Hunting Season: A Rhys Adler Thriller

by Alex Carlson

  A barrage of bullets hit around him, shattering what was left of the window and thudding violently into the thick beamed walls of the hut. Splinters from the window frame exploded around him.

  He ducked back, then rolled in a low crouch to the bedroom, smashed his muzzle through the unbroken window glass, and fired at the first target he acquired. He hit and the man went still. He moved his eye from the scope and in his peripheral saw a man running away to the side, out of his line of fire. He knew the attacker would flank the house, get close, and sneak along its base.

  “Another magazine!” he shouted to Colin.

  “There are no more.”

  Shit.

  “Give me the Beretta.”

  Colin knew who the better shot was and tossed it over without objection.

  Tyler raced to the front door, opened it a crack, then lay on the floor, wiggling on his back half out the door. He turned just in time to see the flanking man charging toward him with some kind of concussive device in his hand.

  Tyler fired and fired and fired, but the man wouldn’t go down. Tyler focused his aim and squeezed the trigger twice, hitting the man in the forehead. The attacker’s momentum pulled him forward, but there was no control in his movements as his central nervous system had been short-circuited. The man collapsed on the porch’s steps, his face slamming lifelessly into the wood, his body coming to rest in a contorted heap.

  Tyler popped the clip of the Beretta, saw that it was empty, then threw the gun down.

  “We’re out,” he said.

  Outside, the flare had long passed its brightening phase as it slowly drifted to the ground and the darkness returned with an abruptness as surprising as the initial illumination. Colin was pressed against a wall and Lucinda crouched in a corner. With the sudden darkness both became invisible in the shadows.

  AFTER RHYS WATCHED the flare rise and bathe the meadow in light, he rolled into a shooting position and 4Xed a figure lying in the grass. He squeezed the trigger. He fired again at a second man who had clearly understood his vulnerability and had stood up to run. Hit, the man staggered, then went down.

  Above, the flare hung from its little parachute as it slowly drifted from its one hundred meter altitude to the ground, the breeze carrying it slowly to the south. It floated down below the trees well below the meadow, briefly casting an eerie light through the trees and casting long shadows on the meadow before disappearing beyond the roll of the bluff below.

  Rhys grabbed the flare gun again, rolled on his back, and fired the second flare into the air. It rocketed to its apex and its parachute deployed.

  Suddenly, a geyser of dirt erupted a few feet from his head, sending a hundred particles of dirt into his face. It felt like someone scraped a Brillo pad across his forehead.

  Where the hell did that come from?

  But then he saw them, two men charging him, AKs held low. Rhys reached for his Glock and swung it around. He fired without aiming, walking the bullets into one of the men. The man grabbed his gut, stumbled forward, then collapsed to the ground, his legs kicking, his mouth coughing up blood.

  The other rushed Rhys and Rhys kept firing till his gun was empty, hitting the man in the hand with his last shot, forcing the AK out of the guy’s grip as he hopped about for a moment, trying to shake the pain away.

  With his good hand, the Russian pulled the Voron-3 from his scabbard and glared at Rhys, who had stood up but didn’t have time to reload.

  Not again, thought Rhys. I can’t go through that again.

  The man charged.

  AFTER MANNY’S INITIAL shot at the sniper aiming for Rhys, the two entered into a stalemate that seemed interminable. Manny dropped low and let his grassy rug conceal him completely and the Russian sniper—Manny knew he had missed him—fell behind a fallen tree trunk and had disappeared from view after firing an unaimed return shot. Meanwhile, the area in front went berserk as multiple guns fired, from the cliff, from the hut, from the meadow. Manny could do nothing but listen to the gunfight.

  After a time, the shooting stopped and the quiet was broken by sounds of reloading and a few words barked in Russian. Manny slowly rose high enough to scan carefully through the narrow opening through which his rifle protruded. He searched for the sniper but saw nothing but shades of darkness. He looked for movement. Nothing. The shooter clearly had the sniper’s gift of stillness.

  Then the flare went up—what the hell is that?—and the illumination revealed a patch of black clothing and a face looking back at him. They made eye contact. Manny broke free of the sniper’s look and rushed a shot. He missed and was rewarded with an explosion of dirt next to his head, one that ripped to shreds his lawn of carefully manicured camouflage. Manny lay impossibly flat, terrified that he’d soon cease to exist without ever feeling the shot that killed him.

  But no shot came. Again, he heard a firefight in front of him, with distinct shooting coming from the hut and from Rhys’ position, and a spattering of return fire, but no large-bore single shots like the one that almost got him.

  Through the holes in his cover he saw a dancing flicker of light around him, almost like a strobe light in a seventies’ disco, and he knew that the flare had fallen low and was emitting its flashing brightness through the trees. Then the flare drifted to the ground somewhere behind him at a lower elevation and night returned.

  But only for a moment. A second flare went up, transforming once again nighttime darkness into a brightness brighter than high noon.

  Fuck it, he thought. Now or never. He rose to his elbows and scoped the Russian sniper. But the shooter was gone. Completely and utterly gone.

  Manny broke from the scope and searched the area ahead of him. Nothing. In the meadow, a Russian soldier made a run for the hut. Manny acquired him and shot him in the back. The guy stumbled forward and landed facedown in the dirt, arms down at his waist, a position that could only signify death.

  He scanned for more targets but saw none. Through his naked eye he saw movement on top of the cliff behind the hut. It looked like a scuffle. He peered through the scope. Rhys and one of the Russian Special Forces wrestled each other. It was an ugly fight, all grabbing and squeezing and trying to secure, no punches thrown, no maneuvering for position to take the other down. They looked like two inexperienced brawlers in a bar.

  Manny had no shot. The two were too close together, their movement too erratic, their positions constantly changing. He was helpless.

  Rhys had grabbed the Russian by both arms, but the Russian refused to be brought into a bear hug. The Russian lowered his center of gravity and pushed, and Manny watched as Rhys’ weight shifted backward, his footing lost, and both men tumbled over the lip of the ledge and tumbled down the escarpment.

  It was horrific. The wall of rock wasn’t sheer, which would have resulted in a long fall through the air, ending with a fatal landing on the ground below. No, it was more like an impossibly steep pile of rocks, one that slowed their descent but ensured that there would be numerous murderous hits the entire way down. The two men plummeted, bumped, tumbled, jackknifed, skidded, and flopped down the rocks. Manny saw a leg break, an arm become dislocated, a neck twist, a face smashed flat.

  Neither could have survived.

  C

  HAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  SCHARKOV FILLED WITH confounded rage as he watched the flare rise and the night turn into day. His men were now targets in a shooting booth at a carnival. They’d be picked off one by one; the overwhelming advantage of numbers they enjoyed had been erased. And the fusillade from different shooters revealed that the safe house was not as soft a target as he had thought nor was it without additional protection. He understood neither the why nor the how.

  How could he have been so wrong every step of the way? What had consumed him, clouded his judgment? It didn’t matter now. The only thing that mattered was completing the mission. His reputation was destroyed. This assault would be discussed for decades; it would be taught in military schools as an example
of how not to ambush an isolated target. But there would be a footnote: Colonel Scharkov completed the mission.

  From his vantage to the east of the hut, he had a clear vantage of the brawl above. The two men fell to their deaths, which meant the shooter above had been taken out. What’s more, the shots from the hut itself had ceased. The last thing he heard was the frustrated clicking of an empty gun. They were out of ammunition. He had no doubt that they still intended to put up a fight, but Scharkov wouldn’t give them the opportunity. He’d approach from the oblique and throw a flash-bang through the window and then lob in grenade after grenade; he’d shrapnel the shit out of them.

  The proud, storied RG 405 had been wiped out. He was all that was left. When he was done, he’d put a bullet into his mouth. But only after he was done.

  He waited, watching for movement and listening for any signs of life. He saw and heard nothing, but to be sure he waited another minute. Finally, he emerged from the protection of the land and rose, almost daring his antagonists to shoot.

  Those who dare are rewarded—and Scharkov was rewarded with a full clip from a semi-automatic handgun, probably a Glock or a Beretta. Scharkov didn’t know. He only knew that he had been hit above his right hip. The bullet had torn out the flesh and he was bleeding profusely.

  He didn’t go down. He turned and returned a full clip from his AK, showering the area behind the copse of trees where they had assembled before the assault. Primakov hadn’t killed the rear man apparently.

  There was no return fire. Scharkov had done what Primakov couldn’t.

  He loaded a new clip and limped toward the house, his right side numb, his leg drenched with blood. He’d bleed out in a few minutes. That knowledge was all he needed to push on. His gait gained confidence and energy. A few more steps and he’d hurl the flash-bang.

  C

  HAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  ATGATT. ALL THE Gear All The Time. It was a pain in the ass, but bikers lived by it.

  And so did those who tumbled down cliffs.

  Miraculously, Rhys never hit his head. He hit every other part of his body: right shoulder, both elbows, the side of his left knee. His Klim Badlands motorcycle jacket and pants had protectors in each of these spots, as well as a back plate and chest protectors. The miracle D30 body armor remained flexible until impact, when it instantaneously hardened and provided protection.

  He had cartwheeled, banging all the way, though the fall never really registered until he lay motionless on the dirt and scree below. Even then it took a moment to figure out what the hell had happened. One minute he had been wrestling above a ten-meter rock face, the next he was laying on his back below it.

  He saw his sparring partner lying next to him and he could tell from the hideous angle of the neck that he was dead. Just as well: one of his feet was up by his ear; he would have spent the next two years relearning how to walk.

  Adler shook his spinning head and took stock of his injuries. His chin had opened up again and blood flowed down to and around his neck. His palms were scraped to hell and burned like a bitch. But his limbs worked, albeit achingly, and he stretched and bent them, just to bring them back to life.

  He stayed on his back for a moment as he tried to rid the stars from his eyes. He had to process surviving the scare of his life or he wasn’t going to be any good to anybody. He’d be able to fall apart soon enough, but not quite yet. It was quiet. There were no shots of any kind coming from any direction. No AKs, no M40, no guns from inside the hut. The air smelled of gunfire and the burnt flare propellant.

  Did we get them all?

  Are they all dead?

  Do I have to keep moving or can I lie here forever?

  He realized that there were really only two possible scenarios. One, RG 405 had been wiped out and any moment now someone would emerge from the hut—he hoped it would be Lucinda; it would be nice to hear her voice—and say that it was all over. Or, two, it wasn’t over, and the Russians were being as careful as he was.

  But how many more could there be? There had been some killing done today, that was for sure.

  The silence was shattered by the sound of a handgun firing until it was empty. It was followed by the faster, louder firing of an AK. From the direction of the sound, Rhys figured the handgun was Manny’s Glock. Come on, Manny, return fire.

  There was no return fire.

  There was someone left and he was clearly intent on finishing the job. Just one man could do the job if he was smart about it.

  Rhys took a deep, deliberate breath and then rolled over and pushed himself up on all fours. He saw his empty Glock lying on the ground, amazed it had fallen so close. Maybe it was the lucky break he needed. He grabbed it and crawled a few yards to the back of the hut, which he used for support as he leaned against it. He put his last clip into the Glock and chambered a round.

  He rolled painfully back onto his hands and knees and started to crawl along the side of the house. It was slow going. The endorphins produced by the fall had run their course and everything hurt and throbbed: his hands, his neck, his thigh, his back. Keep moving. He’d hate himself if something happened in the next moment and he was lollygagging along the side of the hut.

  He was lightheaded and his heart once again began its heavy beating.

  He crawled.

  SCHARKOV STEPPED INTO a hole that he hadn’t seen in the dark and fell into the meadow’s wet grass. The fall twisted his ankle and it pissed him off that his final approach—his final time on earth—would be marred by pain. His side had gone numb and he felt himself losing strength.

  He tried to focus on the job ahead but his mind wandered. He thought of battles and ambushes and massacres, of street-to-street fighting and mountain assaults. He thought of the massacre in eastern Ukraine. RG 405 had intended to send a message and a message had been sent. An entire village destroyed, men, women, even the children. It had been nauseating. It had been inhumane, evil. But it had been necessary. Word of it got out. World leaders and military men had heard of it and knew how far Russia was willing to go to return to her glory. He had enabled that.

  And this was his reward? Yes, it was. It was somehow fitting, gloriously so. That Tereshchenko bitch would be eliminated and Ukraine would elect a leader much more amenable to Russia’s suggestions. From there, Russia would eye further west. In time.

  The numbness spread, rising to his shoulder and extending below his waist. He felt nothing other than the throbbing ankle. His mind, overwhelmed by the events of the day and by what he was about to do, became foggy.

  What is the mission?

  What has happened to my men? How?

  Where am I?

  Then it became clear. He was at the hut.

  He reached to his belt and unclipped a flash-bang grenade. Given the half-dozen wooden steps and the width of the front porch, he feared he’d miss the smashed window if tried to hurl it from where he stood, even though the opening seemed as big as a barn door.

  He began to climb the steps. His movements were slow, deliberate, taking his remaining strength. He gritted his teeth and focused on putting one foot on the step, then the other on the next step.

  As he rose, he saw scurrying inside. He could feel their fear. It gave him strength.

  RHYS MADE IT to the midpoint of the long side of the hut. He felt like he was crawling down the sideline of a football field and had just crossed the fifty-yard-line. It just never ended. He got dizzy and stopped. Remaining on his knees, he dropped to his elbows to give his shredded palms a break. He looked down at the ground a few inches from his face and felt the blood drool from his chin to the dirt.

  There was no sound, nothing but the peace and tranquility of the Alps at night. Why was it so quiet? Where was Manny?

  Rhys started moving again, focusing on moving one limb at a time. He willed himself to go faster but his body didn’t respond. In time, probably seconds, but it felt like hours, he neared the end of the hut’s side.

  Then, a sound, just aroun
d the corner in front of him. It wasn’t common, but he knew exactly what it was: a heavy boot landing on a thick wooden step. The weight caused the centuries-old piece of wood to creak. An impossibly long time later, he heard it again. A second step.

  Someone was climbing the steps.

  He urged his body forward, powered by a sudden burst of adrenaline.

  THEY HEARD THE sound of the boot on the step as they were pulling the Tereshchenkos up from the safe room in a desperate last-second attempt to escape.

  “Keep climbing,” Colin instructed Pavlo, who was half up the ladder. He grabbed the teenager and swung him through the air over to Lucinda.

  They heard another step, and then another.

  Maksym climbed up next. He hesitated a moment once his head cleared the opened hatch and looked around, feeling the tension in the room. Tyler moved to the front door, ready to fight the intruder with his fists.

  The man outside had climbed the steps and was lumbering across the porch to the opening that had once been a window. Jagged pieces of glass stuck out from the window frame.

  They stared at him. The man had a head of gray stubble and wore an outfit so devoid of color it communicated death. He looked haggard, drunk. His body was contorted, his side emitting a blackish blood that drenched his clothes. His eyes bore down on them fiercely while the smile of a lunatic revealed bloody, crooked teeth. He was barely conscious and had trouble keeping his balance. One hand held the grip of an AK-9, his finger pressed up against the trigger guard, the other hand fondled a grenade.