muscled. He was ten years older, mid-forties, and his skin tone and features were a mix of Central American. He had the look of a hard man turned office guy. Definitely a former cop. He dressed that way. He was in boots, but not combat boots. He wore outdoorsy clothing, not considered optimal for close-quarters combat. But Walker couldn’t shake for the hundredth percentile that this crew wasn’t the NCIS team. Maybe Menzil was an ex-cop turned desk agent for the Navy, tasked with finding Murphy, and his men were some kind of ex-Spec Ops types who formed the paramilitary arm of the NCIS . . .

  Then, in a simple sentence, Walker knew that he was wrong. Very wrong. These guys weren’t with the Navy. Nor any other branch of the US Government.

  The sentence was spoken by the man behind Walker, the one who had taken the Berettas and then cuffed the two of them.

  He stood next to Walker, looked to the leader, Menzil, and said, “Menzil, you want me to kill the girl, or the guy?”

  59

  “No ifs or buts,” Grant said over Levine’s cell phone, which was on speaker function and resting on the porch railing of Dylan’s house. “My guys have got this. You two move on.”

  “Boss,” Woods said, “I don’t think you understand what we’ve just seen in—”

  “Agent Woods,” Grant said, a little louder. “Get yourself together. We’re dealing with hardened terrorists here, remember? They’ve killed SEALs, and done only god knows what to civilians like what you’ve just seen there. So, listen up: Levine, Woods, get your asses back to St. Louis, as planned. Now.”

  Levine paused, the scene from inside the house still reeling through her head.

  “We’ve got a crime scene here,” Woods said into the still night. “Murder, at its worst. We
need to wait until state police show up. That’s procedure. Sir.”

  “Have you called the state police yet?” Grant asked.

  “No, you’re our first call,” Levine said, getting herself together.

  “Good, leave it to me,” Grant replied. “Local PDs will make a mess of this. I’ll have the FBI out of St. Louis get there. Hell, I’ll get their whole St. Louis Field Office down there, soon as possible.”

  Woods said, “This scene needs to be preserved until then.”

  “I’ll arrange a deputy to sit on the porch and wait for the Feds,” Grant said. “But I need two of my best field agents back on the road. You read me, Agent Woods? Levine?”

  “Get to St. Louis,” Levine said, looking to Woods. “We hear you.”

  “That’s right,” Grant said, his tone consoling. “You need to be there when we bring Murphy’s family in. That’s what you can do. Meanwhile, trust in our team. They’ll beat this Walker to the Murphys.”

  “Where in St. Louis?” Woods asked.

  “I can’t say yet,” Grant said, his voice now optimistic. “Just get back through to St. Louis, rest up and then be ready to fly back to base by nightfall.”

  “Copy that,” Levine said.

  “I know this has been hard, but you’re both doing a fine job,” Grant said.

  Woods said, “But, I mean, what if there’s another force out here that we’ve yet to even know about, torturing, killing—”

  “Walker did that, in that house,” Grant said. “You read that same file I did. The guy was a killer for our government for nearly twenty years. One of the best we had. Think about it. You think he now just does needlepoint? He’s got to be the one who’s been hunting these SEALs.”

  Woods looked to Levine, said, “But that crew you sent in, they might be in—”

  “Agent Woods, those guys are doing their duty, as sanctioned under the Patriot Act, to defend this country at all costs and against all threats, foreign and domestic. They’ll get Walker, don’t you worry.”

  “What if . . .” Woods looked to Levine. She looked hard, like she knew what was coming, what he was going to say, and that he shouldn’t say it, but he did, anyway. “I was maybe thinking that those guys we saw might not be who you think—”

  “Agent Woods, I’m going to stop you right there,” Grant said. “Do you seriously think we’re in the business of killing US civilians?”

  •

  “Kill the girl,” Menzil said. “We might need this guy to lead us there.”

  “She’s too valuable, you idiots,” Walker said, his hands on his head while he rested on his knees by the fire, at gunpoint. “She’s Murphy’s cousin.”

  “So?” Menzil said.

  “So,” Walker said. “You lose her, you lose Murphy. If I take you to Murphy and something goes wrong, you’ll need her.”

  Menzil said, “How do you figure?”

  “How do I figure?” Walker said, looking from Menzil to the others, his expression as though Menzil was not seeing what was obvious. “Without her, you’re screwed.”

  “Why?” Menzil asked.

  “She’s a bargaining chip,” Walker said. He evaluated the guys: Menzil had ex-cop written all over him; the four with the HKs were ex-military. “Murphy will die in a fight out here to protect his family, killing his share in the process—but he won’t jeopardize Susan’s life if he can help it. Hell, why do you think I’ve brought the kid along for the ride?”

  Walker looked to Squeaker. She looked at him, all kinds of betrayal written on her face. Good . . .

  Menzil shrugged. “Fine. Then we kill you,” he said. “And she takes us to her cousin. Easier that way. We can hold a gun to her head and have him come out of whatever hidey-hole he might be in.”

  Walker shook his head. “That’s just dumb in about five different ways.”

  “Oh?” Menzil said, his hand rested on the butt of a Sig automatic in a thigh holster.

  “Firstly,” Walker said, “I know where Murphy’s cabin is—she doesn’t.”

  “Is that right?” Menzil said, looking at Squeaker.

  She nodded.

  “And do you really think you’re going to sneak up on Murphy—get in such close range that he can either see or hear that you have a hostage?” Walker said. “Forget it.”

  “But you could?” the guy behind Walker said. “Why you and not us?”

  “You bet I could, bud,” Walker replied. “Murphy’s got more traps and defenses set up than you could ever find, all five of you, in broad daylight, all day long. Nope. You’ll be triggering them while he’s out hunting you down from behind, slitting throats one by one until there’s just your point man to get sight of the cabin from a quarter-mile out, at which point a round from Murphy’s M110 will delaminate your skull.”

  Walker looked at the faces of the four operators standing around him. He could see they were messy and grubby from where they’d lain prone and shimmied their way in toward the camp over a matter of hours. Professionals. Well trained. But they had—especially the questioner behind him, he knew from a glance—something written on their faces now that they didn’t a minute ago: doubt.

  “You know that’s what happens when a jacketed seven-six-two round from the one-ten hits your head, right?” Walker said, keeping the fear and doubt rolling. “Close range like that, the kinetic energy takes the bullet right through, small entry and exit; the bullet doesn’t even get the resistance to de-form. But the sheer force of the shot? It sucks the skin right off your face and pulls it through the entry hole and drags it out the back. Completely skins the skull down to muscle and bone. Delaminates it. I’ve even seen an insurgent in Iraq survive that, sure—for a few hours, with immediate medical care. How long do you think you’ll survive like that out here?”

  Walker could see that he’d got to them now. Three of the operators were looking behind them, all of a sudden aware that they were prone and standing in a clearing that was well lit, the forest around them deep and dark and holding all kinds of secrets. The guy with the cuffs looked to Menzil for direction.

  Menzil looked at Squeaker. He still had murder in his eyes.

  60

  “I’m going to ask you again,” Menzil said to Squeaker, then his voice raised as he said, “Do you know where Murphy’s cabin is?”

  Squeaker shook her head.

  “What’s that?” Menzil asked. He held her chin in his fleshy hand. “Answer me!”

  “No!” Squeaker said. “I don’t know where it is!” She calmed a moment, looked to Walker, settled. “I’ve never been out here.”

  Menzil watched her face for a lie and found none.

  “Okay, Reece?” Menzil said, leaving Squeaker alone. “We keep them both, alive, for now. But we’re not taking two prisoners to a potential gunfight. Steve, you keep the girl here, as insurance.”

  Steve nodded. Reece looked uneasy.

  “How far to the cabin?” Menzil asked Walker.

  “Two hours,” Walker said. “In daylight. It’s insane terrain. I have to follow the track, and it’s impossible in the dark. So we have to wait for sunrise.”

  Menzil took the two night-vision devices from Steve’s pack and thrust one pair against Walker’s chest.

  “We go now,” Menzil said. “You’ll lead, Walker. And you know what? Reece is right behind you—you try anything, it won’t be a bullet peeling off your face, you understand me?”

  “Sure,” Walker said, standing up. He was more than a head taller than Menzil, but Reece had Walker’s measure, maybe with another thirty pounds of muscle through the neck and shoulders, the kind of bulging build that only came with lifting serious amounts of iron and injecting disastrous amounts of steroids and human growth hormone.

  Walker took the night-vision goggles. They were civilian spec, which confirmed that these guys were not currently on the government’s dime, despite their fancy guns. And good as they might be, they weren’t the best—only the government threw money at the best. That was a small
consolation. On the down side? The four guys under Menzil’s command had started to look uneasy.

  “If we’re not back in five hours,” Menzil said to Steve, “kill the girl, then follow our tracks.”

  Steve nodded.

  “Quick word?” Reece said to Menzil, and they moved over to the tree. When they spoke, it wasn’t hushed; the space was merely a show of respect for the chain of command.

  “We’re due in St. Louis later today,” Reece said. “We have to be ready and prepped by 17:00 for the demonstration at 17:30.”

  “If Walker’s telling the truth, we’ll be in and out of here in four hours,” Menzil said. “Right?”

  “Maybe, but only if he’s telling the truth about a two-hour hike,” Reece said.

  Menzil looked over.

  “Two hours?” Menzil said.

  “Two hours,” Walker replied. He could feel Squeaker looking at him. “In daylight.”

  “Okay,” Menzil said, looking back to Reece. “How long will you need at Murphy’s cabin?”

  “Ten minutes should do it.”

  “Good,” Menzil said. “So, five hours should cover it, round trip with some fat built in. We hustle. We head back via here.” He looked to Steve. “Remember, if we don’t show in five hours, kill her. Then follow our trail and meet up with us. You’ll either find us coming back or you’ll help us out.”

  Steve nodded.

  Menzil said, “Gives us time to get back to the car.”

  Reece looked to his guys, then to Menzil, and nodded.

  “Let’s roll,” Menzil said, looking at Walker.

  Walker mouthed a “don’t worry” to Squeaker. It wasn’t ideal, leaving her alone like this, but he figured she was safe with this guy as long as she had some perceived value, as long as Murphy remained unfound.

  Already, Walker had got the four capable men down to three, leaving one with Squeaker. Three against one was better than four against one. Escape was do-able with those odds. Four capable men against one unarmed was near-on impossible. And as for Menzil—well, Walker had no doubt he was a threat as long as he had time to draw the silenced Sig from his thigh holder. But barring that, he knew he had him cold—Menzil was the type of soft-target guy who maybe dreamed as a teen of being a Special Forces operator but didn’t have the mental or physical toughness to do what it took to get there.