Dead in Their Tracks (A Mitch Kearns Combat Tracker Story Book 1)

by JT Sawyer

  “We’ve gotta get out of here,” said Monroe, reaching for the walkie-talkie on the mahogany table beside him. “Guards—guards, get up here,” he yelled while flopping to the floor on his belly.

  “They’re dead, you fool,” muttered Nelson. “If these two are already gone, then you can bet we’re all alone.”

  “Those fucking Iranians. It has to be them…but how did they find us up here?” said Monroe, his fear rising like tendrils of smoke.

  Nelson slithered towards his briefcase to extract a pistol. Just as he reached it, he felt the sting of his kneecap explode, as if a mighty hammer had been driven from above. He recoiled into the couch, his body going fetal as he screamed and looked into the face of Dev Leitner walking through the back door.

  She was dressed in black, with inky streaks running diagonally across her face, her brown eyes magnified by the firelight as if they were conspiring to consume the cabin. Dev turned towards Monroe and stepped on his injured hand as he tried to reach for an iron poker near the hearth.

  “I really thought about making this look like an accident. I really did,” she said. “I had a couple of well-planned scenarios but I just had to be sure that neither of you sons of bitches got away by some stroke of luck.” She stood over Nelson, her pistol steady. “Some people are opposed to violence…and they are protected by those who are not.” She fired a round into Nelson’s head, which blew apart and sent rivulets of blood into the fire.

  Monroe’s wailing increased as she moved closer, and he simpered like a pig set upon by wild dogs. “Please, it doesn’t have to end this way. I have considerable power at the DOD that could be to your benefit.”

  She removed a bronze dagger from her vest and leaned over, driving it into his chest. “Time to pass that on to your successor,” she said, slamming Fareed’s old blade into the plump man’s chest a second time. Dev stared into Monroe’s glassy eyes then stood up and knocked the bottle of brandy off the table towards the fireplace. Its contents quickly became engulfed with flames that spread along the oaken floorboards towards the two splayed figures.

  As the chalet became consumed by the intense fire, she hurried to the back door, stepping over the deceased bodyguard and trotting down the back stairs of the porch. As Dev slipped into the spruce forest, the A-frame behind her was illuminated blood-orange as she strode over the soft matting of old conifer needles. She felt the rage born of loss flow over her as if the conflagration was emanating from her body. The falling snow covered her tracks and dampened the sound of the forest until even the crackling of consumed timber behind her faded. Dev walked another two miles to a narrow dirt road, below which the jeep she stole earlier was concealed in a thicket. She got in the vehicle and headed down the mountain, towards the pitch-black horizon, the flames on the mountainside stabbing upward into the clutches of the sky.

  Chapter 41

  Three weeks later, after the trial had been dismissed and Aeneid’s doors shuttered, Mitch found himself adrift. His involvement in the whole affair had been shown to be instrumental in thwarting the terrorist attack. Ryker had gone to considerable effort to make sure Mitch’s record was expunged of any local and federal law enforcement misdeeds. Perry was officially listed as KIA in the line of duty while his records, files, and personal life were being investigated by a bureau panel for his connections to Aeneid and other potential sources that he may have leaked information to. Publicly, blame was cast upon Fareed and his radicalized group of disillusioned friends, his previous visit to Yemen cementing his lone-wolf plot with arms dealer Gamal, who had apparently committed suicide afterwards. This story allowed the national outrage to be channeled enough to divert attention from the mess created with Monroe’s and Aeneid’s involvement.

  The usual statements of deniability were issued between the U.S. and Israeli government while keeping the matter of Monroe’s nebulous undertakings out of the media spotlight. All of the credit was directed at Bureau Chief Evan Ryker, who was in the spotlight, relaying the FBI’s investigative work that led to thwarting the attack.

  After learning of the Leitners’ involvement through Mitch and with the state department looking for an excuse to patch up strained relations with Israel, Dev’s participation was never officially recognized as the only witnesses to her involvement were Perry and Ritter. Her face was removed from the FBI’s Most Wanted list after Perry’s meddling was uncovered.

  A few days after returning to Arizona, Mitch headed straight to his friend’s ranch, where he spent time building a new bunkhouse and doing a lot of campfire cooking for the crew. He stayed in a small twelve-by-sixteen cabin near the horse pasture, enjoying catching up on whittling, reading, and tracking animals.

  Early one morning, when the purple finches were singing in the cottonwood tree above his rustic abode, he heard the ranch hands near the entrance gate talking to someone who had just driven up. A few minutes later, a red Prius rolled down the hill. Dev Leitner had never looked as stunning as when she stepped into the sunlight. She wore a red tank-top which hung slightly over her jeans.

  She looked over at the framework of the bunkhouse and then made a beeline for Mitch. He stood up and walked down the steps of his tiny porch, meeting her halfway.

  “The new place is coming along nicely, though not as rustic as the original.”

  “A few years in this weather and it’ll look as old as the first one.”

  He tossed the stick that he’d been whittling on the ground and put away his folding knife. “You know a funny thing happened—about two weeks ago, the owner of the ranch gets an anonymous check in the mail. Says it’s from an overseas company out of Tel Aviv that donates to various causes and that he should apply it towards renovation of a historic structure on his property.”

  “Huh…wow…isn’t the mail wonderful. I mean, you can just get those kind of surprises through your mailbox.”

  “Yeah, I told him he oughta blow most of the money on beer and new saddles but he managed to save a few pennies for nails and lumber.”

  She folded her arms across her chest, giving him a fierce stare that then turned into a grin. “Mitch Kearns, you’re sounding more like a cowboy than a federal agent with each sentence. You sure you’re the same guy I met a month ago?”

  He arched his back up to the blue sky and stretched his arms out to his sides. “I’m back home where I belong, at least for now. Got my old job back with the feds if I want it but I’m still thinking about that one. What brings you out to these parts again?” he said jokingly while looking up at the ridgeline, half-wondering if there were any surprises.

  They walked up to the porch, where he offered her his only chair while he leaned against the railing. For the next few hours they spoke about the trial, the FBI, Anatoly, and geopolitics in Turkmenistan.

  “It looks like your father’ legacy will remain intact. He’s done a lot to ensure their way of life will continue and I know he’d be damn proud of you.” Mitch lowered his head, thinking of the warrior philanthropist and what he had risked for so many over the years while remaining in the shadows. “He was a helluva guy. Tonight we’ll have a campfire and meal in his honor.”

  “I wish I could but I should be going. I only drove out here to say goodbye and to—” She paused, looking up at him and smiling. “To thank you for putting so much on the line for me when you could’ve looked the other way.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am,” he said, tilting the brim of his white cowboy hat.

  He got up and went inside his cabin, removing two cold beers from his cooler and returning. He removed the lids and then handed her one. “We have to at least give a cowboy salute to the heavens above for not getting rained on this time.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” she said, standing up.

  He took a long swig and then leaned against the wall. “You know that was pretty shocking what happened in Lake Tahoe to the assistant sec-def, Ritter, and his entourage. Don’t know if you read about it in the papers?”

  She just raise
d an eyebrow and continued fixing her gaze upon the ground ahead. “Pretty shocking.”

  “Some Iranians connected to Fareed and his guys—they think, though that’s not official.” He strolled over to her, reaching a hand up to the porch rafter and staring out at the cottonwood trees. “Gotta be careful when you wander into the backcountry.” He tilted his head towards her, looking into her brown eyes. “Know what I mean?”

  She just smiled and tucked a thumb into her belt loop. “Yep.”

  “Sure you can’t stick around? We could do some horseback riding and run across mesas for fun.”

  “Sounds swell—but, you know, I should be getting back home.” She walked around the front porch, the railing between them, resting her hands on the cracked wood. She wanted to stay—to get to know him better without the chaos of what they had endured—but she felt herself closing up inside. She needed to get back to Israel, to her mother, to her father’s company, and to piece together her fractured heart.

  “You never can tell when I’ll be back in these parts though—hopefully on more pleasant business.”

  He extended his hand over hers, caressing her wrist with his thumb. “Until then, I hope you’ll remember us rednecks.”

  She grinned and tossed her head back, flinging her raven hair over her shoulder. “Shouldn’t take too much effort.” Dev turned and walked to her car, climbing inside and pausing to wave one last time then driving up the dusty road.

  Chapter 42

  A month later, after all of the debriefings had finished and Mitch had used up the rest of his considerable vacation days, he walked along the battleship-gray carpeting on the second floor of the FBI building in downtown Phoenix, striding by familiar faces who cast lilted smiles of recognition. He didn’t care—there were few people there that he desired to work with and he wondered how he had pressed on in that stifling job for so long.

  Mitch walked into his office and began packing his items. He wasn’t sure what was next for him but it had to involve being outdoors and entail travel. No sitting still or checking endless emails or hunting two-bit fugitives. Maybe he’d find work on a ranch for part of the year. Then again, he knew that was back-breaking work best suited towards a younger man with a more pliable body.

  “Leaving without a farewell?” said Ryker, who was standing in the doorway. “So, that’s it—unravel a terrorist cell and internal corruption and it’s time to hang your hat up.”

  Mitch had come to respect the man, though he still didn’t like him very much. They were just too opposite in every way. “Thought I’d take some time off and go on a long horse-packing trip, maybe up on Apache land for a while.”

  “I can still use you if you ever get tired of roastin’ corn over da campfire,” he said in a weak attempt at a cowboy accent that sounded more like someone from Georgia.

  “Thanks. I think my next job will involve a little less bureaucracy and suit-wearing.”

  Ryker walked forward and extended his hand. After they had shaken, the bureau chief turned away then came to a halt. “Almost forgot—this was dropped off at the front desk below,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and removing an envelope. “It’s already been scanned so no surprises inside.”

  Ryker closed the door. Mitch tapped the envelope against his palm, noticing it was post-marked as international mail. He removed his small folder and slit open the edge. The sentences that followed were penned in beautiful blue cursive.

  Mitch,

  It seems the Israeli military wants to revive their combat tracking program! They are looking for independent contractors to provide training and your name may have made it into their queue. Tel Aviv is lovely in the fall. What do you say, cowboy?

  Dev

  He put the letter down and walked over to the tinted window. Mitch stood with his hands on his hips, gazing at the cobalt desert sky and tracing it down to where it melted into the horizon. What indeed?

  Thank you for reading this book. Join Mitch & Dev in their further adventures in the second book, Counter Strike, now available for pre-order on Amazon.

  Join JT Sawyer’s Facebook page to follow his book research and updates. If you would like to receive information on survival tips, please sign up for my email notices at author@jtsawyer.com or by visiting http://www.jtsawyer.com

  About the Author: JT Sawyer is the pen name for Tony Nester who makes his living teaching survival courses for the military special operations community, Department of Homeland Security, US Marshals, FAA, and other federal agencies throughout the US. He has over 25 years of experience testing long-term survival skills in the desert, mountains, and forest. JT also served as a consultant for the film Into the Wild.

  Post-Apocalyptic Fiction by JT Sawyer

  First Wave

  The Longest Day

  No Place to Hide

  Hell Week

  Until Morning Comes

  Non-Fiction Survival Books by Tony Nester:

  Survival Gear You Can Live With

  Bug-Out Gear for Travelers

  A Vehicle Survival Kit You Can Live With

  When the Grid Goes Down: Disaster Gear and Survival Preparations for Making Your Home Self-Reliant

  The Modern Hunter-Gatherer: A Practical Guide to Living Off the Land

  Bushcraft Tips & Tools

  Life Under Open Skies: Adventures in Bushcraft