Hunting Season: A Rhys Adler Thriller

by Alex Carlson

  IT TOOK THE full hour.

  “These numbers are hopelessly inaccurate,” said Maksym. “They are an estimate. A guess. They are a guesstimate.” The non-native English speaker giggled at his joke. “A guesstimate. Ha!”

  “How long, professor?” Stirewalt had to keep him on track.

  “I have made several assumptions. If any are wrong, then these numbers are not at all close.”

  Stirewalt gestured for him to get on with it.

  “First, I assume the men from this morning entered the woods immediately at the airfield and started up the mountain. Pavlo agrees that the rest of the team would do so as well. They probably had the route already mapped out. Besides, he says the route seems to provide them with the most amount of cover. Pavlo is probably right. I don’t know myself. I would drive up in a car.

  “Second,” continued Maksym, “they would travel in as direct a route as possible. What that means is that they had to cross two passes, with a valley in between, and they still need to ascend the third range to get to us. Now, let me draw you a map.”

  Maksym quickly sketched out a simple map, a combination of the maps before him. It showed three rows of mountains running to the northeast, with the Grossglockner at the top. He marked the safe house, the airfield, and, based on what Lucinda had told him, the hotel where Rhys and Manny were located.

  “Now, if the rest of the Russian team left the airfield soon after the initial shots here this morning, and your friends left from here,” he tapped his pencil on the “H” he’d written for “hotel,” “and if your friends were smart enough to travel by car—”

  “Or motorcycle.”

  “—or motorcycle, then they would take a road that travels up this way and the earliest place they would have to intercept them would be here.” He pointed to the western slope of the middle chain of mountains.

  Tyler took a break from the windows and looked over Maksym’s shoulder at the crude map. “That makes sense based on the shots we heard. Sounded a long way off. It also means they’re moving fast.”

  “That’s what we think, too,” said Maksym. “More than twice as fast as the estimated times for the hikes listed in the brochures.”

  Lucinda nodded in understanding, but said nothing.

  “The second shots,” Maksym continued, “probably came from about here.” He pointed to the range on the right, the one the safe house was located on.”

  “They’re close,” said Stirewalt. “When will they get here?”

  “By my calculations, they will be here in sixty-three minutes...give or take an hour or two.”

  Lucinda couldn’t help but smile at the worthlessness of the projection.

  “We haven’t heard anything since the last fight,” Colin said. “Lucinda, we have to assume Rhys and Manny didn’t stop them.” What he meant, Lucinda knew, was that Rhys and Manny were probably dead.

  “Tyler,” she said, “what would our evacuation look like?”

  C

  HAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  IT TOOK ALL of the afternoon and well into the evening for Dmitri Petrov to make sense of what was happening down in the Alps. Berlin’s beautiful spring day had evolved into a stunning sunset. Looking from Pariser Platz through the Brandenburg Gate to the sky beyond revealed an array of pinks, oranges, and reds. The sky then darkened and the city night came to life. Petrov, assisted by his most trusted aide, worked through these hours not from the Russian Embassy, but from his private residence immediately behind it. Petrov never had the complete picture, but on the most salient element, namely, how an American property—CIA, no doubt—had become compromised, he made progress.

  It was mostly a process of elimination. Petrov had contacts throughout the Russian government. He first quietly worked his contacts at the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, for whom he most directly worked. He quickly determined that they hadn’t a clue what was going on.

  Russian military intelligence, GRU, usually ran Spetsnaz operations. His first attempts to reach his contact in the GRU operations division weren’t successful. His man—a former aide—was too busy. Well, there was a clue. But, of course, operations people were always busy. When Petrov finally reached him, he was struck by how little the aide attempted to hide the affair. Another clue. It suggested GRU wasn’t aware that the source of the original information needed to remain hidden. That meant the source wasn’t GRU.

  That left SVR, the Foreign Intelligence Service. SVR would be the ones to recruit a mole, and since Petrov was certain Venegas was referring to a CIA situation, the mole would most likely be somewhere at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. Further, Lucinda Stirewalt had not joined Venegas during the meeting in McClellum’s office, which put her in the middle of this. Petrov thus needed to consult Russian intelligence’s analysis of the Agency to see to whom Stirewalt reported. He would then be able to divine the information Venegas needed.

  The entire process required no small amount of soul searching. As a senior member of Russia’s diplomatic community, Petrov of course had a solid command of Russian history. Contemplating the present without connecting it to the past would render it meaningless, as any historian would tell you. And, regrettably, whatever was happening down in the Alps was not entirely inconsistent with the larger course of Russian history.

  As radical a break as the Russian Revolution had been, Lenin’s—and more importantly, Stalin’s—ambitions for the Soviet Union were not radically different from that of the Russian Empire before it. Whether under the Tsars or the General Secretaries, the geopolitical goals were the same: to secure Russia’s borders in all directions, to control the buffer zones beyond those borders, and to exert as much influence in the world as possible. The collapse of the Soviet Union (another radical break) did not fundamentally alter those goals, though the new Russian Federation was in a far weaker position. Putin, whom Petrov respected but considered a thug, sought merely to return Russia to its previous Great Power position of influence, despite its weakened condition.

  The United States hadn’t quite figured out how to deal with Putin. Petrov could understand that. They had won the Cold War, hadn’t they? From the American perspective, Russia should accept its position and follow the American lead.

  Russia’s involvement in Ukraine defied those expectations. The Americans failed to appreciate that Putin was merely trying to reestablish Russian hegemony on the Eurasian land mass. But, God, thought Petrov, did Putin have to be such an uncouth boar about it? He was cutting off the nose to spite the face.

  By the time Dmitri Petrov called Sophia Venegas, he felt better about his situation. He called from his office in the residence. He imagined her in her embassy office, having kicked her shoes off after a long day, her stockinged feet, crossed at the ankles, feathering the carpet, the top button of her blouse undone to relieve the pressure created by her ample chest. God, she was a beautiful woman. He’d give her the names of Putin’s mistresses if she wanted.

  Today would reestablish the balance in their relationship. Yes, she would have something over him until the end of time, but she was as fair as she was beautiful. If he did this for her, she’d wipe the slate clean. And if this involved Lucinda Stirewalt, which he suspected it did, then it would wipe that slate clean as well. Free at last.

  “Ms. Venegas, I have some information for you,” Petrov said once the call had been put through.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Before I tell you, we must come to an understanding. You must agree that the past be forgotten. Both you and Lucinda Stirewalt.”

  “That depends entirely on the relevance of the information you have and how quickly it can be acted upon.”

  “I can assure you that you want this information. It is indeed relevant. Only you can determine how actionable it is. Consider it this way: whatever influence you have over me, multiply it by ten and you would have that much influence over someone higher up than me. And higher up in the American orbit, not Russian.”

  Petrov wai
ted as Venegas considered. He knew he had gotten her attention.

  “Of course, Mr. Ambassador, I continue to hold all of the cards.” Her voice was even and calm. She was cool, Petrov thought. “If your information is not as valuable as you suggest, then the deal is off. I’ll have both the information and the dirt on you. You must know that.”

  “I do. It does not concern me. This information is far more valuable than even I have intimated.”

  He gave her a name.

  C

  HAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  MANNY’S DEATH WAS too painful to articulate, even to himself. Rhys expressed it in benign imprecisions. He thought, man, this is bullshit. I left the Agency because I was tired of bullshit.

  Of course, Manny’s death wasn’t bullshit. It was bone-crushingly, nauseatingly painful. Rhys wanted to cry, hard, but just couldn’t get it out. He coughed and wretched and moaned and filled himself with guilt and self-loathing, but the tears wouldn’t fall.

  The whole fucking job had been a gift from Stirewalt, Rhys knew, a thank you for helping her out with his services from time to time. Come on down with your motorcycle, she had said, help Manny out, show him the ropes, and then stay in the Alps for a bit. I’ll give you a generous per diem. It was a junket. She knew he’d go up and down the Alpine passes in four countries for as long as his bony ass allowed. He’d even stuffed camping gear into the panniers to completely remove himself from the world.

  What was he thinking? Two men against a Spetsnaz reconnaissance group. Never in a million fucking years could they have stopped them. And now Manny was dead. A good man who never did nothing but his duty. He walked the straight and narrow and kept his nose clean, had been an exemplary Marine, and would have been an outstanding operative. Worse, he was young and apparently in love.

  I let him get killed, thought Rhys. Fuck me. I should have known better.

  And I’m gonna get killed, too. He was so far removed—mentally, geographically—from his urban Berlin world that he felt no connection to it. So fucking alone. He could die and he didn’t even care.

  He would die. He knew it.

  He looked around the mountains around him. It was dark. The clouds had risen higher and his eyes had adjusted to the point where could see the outline of the peaks around him in all directions. He had loved the mountains. The White Mountains were cute compared to the sublime majesty of the Alps, but they shared the same divinity. Who was it who said that being in the mountains meant being close to God? He couldn’t remember. He’d read it somewhere. He’d read a lot of things.

  There was no one to help him and he wouldn’t get to the hut in time. Maybe the SEALS would. He listened for the dull, distant echo of rotor blades echoing off the mountains. Nothing. Maybe they wouldn’t get there in time. It was him or nothing.

  How many of them were left? He hadn’t been counting. They got three in the meadow. And then there was that fourth, farther down in the meadow. Must have been a hell of a shot. Rhys himself got three as they climbed up the cliff. That’s seven. He heard Manny shoot three times. Manny was a good shot. Let’s be optimistic, say he got all three. That’s ten. There were probably about twenty to begin with, and one or two were keeping them pinned in the hut. So it’s me against a dozen, he thought. A dozen Russian Special Forces. Fuck.

  He wouldn’t make it to the hut but he couldn’t just give up. They’d defend themselves up there until the end. Colin wasn’t totally useless and a marine with a CIA field kit could be dangerous. If I can take out a couple, maybe three or four before I get whacked, maybe they can defend themselves against the rest. Just long enough for the SEALS to arrive. Nah. Spetsnaz weren’t dumb. They’d flash-bang there way in, turn ’em all into soft targets and then wipe ’em out.

  So, what was the plan? The plan was to get killed. To die trying. He’d take out as many as he could, knowing he wouldn’t get them all.

  More concretely, he’d continue to the hut, maybe by the grace of God he’d make it before the RG did. He’d take out the Russian sentries, and help those inside escape while he covered them from behind until a bullet hit between his eyes. Then they’d track and murder the Tereshchenkos and the others.

  Great plan.

  He turned to the north and started to jog but gave up after about twenty steps. His leg hurt. He was too tired. He could will himself into a trot, but what was the point? He’d get there ahead of the Russians or he wouldn’t. Whatever. Besides—

  “Is that the best you can do, Civilian?”

  Rhys snapped his head toward the voice.

  C

  HAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE ALPS WERE formed hundreds of millions of years ago as the African and Eurasian tectonic plates collided, raising a mass of schist, gneiss, and limestone in various layers. Intrusions of granite came later. Then, erosion and inundation by the sea lowered some elevations and raised others. Some formations rose, others fell, the mountains spent tens of millions of years folding in on themselves, creating splits and crannies—and caves.

  Caves are funny things; no two are alike. Some are shallow, others deep. Some secrete water pressed through fissures in the mountain, creating streams. Some caves go on seemingly forever until the end is finally met. And some have no end at all. You go in through one aperture and eventually come out another on the other side.

  The American southwest had no shortage of caves and Manny Hernandez had spent no small amount of time exploring the holes as a kid. They always had surprises. The caves here in the Alps that Manny had scoped out before settling in again along the ridge contained one that he figured might be a good place to hide if the shit hit the fan. He explored it. Much to his surprise, he went in the mouth of the cave and came out its ass on the other side.

  He darted straight back to it when the tracers were chasing him, nearly shitting his pants in the process. He didn’t think he was going to make it.

  He squeezed through the cave’s mouth, angling his rifle to get it in. He wiggled through its first narrow yards and followed twists and turns before disappearing around a hunk of protruding rock. There wasn’t much of a ground, just angles of rocks as they came together from the sides. It got dark real fast and he had no idea how deep some of the fissures below ran. The walls were cold and damp. The only sound was that of his breathing and the clanging of his rifle against the rock. He feared he’d bang it out of its zero, but there wasn’t much he could do about that now. He just pushed on through.

  The darkness and quiet disappeared violently when the tracers came in. There must have been a thousand projectiles as the bullets ricocheted through the narrow space and splinters of rock rained about him, digging into his scalp and scraping his face.

  He fought through the fear and pushed through until he emerged out the other side, where he immediately lay his rifle down and quietly climbed above the back opening of the cave. He climbed until he reached a sharp edge of rock that descended on the other side to the cave’s mouth.

  The second clips of tracers ran out and the firing stopped. Manny carefully peered over and saw his two pursuers breathing heavy. The smell of gunfire hung in the air. One said a few Russian words. The other nodded.

  Manny pulled the nasty Russian grenade out of his pocket. Rhys, afraid he wouldn’t figure out how it worked, had handed it to him after the first engagement. It was obvious enough. Pull the pin and throw.

  He pulled the pin and threw.

  The concussion made the ground below shake. He waited and listened. He heard nothing and again peered over the ridge. Satisfied, he rose higher and took a good look.

  The carnage testified to the power of the grenade. Both men had been separated from their legs. Shrapnel had ripped apart their clothes and gouged their faces. Their bodies emptied the blood they held.

  He lowered himself, retrieved his rifle, and breathed for the first time since the shots on the ridge first came at him.

  Now, after racing toward the hut and spying Rhys ahead of him in the distance, he was almost p
issed off to see how slowly Rhys was moving.

  He kept after him, but waited until he got in close before opening his mouth. “Is that the best you can do, Civilian?”

  He felt he had earned the stature to bestow a nickname.

  JESUS FUCK! YOU’RE alive!”

  “You think I’d let you finish this without me?”

  Rhys wrapped his arms around him and lifted him off the ground, not an easy task considering how loaded down he was with gear and shit. Manny groaned in pain.

  “Fuck, I thought you were dead.”

  “So did I.”

  “How—”

  “I’ll tell you in the Hofbräuhaus.” Manny looked at Rhys, cocked his head in disbelief. “You’re not allergic to Edelweiss, are you? Your eyes look a little puffy, maybe a little teary?”

  Rhys wiped the tears off his face and smiled sheepishly, though he wasn’t embarrassed by his state of joy. You didn’t get many moments like this in life and it’d be a shame to hide it.

  Manny’s resuscitation didn’t just fill Rhys with joy. It filled him with energy and confidence and optimism. He suddenly felt like they could take on the world, let alone a depleted Spetsnaz reconnaissance group.

  Manny dropped a Russian backpack and two AK-9’s on the ground. “Here, I got us some booty.”

  The backpack had clearly been shielded from the detonation of the grenade and the contents were all in order. There was a full liter bottle of water. Rhys drank half and then handed the rest over to Manny.

  There were half a dozen clips of 7.63x39 tracers. “These go with the AK,” Manny said. “You’ll get used to the streaks.”

  There was a Makarov pistol. “You keep that,” said Rhys. “I got my Glock.”

  Manny tucked the gun into his belt. “Okay, but you take the knife.” Rhys shook his head. He didn’t want it. “Just take it,” said Manny, tossing it over to him. Rhys didn’t even take it out of the scabbard.