Hunter's Games

by James P. Sumner

  I climb in behind the wheel and wait for the dust to settle. As the cloud fades, the gap I’ve created appears, which is plenty big enough.

  Excellent. Now I just need to drive off the pier…

  I put the roof up on the sports car and make sure to fully raise the windows. I reach down with my right hand and grip the lever that isn’t my handbrake. I let out a heavy sigh.

  I do some really stupid things sometimes…

  Without hesitating, I push my foot to the floor and set off screaming down the pier toward the gap. As I approach, I look to my left and see the outline of Alcatraz Island in the distance. At least it’s not hard to find.

  I fail to suppress a guttural scream of adrenaline as I fight every natural urge I have to slam my brakes on as the end approaches. I feel the car leave the ground, the engine revving loudly as all four wheels spin wildly as the water of the Bay appears in front of me, rushing toward me faster than I could’ve imagined. I quickly pull the lever, hard enough that I momentarily worry I’ve snapped it. I hear one loud mechanical noise as a million tiny components all adjust themselves milliseconds before I plunge into the water. Instinctively, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, holding it as I grip the wheel until my knuckles turn white. I count to five, and open my eyes. I give it another two before breathing out.

  I start laughing.

  Holy shit, I’m underwater!

  I try the wheel and, sure enough, the steering column now allows me to push the wheel forward or pull it back. To put my mind at ease, I press my hand against the seats, the floor, the roof, the windows, everything. All watertight.

  Un-fucking-believable!

  Clark’s out-done himself this time.

  I gently press the gas and pull back on the wheel and I surge forward, leveling out. I drive forward… am I driving? Or am I sailing or doing whatever it is a submarine does? I don’t know… anyway, after a few moments, I realize it’s harder to navigate than I thought it would be, so I pull back on the wheel as much as I can and climb; the wavy glare of the sun gets closer and brighter until I break the surface with a big splash and float.

  I look around me. I’m facing just to the right of Alcatraz. I give it a little gas and line myself up, glancing to the left at the crowd of people lining the neighboring piers and pointing at me. Luckily I’m far enough from the streets that the main crowds and patrolling authorities haven’t seen me yet—but that’s surely only a matter of time because of the explosion.

  I take a few deep breaths and gun the engine again, pushing forward on the wheel as I do. I slowly sink beneath the surface once more. The dash is lit up with screens that seem to tell me depth, as well as speed, and a whole bunch of other stuff that makes little sense to me right now. I focus on keeping going in a straight line.

  Maybe a mile and a half ahead of me, Danny Pellaggio, along with Ivan Gregovski, and whoever else he has with him, is preparing to commit an act of terrorism that could potential start a second Cold War. He has no idea that I’m coming for him. My Inner Satan has two black bags and plenty of reasons to be pissed.

  I smile at the irony of the situation—he’s been running around calling himself The Shark and here I am, a predator far above him in the food chain, approaching with deadly intent below the surface of the San Francisco Bay. I can smell the blood. I can taste it. And I’m looking to spill a whole lot more…

  Who’s the shark now, asshole?

  I can’t help but start to hum the theme tune from Jaws.

  17:19

  I cover the distance in a matter of minutes. Seeing the outline of the island ahead, I head left, looping around in a wide circle to approach from the far side of the island to where we assume Pellaggio will be. When we first looked at Alcatraz, we all agreed that if Pellaggio was going to fire on the S.S. Jeremiah O’Brien, either he’d do it from the right hand side, on the roof of the main prison, or further down the East Road, near the Quartermaster’s building—he’d have line of sight and a better angle to fire from.

  I drop my speed and slowly climb to the surface again. I wish I’d put a fin on the roof—that would’ve been brilliant!

  I come to a stop and immediately dial Josh. “How am I looking?” I ask as he picks up.

  “I’ve just picked you back up on the GPS,” he announces. “You’re looking good. How was it?”

  “Being underwater? Fucking weird!”

  “I bet!” he says, laughing. “At least you didn’t kill yourself.”

  “Yeah, always a bonus. So where am I exactly?”

  “Pretty much bang on where you need to be. The north-west corner of the island is just ahead. You should come up on the West Road at the back of the lighthouse, which will provide you with enough to get yourself prepared. Thermal imaging from the GlobaTech drone we’ve got over the area is showing minimal movement on the far side of the island. There’s literally one guy patrolling, and he’s heading over to the lighthouse as we speak. Take him out and you should have a clear run toward Pellaggio. Now, steer another couple of hundred meters and you should see a small inlet in the rock formation that’s level enough for you to climb onto. It’s the best place to begin your ascent.”

  I raise my eyebrows, not surprised but very impressed by how much detail he had waiting for me. I expect nothing less from him, but it’s just further evidence of how talented Josh really is.

  “See, this is why I don’t shoot you,” I say, laughing.

  “Any reason’s a good reason!” he replies.

  It’s good to hear his trademark enthusiasm at a time when there’s very little to look forward to. When I’m not on a job, it can irritate the shit out of me—which he knows damn well. But when I’m working or facing a particularly awful situation, it actually relaxes me knowing someone can still be so happy about everything.

  “Oh, Clark got me some new guns,” I say. “Berettas again, but the 92FS model, not the 92A1’s. They’re beautiful.”

  “Awww, ain’t he a sweetheart?”

  “He’s somethin’ alright. What’s the latest from Grace? Any news from the Jeremiah?”

  “Secretary Schultz is due to arrive in the next twenty minutes. Like she said, they’re going ahead with the parade no matter what. Secret Service has tightened up their security, but they’re still denying the FBI full access.”

  I press a button on the dash that releases the roof. It folds slowly back, revealing the cold sea breeze and the setting sun. I reach behind me and open the black bag with the grappling gun in it. I take out the harness Clark had mentioned and start putting it on.

  “That makes no sense,” I say. “Surely they’d want as much help as they could get?”

  “My guess would be that because they already have military and naval security on board, plus the Secret Service, they don’t want to draw attention to themselves by suddenly having the FBI on there as well—no reason for them to be there normally, so people might start asking questions if they saw them working security. Plus, I think it’s probably a pride thing—they wanna handle it all themselves.”

  “Well,” I say with a deep breath as I slowly stand up and tighten the fastenings around my waist. “That pride is gonna get people killed. We got anything we can use from Agent Green yet?”

  “Nothing we don’t already know. Jimmy Manhattan set the whole thing up, as far as getting to you is concerned. Everything else was planned by Pellaggio behind Manhattan’s back.”

  “Any word on his condition?” I ask, referring to Manhattan.

  “Still breathing as far as I know. Do we care?”

  With the harness firmly in place, I reach down and take out the grappling gun, heaving it up in my arms and taking aim.

  “Not particularly,” I say.

  It goes quiet on the line and I use the time to line up my shot. I’ve never used one of these things before, and I’m only going to get one shot and planting this grappling hook in the top the cliff ledge.

  “Oh, shit!” says Josh in my ear.

  I
let out a tense sigh. “More good news?” I ask.

  “Adrian, that one guy patrolling the perimeter is closing in on your position.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Approaching the helipad now, just a couple of hundred meters east of the lighthouse. You’re gonna come up on the Agave Trail. That path winds up to the top of the island. He’s gonna be directly above you as you’re climbing.”

  “Wonderful. Is he going to hear my fire this grappling gun?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Great…”

  I line up my shot again and steady myself, leaning into the weapon slightly so any recoil doesn’t knock me backward and overboard.

  “Keep an eye on him,” I whisper.

  I close one eye and adjust my grip, taking a deep breath and holding it. I steady myself and breathe out, squeezing the trigger as I do. The gas-propelled grappling line roars out of the gun, making a noise like a firework. The thunk as the hook penetrates the cliff side overhead sounds loud, even over the noise of the Bay.

  Clark wasn’t kidding about it being noisy… Jesus!

  “Christ!” yells Josh in my ear. “How loud?”

  “I know, tell me about it,” I say, tensing my jaw muscles. “Has the sentry heard me?”

  “It doesn’t look like it, no. He must be deaf or something.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I said he must be… oh, piss off!”

  “Got you,” I say, laughing.

  “Whatever. I hope he shoots you.”

  “If he does, I’m going to come back and haunt you.”

  “Adrian, you haunt me now! Every single day…”

  “Fair point.”

  I detach the rope from the gun and tie it to the harness. It’s like a sleeveless jacket, but thick, like a Kevlar vest. It has compartments on every side for useful things like weapons and grenades, but the main feature is that there are two straps running down each shoulder and another that wraps around the waist with a small device clipped to it. The rope feeds through the straps and into the device, which will then wind up the rope, helping speed up and control the climb. At the top, I simply disconnect the device and walk away.

  I put the strap of the Heckler and Koch MP5 over my shoulder, securing it at my back. I load up the side pockets with grenades and attach my back holster with both Berettas in it. There’s a pair of fingerless gloves with tough leather sewn into the palm and a thin layer of padding over the knuckles in the bag as well. I put them on and carefully step out of the car and onto the shallow bank at the foot of Alcatraz.

  “Right, I’m beginning the ascent now. How’s it looking up top?” I ask.

  “The guy’s still wandering around near the helipad. You’re gonna need to be quick and quiet.”

  “Roger that.”

  I look up at the imposing cliff face and take a deep breath. I hate heights, and I hate being exposed. I loop my right arm once around the rope and get a firm grip in my hand. I pull hard to test if it’ll take my weight. I’m happy it will. I grab it with my left hand and place my left foot on the cliff in front of me. Slowly, I begin to climb. The device at my back whirrs away automatically, and it makes things much easier, taking a lot of pressure off my arms. Within minutes, I’m almost halfway up.

  This is like walking—like in the old Batman TV show from the sixties with Adam West, where they’d scale a building, but if you tilted your head, you could tell they were just walking and the camera was on its side.

  Whoa!

  My foot slips on the cliff face and, for a brief moment, I crash forward into the rock, banging my left shoulder and knee.

  “Ah, shit…” I say, grimacing, as quietly as I can.

  “Adrian, you alright?” asks Josh.

  “Yeah, I slipped.”

  “Jesus, be careful, will you?”

  “Josh, I’m hanging off the side of a fucking cliff—nothing about this safe.”

  I push off gently and find my footing again, taking a deep breath to compose myself before continuing with the climb.

  A few more minutes pass without incident and I’m soon at the top, level with the grappling hook. The steel prongs are lethal, and fully penetrated the rock. I slowly place one hand on the flat surface directly above me and, after a couple more steps up the side, place my other hand flat and heave myself up, swinging first one knee over, then the other. I rest on all fours and catch my breath before unclipping the device from my back and regarding it in my hand. It’s a great piece of tech, but while it makes things much easier, my arms are still burning from the effort. I stand and a pain shoots through my left shoulder making me wince. I look down to see blood soaking through my top and the harness.

  Oh yeah, I got stabbed a couple of days ago… forgot to get that looked at.

  I look around me. The lighthouse is off to my left, standing ominously against the skyline. The path beneath me is muddy and leads off to my right on a steady incline.

  “I’m up,” I say. “Where’s the guy?”

  “He’s stopped level with the helipad,” says Josh. “His heat signature’s spiked a bit, so I’m guessing he’s just lit a cigarette or something.”

  I take one of my Berettas from my back and attach the silencer to it, which I’d shoved hurriedly into my pocket before I started the climb. I grip the gun tightly in my right hand. I take a last look over the edge of the cliff, seeing the amphibious sports car bobbing gently on the waves below me. I must be three or four hundred feet up.

  Man, I hate heights…

  I crouch slightly and move quickly along the path and around the bend. The Agave Trail runs uphill on a slight gradient to the helipad before leveling out on top of the island. I keep to the right, moving along the outside of the round as it curves up and round to the left, to keep out of the guy’s line of sight for as long as I can.

  “He’s about thirty feet in front of you,” whispers Josh down my ear. “Just as the path veers right up ahead.”

  I don’t respond to minimize the risk of giving my position away. I change my stance, standing straight and holding my gun in both hands—right arm locked, ready for any recoil; left arm bent but firm, to steady my aim.

  I need to be fast here, as a one-man patrol this far away from anyone else will definitely have a radio, and I don’t want to announce my presence here any sooner than necessary.

  I edge forward, peering around as much as I can. I see a small plume of smoke fly out and evaporate a few feet in front of me from around the bend. The wind isn’t blowing in that direction, so the guy must be just around the corner, and facing me.

  I take a slow, deep breath to compose myself. I quickly step out and drop to one knee, raising my gun up to aim at the guy. He doesn’t even have time to register surprise or shock—he just looks at me impassively for a brief second before I squeeze the trigger twice. A double-tap—one in the chest, one in the head, in quick succession. He crumples to the floor, lifeless. The dirt around him turns dark from the flow of blood from his wounds. I walk over to him, twisting my foot on his cigarette as I pass.

  “Those things’ll kill you,” I say to him, shaking my head disapprovingly. To Josh, I say, “One down.”

  “Seven to go,” he replies.

  24.

  18:13

  I QUICKLY SEARCH the body. He’s got a radio, which I slide into an empty compartment in my harness, and plenty of spare magazines for his gun, but I don’t need his weapon, so won’t need his bullets either.

  “Right, where am I going? I ask Josh.

  “Head straight up the West Road,” he replies. “When you get to the main prison building, you’re gonna need to head inside and cut through, which will bring you out on the East Road. You’ll see the water tower on your left as you do. The Quartermaster’s building is just beyond that. I can see three heat signatures in there. My money’s on one of them being Pellaggio.’

  “Any other movement I should worry about? Where are the other three?”

  “Nothing of any cons
equence. You should have a clear run into the prison at least—the rest of them are milling around near on the East Road at the moment. Looks like a loose patrol.”

  I set off along the West Road in a small jog. I look to my left and see the outline of Angel Island State Park illuminated by the pale orange glow of the sun as it begins its descent for the night. It’s a beautiful evening—a little breezy, but that’s understandable, considering I’m surrounded completely by water. It should be a nice evening, which will likely see fireworks on board the S.S. Jeremiah O’Brien.

  Hopefully not the bad kind.

  I make good time and come up on the main prison within ten minutes. The building is old and the brickwork has fallen away in places over time. Steel railings are block the entrance—presumably for the purposes of the tours that they operate on the island. There’s one door on the sidewall that looks like a service entrance of some kind. It’s metal, dark gray in color but rusted over the years, with thick bolts studding along the edges.

  “I’m here,” I say into my earpiece. “Is this the only way in?”

  “Seems to be,” replies Josh. “I’m checking the schematics now—that door should bring you into a small corridor that leads into the main prison holding area.”

  “Okay. Anyone nearby?”

  “No sign of life behind that door,” he confirms. “Everyone is still where they were a few minutes ago.”

  “Great. I’m moving in.”

  With my Beretta in hand, I try the handle slowly. The door is unlocked, which I expected—I figured this was the way the guy I’ve just killed had come. I open the door an inch and look up and down the gap, checking for wires, just in case it’s been booby-trapped. Ahead, I can see a short, narrow, open-ended maintenance corridor that seems to lead into the main prison area. Mold stains cover the walls, and the old cement floor is mottled with damp patches.

  “Looks clear,” I whisper. “I’m heading inside.”

  “Copy that,” acknowledges Josh. “Still looks good.”

  I push the door open and take a step inside.

  Click.

  Oh, shit…