Hunter's Games

by James P. Sumner

  “Wonderful,” I say. “Is this because you’re pissed at me for killing your niece and nephew last year?”

  Without a word, he leans down at full speed and punches me across the face, sending me down to my left.

  Christ, that one’s going to leave a mark! Good job I can take a hit. But this guy is going to kill me if I let things carry on as they are. I need to do something to take this guy out, and I need to do it soon. I’m honestly, not sure how much more of this I can take…

  I push myself back up to a sitting position, once again, and look up at him. His eyes are wide and he’s snarling through gritted teeth like a wild animal. He looks barely in control, and I’ve not even started trying to piss him off… I can see why Pellaggio wants this guy as the poster child for his attack on the Jeremiah. He’s a very convincing terrorist-slash-psychopath.

  “So is this anger you’ve got going on for yourself all about me? Or is there any truth to the rumor you hate Russia, America and everyone else as well?”

  He doesn’t answer me. He still looks incensed with rage—I can see it in his eyes, which are burning with hatred. He reaches down, grabs my throat with both hands and heaves me off the floor to my feet.

  My eyes go wide as I balance on my tiptoes, trying to keep the ground beneath me as he lifts and squeezes, restricting my ability to breathe. I grab his wrists with both hands, frantically trying to loosen his grip.

  That doesn’t work.

  I start hammering down on his elbows, trying to force his arms to bend and take some of the pressure out of his vice-like grip.

  That works a little, but he’s not letting up that easily.

  My lungs start to burn as I gasp for oxygen, not getting anywhere near the amount that I need to stay awake. My arms are throbbing in agony from the wounds inflicted on both my shoulders now, so I can’t get as much power behind the blows as I need to.

  When in doubt, go low.

  I position myself as best I can and without warning launch my right foot into his balls, like I’m kicking a fifty yard field goal in the Superbowl.

  That loosens his grip.

  He yells as he lets go and staggers back, clutching his groin. I take a few paces back myself, putting some distance between us while I recover. My throat’s sore and feels like it’s starting to bruise already from where he’d gripped me. I look around the expanse of the old Quartermaster building, trying to find my equipment. Where the hell are my guns?

  Oh, there they are… in the middle of the room next to a couple of upturned crates on the floor. Behind Gregovski…

  Fucking brilliant.

  I guess I’m going to have to fight this sonofabitch, aren’t I…

  He looks up, shaking the effects of my kick away. He runs at me with a speed not befitting a man his size, arms wide and high, ready to slam down on me. The guy’s big. Like, really big. He looks like a Neanderthal on steroids—a big, thick brow and long arms the size of my legs. He’s definitely strong as well. But he’s slow—hindered by his size and weight. I haven’t been a hundred percent for a few hours and I’m certainly nowhere near that now, but I figure I’m still quicker than he is. And that’s my only advantage. That’s how I’m going to beat him. I’m faster than he is. And I can guarantee I’m better trained and more violent than he is too.

  As he comes at me, I quickly play out every possible defensive technique in my head—what if I move left? What if I duck and feint right? Everything. I consider what could work and what definitely won’t.

  Ah, when in doubt…

  I let him get maybe five feet away from me, and I jump forward, snapping my forehead toward him in an arc, as if it were a dead weight. I time it perfectly with the jump, and I connect with the bridge of his nose, where it angles out in between the eyes. It’s like he'd run into a wall. The impact takes away all his momentum instantly, and he stops dead, stunned by shock and pain in equal measure.

  His arms are by his sides, so his face was unprotected. I stare at him for a moment, frowning to ignore the throbbing pain in my head, seeing what he’s going to try next. He’s just standing there, eyes still wide, but confusion replaces the anger. I prepare to launch a right elbow at his head, but a shout from above distracts me.

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  It’s Pellaggio, who’s on the top floor, looking down over the railing. I look up and we lock eyes for a moment, then he disappears out of sight.

  “Shoot him!” I hear him shout.

  I can hear footsteps along the gantry as his two remaining men set off running for the stairwell at the far end.

  I should probably get my guns…

  I take a step toward the MP5 but Gregovski cuts me off, blocking my path having made good use of the small reprieve and recovered.

  “I’m looking forward to killing you, Adrian Hell!” he says with an evil smile.

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t believe how many Russians have said that to me... And every one of them is dead from trying,” I reply.

  “Not all of them,” he says cryptically, smiling before swinging for me once more.

  I duck under his right hand, but catch his follow-up left on my ribs. I see him go for my throat again, and I block his hand and duck down to deliver a left hook to his right kidney.

  It knocks him back a little, so I roll under and do the same on the other side—right hook to the left kidney. Again, it sends him back again and looks like it hurt him a bit more this time. Regardless, he remains stubbornly upright in front of me, his large arms held high in a loose fighting guard.

  The magical thing about a blow to the kidney is that it has a devastating effect on the body, causing pain, nausea, and loss of balance. But it has a delayed reaction. It takes your body roughly ten seconds to process the impact and react accordingly. He just took two very nasty punches to his kidneys, one to each side, so he’s about to have a very bad day…

  We stand looking at each other as the seconds pass. He bares his teeth again, like a caged beast taunting its prey. I simply stand and smile.

  Three... Two... One...

  Gregovski’s eyes go wide as he keels over and drops on all fours, vomiting profusely before falling over into a fetal position—his body going into something similar to shock as his brain finally registers the shots to his kidneys.

  Goodnight sweetheart!

  Satisfied he’s down for the count, I make my way over to my guns, crouch down, and take a Beretta from the holster. As I’m drawing it, I hear the familiar sound of a gun being cocked behind me.

  No… two guns.

  I look up and see two guys standing over me. My friend, Jones, is on the left, with someone else next to him. They must’ve made it down the stairs quicker than I thought they would. They’ve both got me dead to rites, and I doubt very much they’re going to hesitate for one second.

  Shit!

  The one on the right smiles, and I see his finger tense on the trigger.

  “So long, asshole!” he yells.

  I can’t believe they got the drop on me like that. I didn’t give them anywhere near as much as credit as I should’ve done. I was too busy focusing on Gregovski.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  I close my eyes and take a long, deep, painful breath as I wait for the inevitable.

  Two gunshots sound out, making me flinch with surprise.

  What the…?

  I open one eye and look around. Then I open the other, just to be sure. Then I pat myself down as a final check.

  Nope—definitely not dead...

  I look at the two guys who were about to shoot me. Jones and his friend are lying on the ground with blood pouring from bullet holes in their chests.

  Seriously, what the fuck just happened?

  I look all around the building, quickly resting my gaze on the main door on the right hand side. It’s open, and Senior Special Agent Grace Chambers is standing in the doorway, gun in hand.

  “Hey,” she says, smiling.

  “Hey,” I replied, c
onfused. “What are you doing here?”

  “Saving your ass, by the looks of it.”

  “Yeah, thanks for that. But seriously, why aren’t you on the Jeremiah?”

  “Agent Wallis has it covered, working with the Secret Service. Obviously, they remained steadfast in their stance that nothing will change, so I figured I was more use to you. I took a speedboat over here, then spoke to Josh to find out where you were.”

  “Not spoke to him—I lost comms when I got blown up earlier.”

  “Blown up? Jesus Christ! Are you alright? What happened?” she asked, full of concern as she races over to me.

  She smiles, and it makes me feel better. And even more so, the fact she has my back. I can feel myself beginning to trust her.

  As she’s walking toward me, she shouts, “Adrian, look out!”

  A hail of bullets streams down, narrowly missing us both. I look up and see Pellaggio screaming from the top floor, leaning over the balcony, and firing down at us.

  No rest for the wicked...

  “Grace, find cover!” I yell as I pick up my back holster containing both Berettas and sprint as fast as my broken and beaten body will allow over to the far wall underneath Pellaggio, to limit his visibility.

  I have to find a way up those stairs so I can stop him.

  “I’ll cover you!” shouts Chambers, who’s picked up my MP5 and moved behind the doorway outside. She leans in and fires off a couple of bursts at Pellaggio, forcing him to duck away for cover.

  I take my Berettas out of the holster, tucking one in the back of my waistband and keeping hold of the other. I take a couple of deep breaths and look over to the door, to make sure she’s okay. She breaks cover and unleashes another burst of fire at Pellaggio.

  Yeah, she’ll be fine.

  I set off running for the stairwell on the back wall, which immediately draws more fire from above. I glance behind me, seeing Chambers move back behind cover. I keep my head down and make it to the stairwell, ducking down at the side of it. It offers precious little cover, but it allows me to squeeze off a couple of rounds in his general direction, buying me some more valuable seconds.

  I hold out until Pellaggio pauses to reload, then set off up the stairs as fast as I can, taking two at a time. Every inch of my body aches from the explosion earlier, and both my arms are throbbing as blood continues to stream out of the flesh wounds caused by Manhattan’s blade and Gregovski’s bullet. But the pain can wait—I have to stop Pellaggio, that’s all that matters.

  Another hail of bullets shreds and splinters the wooden staircase as I come up on the first floor and race around to begin the ascent to the top. I hear Chambers fire a few more short bursts, buying me a little more time. I hold my gun out in front of me, ready to fire as I dash up the final flight of stairs, coming out on the makeshift walkway at the top. I aim my gun at Pellaggio, who’s leaning over the balcony firing at Chambers below.

  “Danny!” I yell. “It’s over. Drop your gun step away from the edge.”

  He stops firing but doesn't move, keeping his gun trained on Chambers. I look down and see she has her gun pointed at him too, the scene frozen in a deadly stalemate.

  “Throw your gun over the side, Adrian, or I’ll cut her in half!” he shouts back.

  “You won’t get chance, and we both know it. Just give it up. You’ve lost.”

  In the blink of an eye, he snaps round and levels his rifle at me.

  “No, I’ve not,” he says with a wicked smile.

  I heard a muffled cry below, and I flash a look back down to the floor. Gregovski is back on his feet and is standing behind Chambers with one hand over her mouth, and the other holding her right arm out to the side—her gun on the floor a few feet away from them.

  “Now, throw your fucking gun over the side, or he’s gonna snap her pretty little neck!”

  I sigh and lower my gun, pausing a moment before reluctantly throwing it over the side.

  “Adrian, don’t!” yells Chambers as she struggles to get her mouth free from Gregovski’s grip.

  Pellaggio smiles. “Touching,” he says. “Now, how’s this for real power, Adrian? I’m not even gonna keep my gun on you. You stay right there, or your little FBI bitch will die. Understand?”

  Arrogant bastard… But I have little choice if I want to keep her alive. I nod reluctantly.

  He puts his weapon down, turns and walks a little further down the walkway. There’s a sniper rifle leaning against the wall, and as he gets level with it, he pauses—his gaze alternating between the rifle and back over his shoulder at me.

  “Well, this brings back some fond memories,” he says, picking it up and holding it in his arms like a new father would hold his baby for the first time.

  “This... this is what I used to shoot your friend. How’s he doing, by the way?”

  The anger erupts inside me, coursing through my veins and consuming me. But as pissed as I am right now, I’m smart enough to see the opportunity I need to stall him.

  “Oh, yeah—you won’t have heard, will you?” I say. “With us finding your inside man at the FBI, you won’t be in the loop anymore. Josh is fine. In fact, he’s watching all this unfold via a satellite feed at the FBI Field Office right now.”

  Pellaggio’s face drops, but he quickly recovers. “No matter,” he says, dismissively. “There’s nothing anyone can do to stop this happening. And then we will watch as a brave new world blossoms in the aftermath.”

  “You’re a fucking idiot, do you know that?” I ask. “Why do you think I’m here? We figured most of what you were doing out on our own, and your old pal Jimmy Manhattan filled in the blanks. As we speak, the FBI and Secret Service are clearing that boat so all you’re gonna do is play a really expensive game of Battleship on your own.”

  I know that’s not strictly true, but he doesn’t. He looks quickly in every direction, like he’s trying to follow a fly. His eyes are wide as he seems to teeter on the edge of control, about to lose it completely and snap. I can handle whatever he comes at me with, as long as he isn’t focusing on firing at the Jeremiah.

  But he doesn’t snap. He doesn’t come at me. He struggles, but he exercises restraint and simply smiles back at me. An evil, twisted, intelligent smile.

  “Nice try, Adrian. I don’t care if anything you just said is true or not. I’ve been planning this for a year, and nothing’s gonna stop me from succeeding.”

  He drops the sniper rifle and continues along the walkway, stopping beside a large, black box that looks like a huge briefcase. He crouches down and opens it, lifting the lid and resting it against the wall. He reaches inside and takes out an FIM-92 Stinger missile launcher.

  I quickly look at Chambers. She isn’t afraid, but she’s panicking. She can see how close we are to failing. Gregovski is staring up at me with menace in his eyes, his hand holding her steady by the side of her neck. He dwarfs her, towering a good foot over her. She struggles against his grip, but it’s more of a futile gesture than a serious attempt at escape.

  I look back at Pellaggio, who’s hefted the launcher up on his right shoulder. It’s a tube about a meter and a half long—just a bit longer than the missile itself. His left hand is supporting the end, in the way you would a regular assault rifle. The butt and trigger are close to the shoulder, and his right arm bends as he grips it, finger on the trigger guard. On top of the tube, coming out at roughly a forty-five degree angle, is a thin piece of metal similar in size to a computer keyboard. Along the top edge of it is the sight, which he’s looking through now, out the window and across the Bay, lining up his target.

  The way the targeting system works is that you look through the scope and see a computerized telescopic sight. Once you get the target in your sights, you hold it there while the on-board computer locks onto its position, based on GPS location and distance, which it measures via a laser fitted just underneath the sight. The screen confirms the target’s locked, and then you fire.

  The missile is propelled out of t
he launch tube by a powerful stream of argon gas, which is kept cool by a battery pack fitted into the butt of the launcher. It travels at around nine hundred miles per hour and will penetrate its target before exploding like a very powerful fragmentation grenade, causing an insane amount of damage.

  I’m screwed if he fires that missile, but if I move for him, Chambers is dead.

  I clench my jaw muscles, running through every outcome in my head—what might work, what wouldn’t. There are no perfect endings.

  Except one. Maybe.

  I move my left hand slowly to my side, thinking about the Beretta I still have at my back. It’s risky, but it’s the only option that stands even a remote chance of working. Pellaggio is about to fire his missile, and if he does, everything we’ve done would've been for nothing.

  I take a deep breath.

  Fuck it.

  26.

  20:48

  I’M VERY FORTUNATE to have some level of natural ability when it comes to what I do for a living. I've received a lot of training during my time in the military, but—and I say this with no ego at all—to get to the level that I operate on, you have to have some natural talent to begin with. It has to be in your blood.

  I have two main strengths when it comes to shooting: speed and accuracy. If we lived in the Old West, I’d have been a quick draw champion—no doubt about that. Hand-to-eye co-ordination has always been something that’s come naturally to me. Which obviously has a positive effect on my level of accuracy.

  You can train people to shoot the wings off a fly at a thousand yards and that’s great. But I can take one look at my target, instantly shoot from the hip and hit it—every single time. I don’t aim with my head. I aim with my eye. My brain then tells my hand to point at what my eye’s looking at and it does, like an instinct… a reflex. There’s no logical thought process involved. I just point and fire. And I never miss.

  It’s quite a handy skill to have when you kill people for a living.