Hunting Season: A Rhys Adler Thriller

by Alex Carlson

  Shit.

  Rhys bolted from the path and raced straight uphill. He had to get to the safe house.

  PRIMAKOV SQUEEZED THE trigger and knew he’d hit. The range was short, the wind non-existent, and he aimed dead-on where the rifle barrel disappeared into the hunting stand. Even before the scope settled after the rifle’s buck, the world behind him erupted and half a dozen members of RG 405 pumped round after round of tracer fire into and around the Hochsitz. The first few shots from each shooter missed, but the men walked them in and then mercilessly pounded the wooden structure. Through his scope, Primakov saw mist rise, splinters fly, and wooden boards crack and split and fall to the ground. The pillars stood, but the stand had been obliterated.

  The firing behind him stopped and Primakov had to wait for the air to clear and for his eyes to readjust to the darkness after the brightness of the tracers. He blinked several times and looked again through the scope. The sight confirmed what he had expected. The front of the stand had been torn apart, the roof had collapsed. The structure, miraculously, still stood but the ladder had been detached and rose up into space. Behind the hut, the foot was still there, though it had been completely turned around from the force of the destruction. The carnage could only signify death.

  “Target down,” he breathed into his radio. “All still.”

  “Affirmative,” replied a voice, certainly Scharkov’s. “Unit proceeding to the objective.”

  It took but a minute for the remnants of RG 405 to reach Primakov, who stood openly, gazing toward the destruction he and the others had wrought. Their plaudits, gratitude, and pats on the back were lost on him. He knew what he had done. Killed a brother sniper. He took no pride in it, just satisfaction that he had done his job and that the remaining members of the unit might just make it home.

  “Spread out and climb,” said Scharkov. “We’ll climb quick, then catch our breath as we prep the final assault.” Scharkov was apparently also in no mood for celebration. This was his mess, one from which he would never recover. There’d be consequences.

  As instructed, the men spread out and climbed. The distance between any two men was never less than twenty meters. They went straight up, eschewing the switchbacks, which, though longer, would have eased the journey and put less strain on their legs. Still, they ascended quickly and methodically, weapons in hand, a handgun or an AK. They were ready for anything.

  RHYS HAD CROSSED over the mountain’s crown and felt relief by the ease of the descent. His breathing returned to normal, his thighs loosened up a bit, but his right thigh throbbed under the scab that had developed. He had some vague sense about where he was and knew that the hut was more or less straight down. He’d seen the hut once before, when he arrived in the area, and had marveled at its rustic perfection, despite the rain. “Not bad,” he had said to Lucinda, who had met him out front. “Wouldn’t mind being holed up here for a spell.” She wasn’t much of a romantic and failed to see its charm.

  He now moved quickly down the slope, the speed distracting from his stiff, painful legs. He should’ve been careful, but he wasn’t. He took advantage of the momentary stars and moonlight, which provided enough light to see most of the holes and rocks under his feet. Yeah, he might twist an ankle, but if he went slower he might not get there in time. Once he descended below the tree line, making good time became more difficult, but he was familiar with woods and knew the natural flow of trees, even if there wasn’t much order to a forest. He pushed through the last branches and came to a meadow that rolled slowly down until it stopped at what must have been a sudden drop. He remembered an escarpment directly behind the hut and thought that might be the drop ahead in the distance. If so, the hut would be just below it.

  Get to the brink of the escarpment, he told himself. Get an overview of the area, look for any Russian sentries. He was sure they’d be watching the hut, keeping everyone inside. Take ‘em out and free those inside before the Spetsnaz boys arrived.

  Easy.

  Only a million things could go wrong. It wasn’t even a plan. It was a hope.

  Still, he waded into the meadow, confident it was dark enough to remain unseen. His jacket and pants were black and he was as good as invisible as long as no one shined a light on the outfit’s reflective safety strips.

  The ground was uneven and the grass long. He was careful where he stepped and avoided sudden movements. Then he slowed to a stop, crouched low, and carefully got his binoculars out. He scanned the rim ahead. It’s where he’d set up if he were watching the hut. He also figured anyone there would have been there for so long that he’d have given up on operational stillness. Even the best broke down after so many hours.

  Sure enough, on the ridge, the outline of a head contrasted against the sky beyond. It was attached to a body, big, beefy, probably all muscle. He eyeballed the silhouette for a minute. Then another. As far as Rhys could tell, the guy was alone.

  Rhys went to ground and started a crawl to his left where there was a slight dip in the ground. He figured he’d be able to move along the depression undetected, for a while at least. He felt like an idiot as he crawled. It was almost as if he were fooling around. Still, he did it, knowing he had to get as close as he could. He moved silently.

  Manny, I hope you’re alright, he thought. Rhys couldn’t get him out of his thoughts. He could guess what had happened down below, but he had no way of knowing for sure and there was damn little he could do about it now. He focused instead on his stealth, trying to push Manny as far out of his mind as he could.

  He crawled along the long dip in the earth, knowing that it wasn’t near deep enough to provide cover. If the guy turned around, it would come down to who could draw first and Rhys had no doubt the Russian was faster. He pushed himself up to a crouch and walked, bent over, through the wild grass down the subtle slope. Patches of dirt became more frequent until there was more dirt than grass. Soon it was nothing but dirt and rocks. It was harder to move quietly on that, so he slowed, placing his steps gingerly on the ground. The Russian was close, maybe fifteen yards ahead—and he just sat there, looking over the hut, completely oblivious to Rhys’ presence.

  Rhys stopped. He had to consider.

  Was it right to just shoot the guy in the back of the head? It was a little late in the day to be asking moral questions, but it occurred to Rhys that he was about to execute someone. Or was this war? In a way, yeah, it was. But even in war there were rules. What rules applied here?

  He realized he was thinking of the Russian as human, with a personality, probably a family, maybe an apartment in Moscow, Volgograd, or Sochi. It would have to be emptied out after he died.

  Don’t consider that. He’d kill you without hesitation if the positions were reversed. He came to kill. That’s why he was here. He’s a target, not a man.

  Another thing, shooting the guy would alert any partners who might be up here. It would also alert Lucinda et al. inside, though that had advantages.

  The smart thing to do would be to use the knife.

  He hated the idea of the knife.

  It wasn’t the blood. He’d seen plenty of blood, whether his own or that of others. What horrified Rhys was the notion of slicing in, the feel of the skin’s resistance, the sounds the man made when sliced open. And killing with a knife was a tricky business, one that meant that he too would probably get hurt or cut, either with his own knife or with that of the other guy.

  He didn’t want to get cut. It scared him.

  Still, he reached for the knife, his hand clasping the handle as he pulled it cleanly from the scabbard. He stepped forward.

  Maybe Rhys made a noise. Maybe some human survival instinct was at play; some people have that uncanny sense when someone is upon them. Regardless, the guy’s head turned.

  He looked at Rhys with wide eyes and his mouth came open in surprise. His face was young in the starlight, almost innocent, and he wore a well-worn black baseball cap backwards, like the cool kids throughout Europe. A cigarette w
as pressed between his fingers.

  There was a frozen moment when neither knew what to do. The Russian reacted first. With immeasurable quickness, he was up and he jumped at Rhys, who, too terrified to use the knife, stepped to the side and let the man’s momentum pull him past. The guy had a large frame covered with muscle and bulk. The Russian turned and pulled a knife—identical to Rhys’ borrowed one—and lowered himself into a trained position equipoised between defense and attack.

  I’m not good enough for this shit. Pull your gun, Rhys told himself, knowing it was folly. He didn’t have nearly enough time.

  The man scurried toward him, threatening with his knife to show that he wasn’t afraid to use it. Rhys got in his own—untrained—stance and lofted his knife in his left hand, feeling his skills were transparently inadequate. The man attacked, swung across, right to left. Rhys, afraid of getting cut, got his hands and arms out of the way and jerked his head back.

  He didn’t jerk it back far enough.

  The knife sliced his chin, straight through the skin and down to the gums on the left side of his face. The lack of pain surprised him. He felt only a quick seer and then tasted his salty blood.

  Rhys counterattacked, stabbing the man under his right arm. The knife hit ribs and stopped and the man pulled away, instinctively grabbing the spot with his left hand. The Russian grimaced, swallowed the pain, and charged, but he stumbled on a rock with his second step and desperately tried to keep his feet under him.

  Rhys stabbed him in the throat.

  It was revolting. The knife pierced the skin and continued into the larynx, forcing an inhuman audible exhale from the man’s mouth, almost like a high-pitched snore. Blood flowed into the cartilaginous organ, creating a sickening gurgle.

  The man’s free hand flew to the wound, but only shock could prevent him from knowing it was fatal. Still, he held his knife hand out aggressively. Rhys knocked it away with his forearm, the motorcycle jacket preventing a cut, and stabbed him in the stomach. The man tried again to knife him and again Rhys knocked it away and then stabbed him again and again. Just fucking die already! Rhys pushed the knife deep and up into the man’s gut and held it, increasingly feeling the man’s weight. Hot, lubricous blood flowed over Rhys’ hands and wrists.

  Rhys withdrew the knife and the man collapsed to the ground to bleed out. Rhys turned away and clenched his eyes, as much to avoid seeing the man die as to prevent himself from falling apart. He desperately needed to forget the intimacy and the slippery mess. Regret and self-loathing overwhelmed him.

  He glanced back, just to be careful, but saw he had nothing to fear. The man trembled and then shook and then twitched and then went still.

  Rhys threw the knife down. It wasn’t worth it. No one should die like that. No one should have to kill like that. He shook out his hands, trying to get the blood off. He bent and rubbed his hands on the ground and only then noticed the blood dripping from his own face. He tried to staunch it with the back of his hand, but it was pointless. He explored the wound with his tongue until it pushed straight through and touched his hand on the outside. That’s gonna leave a scar. He fished around his pockets, found a filthy bandana and pressed it to his face.

  Now what? He stood and looked down the escarpment and saw below him the roof of the hut and the long meadow that stretched to the trees in the distance. He breathed deliberately as he regained his composure.

  Okay, time to get them out, he thought. But immediately he realized that wasn’t going to be that easy.

  In the distance, at the beginning of the meadow, he heard voices. Russian. The remnants of RG 405 emerged from the forest.

  C

  HAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  THERE WERE ANTS, of course, and they scurried all over his skin. The first few tickled mercilessly but then they grew in numbers until the tickling became predictable and thus manageable. They seemed more curious than bothered by his presence in their world and he had no right to be angry with them. Live and let live. What he couldn’t ignore was something bigger, probably a spider, which had worked its way into his collar and had begun exploring the unfamiliar terrain of his skin. He didn’t think it would bite, but what did he know about spiders?

  It wasn’t as if Manny hadn’t been trained for exactly this type of situation. He had been. Scout Sniper training had emphasized both the slow approach and the long wait. The trainers dragged the students through fetid marshes, moist cow manure, sand, and fields full of shards and jagged rocks. They had insisted on stillness and silence while the trainees lay on rubble, in thorns, and in frigid bogs. All to prepare him for this moment. It worked. He lay in the ground and let the insects have their way with him. He just hoped there’d be no snakes as there had been at Pendleton when a he came face to face with a pissed off rattler during a low crawl exercise.

  After he had set up the Hochsitz—carefully positioning the captured AK-9 and making partially visible the detached leg of one of the Russians he blew up at the cave, subtle signals a trained eye looking through a scope would spot—he jumped down and made his way up the mountain. He was a good click away when he heard RG 405 shooting. Wouldn’t want to be in the middle of that, he had thought.

  After a time up a wooded slope, he had reached the proper elevation and was relieved when the incline rolled around to something more manageable. He continued moving forward until, finally, from the edge of the woods, he saw the hut’s outline in the darkness. The lights were off and there was an eerie silence, but he felt the energy of life and an all-encompassing tension. Maybe it was his jitters. He longed to rush toward it, get this over with. He knew he couldn’t. Stick to the plan. So he moved stealthily, looking for the Russian sentry—sentries?—he knew was somewhere. He stopped, assumed operational stillness, and watched and listened. Nothing.

  Time to get to work.

  With his recently-acquired entrenching tool, he cut a large oval in a grassy glade located about twenty yards inside the last row of trees where the forest met the meadow in front of the hut. Carefully, he separated the turf from the soil, digging deep in order liberate the roots. He dug under the surface, folding the edges back when necessary, and some time later had completely separated what looked like an oval braided rug made of grass and dirt.

  He pulled it aside, careful not to break it, and dug into the dirt, digging a depression into which his body would comfortably and functionally fit. He spread the wet, heavy dirt around, avoiding noticeable piles or clumps in any one place. Satisfied, he arranged his rifle and ammunition just so, took a quick leak behind a tree, and lay down in the crater, pulling the rug carefully over his body. To anyone walking through the glade in the dark, the work was unnoticeable, the ground as lumpy as the area around it.

  Time to wait.

  The ground was saturated and the newly dug hole led to pooling, which again soaked his clothes. His utter stillness dropped his body temperature and chills set in. It was all he could do to stop his body from shivering. He focused on other distractions—for example, the spider that had found its way to the small of his back, where it thirstily drank up Manny’s sweat. The eight-legged monster felt like a Jeep Wrangler. An ant crawled in his ear.

  The plan was to pinch the men between them, Rhys from above, behind the hut, Manny hidden in the grass below, behind the Russians. They’d finish off the team, or at least eliminate enough of them to prevent an attempt into the hut. Those inside would get with the program and multiply the firepower. It was probably the least bad plan in a day full of bad plans. They’d survived thus far and would again with a little luck.

  WHEN THE REMNANTS of RG 405 arrived, they were quiet but not silent. Manny heard footsteps, the clanking of metal, softly spoken words. They had no reason to practice operational silence. They probably figured they had eliminated the sole threat at the Hochsitz below and those in the hut probably knew they were coming anyway. They moved with all the confidence of experienced warriors taking on a small number of confined soft targets.

 
Manny’s head was turned to the side, his left eye open as he peered out the sliver of opening that he had arranged for air and a very limited and narrow field of view. He saw a figure walk by. Then another. He couldn’t help but hold his breath when he heard footsteps directly behind him. A boot came down on the grass tarp directly over his wrist and Manny’s heart all but stopped. Would a rifle butt slam into his head? A full clip of bullets slam into his prone body? The instant took so long it defied time. But the boot finally came off and continued ahead. Manny breathed again.

  The Russians did what he had anticipated. In the copse of trees twenty yards ahead, they stopped. Last minute tactics needed to be communicated.

  Manny slowly gripped his rifle.

  SOMETHING WAS HAPPENING. They didn’t know what, but they heard muffled noises that might have been a few grunts behind the hut. Maybe it was a scuffle up on the escarpment, or maybe it was someone lifting something heavy and moving it into position. A few small stones cascaded down the rock face. Then silence returned.

  Standing alone in the bedroom, Lucinda Stirewalt looked out the small window. Clouds floated across the night sky and rolled through the valley below.

  Should she order an evacuation? They’d at least have control over their fate. But anyone up there behind the hut would have a clear vantage over their exit. Leaving the hut meant turning the Tereschchenkos into sitting ducks.

  “This is it, isn’t it, Lucinda?” said Colin, who had quietly entered the bedroom.

  “Yes,” said Lucinda. “This is it.”

  “Any idea how long we have?”

  Stirewalt shrugged. “A few minutes? Can’t be much longer than that. They’ve been pushed hard. There’s no moon, so they’ll advance the last bit in darkness. And they’ll want to get this over with.”