Hunter (In the Company of Snipers Book 14)

by Irish Winters

  “Open it,” Hunter ordered.

  Clark kept his eyes on the jungle while he activated his key fob and shoved the gate open. “Git outta here. Hurry. I don’t wanna die.”

  “Remember what I said, Burdette,” Hunter growled in parting, his pistol marking the side of Masters hard head. “I can get you anywhere, anytime. Move it, Masters.”

  Not until they were out of sight and safely under cover did Hunter take the chance. “Eric? Ky?” he called into the shadows.

  But no one answered. No glimmer of a possible ACS suit fractured the leafy surroundings, either. Hunter didn’t have time to waste. He set a trail for the river. If Eric or Ky were still nearby, they could follow. Burdette’s sat phone was an unexpected coup. Once he dealt with Masters, Hunter intended to use it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Stewart.”

  With that one word, Hunter breathed a sigh of relief. He was so damned glad to hear his boss, Alex Stewart, CEO of the most elite undercover operation on the East Coast. “You wouldn’t happen to be in the neighborhood, would you?”

  “Damn it, Hunt. I’ve been calling you guys for hours. What the hell’s going on?”

  “We ran into a little trouble. Lost half the MI team last night. Got two injured men and a couple prisoners.” Hunter threw that lie into the mix to keep Masters guessing. For now, he was fairly obedient—not like he had much choice with Seth holding a scalpel to his jugular like he was.

  “Prisoners? Two injured? Who’s hurt? Better not be one of my guys,” Alex growled.

  “Seth,” Hunter admitted, his pistol still ready for action in his hand. “He’s cut up pretty bad, but he’s with me. Teague Horton took one in the chest. Don’t think it’s life threatening. I’ve seen worse.”

  “Eric and Ky?”

  “Not sure,” Hunter replied evenly, not willing to admit anything in front of Masters.

  “Meredith Flynn?”

  “She can take care of herself, Boss. She shot the first of Burdette’s men.” Of course, then she lost that handy dandy pistol of hers, but Hunter wasn’t about to share that intel.

  Alex didn’t miss a beat. “Jed’s been worried sick since you guys missed last night’s report in. Who the hell are we up against, Hunt? Columbian guerillas? Indigent tribes?”

  “Mercenaries and assholes,” Hunter replied, startled it had been less than twenty-four hours since this debacle started. “Ask Jed if he’s ever heard of a guy named Burdette. Between him and this jerk I’m holding prisoner...” He turned expectantly to Masters. “Name, rank, and serial number.”

  His prisoner shifted his weight from one foot to the other under his awkward load. ““Travis Masters, but I’m not a Marine anymore.”

  “I’ve got news for you,” Hunter bit out, “you never were. What’s Burdette’s first name?”

  “Albert.”

  “Who the hell’s Teach?”

  “Roger Teach. He’s some joker who’s buying Burdette’s company.” He looked to be telling the truth, but one way or the other, Hunter would soon know.

  “Travis Masters. Albert Burdette. Roger Teach. Got it,” Alex said. “What are these guys after?”

  “Not sure, but this takeover has all the ear-markings of corporate espionage. When can you be here?”

  “Jordan and Lee are on their way to you now.”

  “That all?”

  “I’m in Caracas with Zack, David, and Adam. You need more?”

  “Maybe,” Hunter admitted. “Remember Vadodara?”

  Alex should remember. Vadodara, population of more than two million, in Gujarat province, India, was the tightest squeeze Hunter had ever lived through to talk about. He and ex-Navy SEAL, Adam Torrey, were on one of those easy missions that went sideways before they’d known what hit them.

  They’d found themselves outmaneuvered and facing an army of hundreds. Seemed the kid they’d been sent to extricate owed the wrong guys a gambling debt. Alex saved Hunter and Adam’s bacon by calling in a few favors from a no-kidding United States Naval destroyer stationed off shore in the Sea of India.

  He’d pulled them out in the nick of time. Well, maybe not exactly in the nick of time. Adam did go home with a bullet hole in the left cheek of his buttocks when he dived to cover the diplomat’s son. He should’ve let the kid take the hit. Hunter would’ve. The little shit might have learned something. As it was, he’d never even said thank you for saving his sorry ass.

  “Can do,” Alex replied. “Mother’s already tracked the GPS signal you called in on. Anything else?”

  A pack of Marlboro Reds would be nice. “That ought to do it.”

  Another growl rumbled all the way from Alexandria, Virginia, and that was why Hunter loved working for this guy. They spoke the same language, even understood each other’s grunts, growls, and expletives. Hunter had no doubt that Alex was planning ways to make the guy responsible for this nightmare, suffer. He was like that. He might chew his employees out like a mad dog with a bone, but God bless the fool who stepped on any TEAM member. Nothing made Alex madder. Or meaner.

  “Expect to see Jordan and Lee within the next twenty-four hours. The rest of us won’t be far behind.”

  “Copy that.” Hunter ended the call and turned to Masters. “Stop.”

  Seth was barely holding on. His head sagged and the scalpel hung limp in his fingers.

  “About time,” Masters muttered.

  By then, he was covered with sweat—not that Hunter gave a shit. He gestured his pistol toward the wide trunk of a nearby tree. “Set him down. Slow and easy.”

  Seth slipped to his butt and leaned tiredly against the jungle giant, fighting to hold his head up. He needed more than just rest. A stiff shot of whiskey wouldn’t hurt. Maybe a transfusion.

  Hunter tucked his pistol in his belt. The second Masters’ hands were free, Hunter secured them behind his back with several loops of a handy vine. He tugged an extra tight knot. “Take a seat backside this tree. You okay, Seth?”

  Seth waved one hand, his eyes closed. “Yeah. Just need... a minute to catch my... breath.”

  Masters settled cross-legged. “What now, tough guy? We gonna have a tea party?”

  Hunter crouched between Masters’ knees, his knife back in his hand. This particular knife had been made for the Two/Four. Comprised of infantry and support personnel, the Magnificent Bastards were second to none in combat action and declared it often, loudly and proudly.

  “You know how this works. You answer quick and sure—I won’t hurt you. You waste my time? I’ll stick you where it counts.”

  “Them’s a killer’s rules,” Masters muttered.

  With a lightning jab, Hunter lanced his kneecap and twisted. “And so it begins.”

  Masters jerked his knee to the side. “Shit! Okay! Ask, damn it. What do you want to know?”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Already told you. Albert Burdette.” Masters jerked his head back toward his camp, a desperate glint in his eye. “He’s second-in-command at Brinkman Exploration. Used to own it, but times have been bad.”

  “Who owns it now?”

  “Some asshat named Teach.”

  “Roger Teach?” Hunter watched closely for deceit. “Who’s he?”

  “Some big shot out of California. Guess he wants to be the next Bill Gates.”

  Bill Gates sure as hell didn’t get rich like that. “Why kill the MI team?”

  Masters couldn’t spit it out fast enough. “If McCormack’s prototype fails, Burdette gets another chance at the DoD contract. His active camouflage system is better and cheaper. Least that’s what he says.”

  “All this killing over a defense-industry contract?” Something about Masters’ confession felt hollow.

  “You bet.” His head bobbed like that of a good boy sitting in the front pew at church on Sunday morning. “There’s big money in DoD contracts and not just from the States, either. England, France, and Canada are all watching MI’s ActiveCamouflage development. Russia
and China, too. It’s the next level up in warfare, fighting an invisible enemy. Shit. Don’t stab me again. I’m bleeding enough already.”

  Hunter shot him a guarded glare at that pathetic whine. Seth was the one bleeding. Masters just thought he was. “Are you telling me Burdette’s in league with other countries, our enemies? That he’s a spy? Who’s he working for?”

  “Shit, I don’t know,” Masters said quickly. “I just know active camouflage technology is hot buzz on the international scene. If he’s smart, he’s talking to Peking and Moscow. I would.”

  “Why torture Seth? You had him restrained and his mouth taped while you were cutting on him. What good did that do?”

  Masters hesitated one second. The blade flicked so fast he could only yelp and jerk backwards, his shin bleeding now. “Shit. Damn it! I did it to draw you and the rest of your team in.” He barely avoided another stab. “Damn it! Stop it! We knew you guys were out there watching us. Shit, you were picking us off one by one, so we let him scream a little at first. But we wanted you inside the net. Figured you military types would do something heroic to save your buddy’s life if you thought he was dying.”

  Rage built to a dangerous level inside Hunter. That familiar red haze that blinded him to logic boiled to sputtering, roiling life in his head. As much as he wanted to stick that blade deep in Masters’ throat and listen to him gurgle his last breath, he restrained from exacting vengeance. Rules were rules. Killing a man too soon wasn’t how this game was played.

  “That was your way of trapping me? Lure me in with a man who could no longer scream when you cut him?” Jesus Christ. What if I hadn’t gone looking for my guys?

  Masters stuck his chin out. “It worked, didn’t it? Here you are.”

  He was also one of those military types, only the traitor had used his training against his brothers-in-arms. Bastards like him made it damned hard to remember to play by the rules.

  “Where are the rest of my men?”

  “How should I know? We only grabbed this guy the first night.”

  Hunter flipped his knife, handle over blade until he caught it again, the tip still pointed at Masters. Sweat dripped off the ex-Marine’s chin. Apparently, bullying a defenseless opponent strapped to a table was okay, but facing an armed opponent who could fight back? Not so easy.

  “Besides,” Masters gulped. “What about all my guys? Where’s Poncho?”

  “You need any help back there yet?” Seth called weakly.

  “You’ll be the first to know if I do.” Hunter answered casually over his shoulder. “How you doing?”

  “Good.” The declaration sounded weak.

  Hunter needed to hurry this final act. “Who’s Poncho? Your dog?”

  “One of my men,” Masters hissed. “You sure don’t mind killing everyone you come up against.”

  “You’re right. I don’t.” Hunter flipped the blade again. “Why’s Burdette after Meredith Flynn? How does she fit in?”

  Masters shrugged, meriting another razor-sharp dig, this one in his bicep. “Damn it! Stop—!” The blade bit again, turning both kneecaps into bloody pincushions. “All right! I honestly don’t know why Burdette wants Flynn alive. Shit! I can’t tell you what I don’t know!”

  “Maybe if I taped your mouth you’d remember better?” Hunter ground out.

  Masters paled.

  “Take your clothes off.”

  “Aw, come on—”

  Hunter let his knife do the talking.

  “Shit!” Masters rolled, jumped, and hopped his ass on the dirt. “How the hell do you expect me to do that with my hands tied behind my back and you poking at me all the time? I’m bleeding! Knock it off.”

  Hunter really wanted to let his blade do more persuading, but Seth was weakening and Hunter needed Masters alive. He bit his lip and restrained his knife. “I can peel those pants off of you if you’d rather. Want some help, Sally?”

  Demeaning the guy’s manhood worked. Masters stretched his bound hands forward. Sweating up a storm and still dressed, he finally maneuvered both boots between his wrists and through the restraints. Sucking in a breath, he dropped both clenched hands to his knees.

  Hunter cocked an evil eye. “I don’t have all day. I’ve got a friend to get home. Remember him? The guy you were sticking with a scalpel? Seth?” His voice grated lower with every darkly enunciated word.

  “Shit, I’m hurrying.” Masters attacked his bootlaces with nervous fingers. Pulling the footgear off, he tossed both boots aside before he unbuckled his belt and wormed his way out of his jeans. Kicking them off, the silver buttons on his shirt went next.

  Hunter watched as one by one, those buttons revealed a tattooed American flag. The paradox between an honorable man and a scumbag was never more apparent. For two cents, Hunter would’ve carved that symbol of freedom and pride off Masters’ tainted skin.

  There was no way Masters could get out of his shirt, not with his hands bound. But that wasn’t the real reason for the game now, was it? Nope. This next part was all about intimidation and hopelessness. Humiliation. The idiot you were torturing needed to believe you meant business. Clothes meant security. Nakedness stripped that frail coat of armor away. No man liked his junk exposed while forced to face a vengeful enemy with a knife.

  Hunter scrolled his eyes up and down the nearly nude bastard in front of him. “Boxers.”

  Masters shirt hung at his elbows. He glared, but he was smart enough to drag his shorts down, one side at a time. They gathered at his ankles.

  “Kick ’em high,” Hunter ordered.

  “Shit.” Masters kicked his underwear into the brush, biting his lip like the new guy on the cellblock. He was a pitiful sight, bloody-kneed, hairy-legged, and that big, wide yellow stripe running up his back and ending at his brown nose.

  “Sit,” Hunter growled. “Indian style.”

  “Shit,” seemed to be the only word in Masters’ vocabulary. Down he went, cross-legged on the insect-laden jungle floor. Sweat poured off his brow in tiny rivulets, and Hunter was glad for the added humidity of Amazon country. The feeling of suffocation added to the torture. And the fun.

  He took one quick glance at the man’s privates and grunted.

  “Go to hell,” Masters shot back.

  Hunter leaned forward, his blade less than inches from the personal gear Masters might think twice about losing. He shifted backward, maybe realizing things were about to get worse.

  Excellent.

  “Let’s try that last question again,” Hunter purred. “Don’t lie to me. Why’s Burdette after Meredith Flynn? How does she fit in?”

  A shudder rattled Masters right down to his hairy ass. He looked heavenward and blew out a huge breath. “I don’t know. Burdette’s been pushing us to find her, but he hasn’t said why.”

  Hunter’s blade left three sharp stiletto stabs up Masters’ inner thigh. “I said don’t lie!”

  “Ouch! Damn it, stop!” Masters all but cried. “I told you everything I know.”

  Hunter doubted that. He grabbed his quarry by the neck and jerked him into his face. “I know damned well Burdette’s after Flynn. What does Roger Teach have to do with her?”

  “Why would I lie to cover for Burdette or Teach? They don’t mean nothing to me.”

  “They meant enough that you tortured a man for them!”

  Masters didn’t break eye contact. “That’s what they pay me for. Why do you do what you do?”

  The damned man had nerve, but time had run out. Seth couldn’t last much longer, not in the shape he was in. Hunter didn’t have enough time to complete a more thorough assessment, or argue the difference between him and Masters.

  “What’s the lime-green crap in the hypos?”

  Masters didn’t blink once. “It’s a designer drug, a combination knock-out, brainwashing mixture. The original plan was to hit hard, take you all down, and chemically brainwash you guys into believing you were the ones who’d killed McCormack’s men. That was the only way Burdett
e thought Brinkman EX could get back in the DoD game. MI would take the hit and go down in flames. You guys would go to prison swearing you’d killed the MI team. Burdette would get what he wanted. End of story.”

  “Only you didn’t expect Meredith Flynn would shoot one of your guys, did you?” Hunter couldn’t resist the dig. A damned smart woman had fouled Burdette’s subterfuge from the get-go. He couldn’t help the swell of pride for his new, very sexy teammate.

  Chagrin hung heavy on Masters’ brow. “We didn’t know we’d be up against Stewart’s team, much less Annie Oakley, until we got here.”

  Hunter allowed a very small smile. As good as she was, Annie Oakley had lost her gun right out of the gate like a greenhorn. He pushed off the ground and knelt at Masters’ side, the knife at the man’s throat, ready to do the deed.

  Masters tipped his head against the tree, glaring. “Death is all I expect from the likes of you. You’re a killer, same as me. Just do it!”

  Hunter wanted to. Masters knew it. He rolled his eyes, daring another Marine to take him on, but that seemed to be what Masters wanted—for Hunter to stoop to his level. To sink to the point of no return. Hunter had honestly thought he’d passed that point long ago, the point where a man was beyond salvageable or worthy of redemption or love. Lost forever.

  Along came Meredith Flynn. She’d breathed life into his dark and ugly soul. She’d challenged him, made him remember how much love he’d once been capable of giving. How much tenderness. What light through yonder window breaks indeed. Her accusing question hung heavy in his mind. ‘Are they dead, too?’

  Only his heart had heard, ‘Are you dead?’

  For the first time in forever, he’d asked himself. Is this all I’m capable of? Hunting assassins? Taking life?

  Honorable or not, Hunter found himself wanting to be the kid she remembered from a long time ago. He wanted to be more than just a damned good Marine.

  Masters’ carotid pulsed beneath the blade, full of fight or flight. And fear. With one deft nick, the world would be better off. Another mad dog would be put down to terrorize the innocent no more. Even now, Masters squeezed his eyes tight, trembling against the finely honed steel and expecting no mercy.