Rogue (An American Ghost Thriller Book 1)

by J. B. Turner

  Stone checked his watch. It showed 0249. The man had been gone for a while. But since it would soon be light, he would want to get off the Knoydart Peninsula before the news of the senator’s sudden death was reported. He didn’t know if it was in the public domain yet. But he knew it would be only a matter of time.

  He knew his handler would want all elements out of the locale before dawn.

  It might be hours before news seeped out. But seep out it would.

  Stone spread himself flat on the ground. Perfect line of sight of the trail. He could hear his breathing. Feel the cool air on his skin. A twinge on the back of his head. He touched the spot. Blood on his hands. He rubbed them on the bracken.

  He replayed the day’s events over in his mind. The prey. The hunt. The kill. He moved his night sights again to the area where the two operatives had killed Jessica Friel.

  He wondered how he had gotten it so wrong. He wondered if he was getting sloppy. Had his enforced idleness made him soft? Had he made a critical mistake in his approach?

  Thoughts filled his head as he ran through the scenarios. Would he have done anything differently?

  He thought he would.

  The instruction he’d been given to kill the senator from a distance was fine. Shouldn’t she have been killed the same way? Then again, should he have just killed her as she knelt at the senator’s side? Pushed her off the mountain? Perhaps those should have been the instructions from his handler.

  It would have made perfect sense.

  But to be fair to his handler, he probably hadn’t envisioned the extraordinary reaction the girl had. The realization that the flash drive was gone from around the senator’s neck had sparked fury in Friel. And instead of wondering where it had gone, or even asking Nathan if he had taken it, she’d reverted to primeval survival mode.

  The more he thought of it, the more he realized Friel must have known her life was under acute threat and deduced that the Good Samaritan American hiker was the assassin.

  His thoughts turned to the contents of the flash drive.

  What the hell did it contain?

  It was strange. Usually, he would just carry out the mission. But now he was beginning to question things. Critical thinking.

  The sound of bats swooping low carried on the breeze.

  Time dragged. Seconds. Minutes.

  Then all of a sudden, through the night sights Stone saw a figure. Carrying the large backpack, moving quickly along the trail back to base.

  He stared through the display. It showed the target about four hundred yards away. He clicked off the safety and watched.

  It was the second operative. Stone knew from how the man walked, his build. He picked out the Berghaus logo.

  It was him.

  Stone held his breath. He felt his finger on the trigger. He had the operative in the crosshairs. The middle of his chest. He tracked the man. Then he squeezed the trigger. The muffled phut sound. The man slumped to the ground face-first. Some birds flew from the trees in the inky black sky.

  Stone didn’t move. He waited and waited. Still the man didn’t move. He took aim again, crosshairs on the back of the man’s neck. He squeezed the trigger. Another phut sound. A few birds rustled.

  The man still wasn’t moving.

  Stone had made two shots. He waited a few moments. Packed his gear away, headed down onto the lower trail. His heart was racing as he approached the body. He knelt down and felt the man’s neck. Skin warm to touch. No pulse.

  Stone looked around. He needed to move fast. Dragged the body into the thick woods for nearly a hundred yards, then dumped it. He took the backpack off the dead man.

  Stone’s mind was racing. Where to dispose of the body? He headed deeper into the woods. Trudged for fifty yards through muddy ground, moss, and water.

  He felt himself sinking in. “Fuck!”

  He’d walked into a bog. After a struggle, he extricated himself. Relieved to be back on solid ground. He retraced his steps and returned to where the body was lying. Rifled through the man’s pockets and took out the flash drive and cell phone, putting them in his zipped back pocket. Saw a familiar fake ID. American, studying international politics at the University of St Andrews. He looked down at the man one final time. Pulled the body toward the bog and rolled it in. The body disappeared under the moss, thick mud, peat, and water.

  He was breathing heavily from the exertion.

  Stone looked at the dead man’s cell phone and scrolled through the messages. The same one from the same person. The same handler the first operative was dealing with.

  His mind began to race, and an idea was beginning to form.

  Sixty-Three

  For more than an hour, Brigadier Jack Sands hadn’t received a message from either of the two operatives on their whereabouts. He leaned back in his seat in the command room, along with Major Frank Drenge, an ex–Special Forces adviser to the Pentagon.

  “Frank, something feels wrong about this,” Sands said.

  Drenge leaned forward in his seat, hands clasped. “I know these two guys. They’ll be on their way. They did a perfect job on Friel.”

  “But we have Nathan fucking Stone on the loose.”

  “Jack, he’s almost certainly seriously injured or dead. Maybe crawled off part of the mountain. Maybe dead. Either way, he won’t see the night out.”

  Sands closed his eyes for a few moments. He felt bad about how things had worked out for Stone. He was a tough, resilient warrior. A killer. An assassin. An American ghost. And a cold-blooded machine who had served his country and the intelligence agencies for well over a decade.

  “Look, the guys are well versed in communications. I suspect they’ll have things well in hand. If I know the operative who’s out on the mountain, he’ll find Nathan.”

  “What a fuck-up.”

  “It is what it is, Jack, you know that. Nothing’s ever clean. Perfect. This is messy. A lot of shit to clean up. But the bottom line? We neutralized the two targets, end of story.”

  “I don’t like messy. I like order. I like clean kills. Clear exits. No sign we were ever there. No trace. No fuck-ups.”

  “Nothing will be traced back to this facility. We’ve compartmentalized the whole operation on that basis. The two guys on the mountain? Bare minimum.”

  Sands nodded. “You know what worries me?”

  Drenge shrugged.

  “If one or both of them is detained. And then Nathan’s discovered dead on the hill. And they start asking questions. And the press gets wind of it.”

  “That’s why we’ve got guys like you who work in consulates and embassies across the world, Jack.”

  Sands sensed things were going terribly wrong. “You know when we get problems? When some smart-ass, like the blogger—”

  “The libertarian kid? Jeff Patterson?”

  “Yeah, Patterson. When they start messing around in things, life tends to get complicated for everyone involved.”

  “Hey, Jack, you know how it is. Innocent people get hurt. It’s the name of the game sometimes. Fallout.”

  Sands nodded.

  “The good thing is we’ll have the flash drive back here within hours.”

  Sands’s cell phone vibrated. He flipped it open and saw there was a message from the second operative, code-named Mr. Thomas, who’d been out on the mountain hunting for Stone. The message said Delivery complete. Returning to HQ. A photo was attached. He opened it up. It showed a close-up picture of Nathan Stone’s upper body, lying on heavy undergrowth, shrouded by trees. He turned and showed the image to Drenge.

  “Good and gone,” Drenge said. “That clears that up.”

  Sands called Clayton Wilson and stared at the image of Stone’s face, eyes closed, and felt a mixture of relief and sadness wash over him. “Poor fuck.”

  Drenge nodded. “It is what it is, Jack. We all go the same way in the end.”

  Sixty-Four

  Nathan Stone ditched his own phone in the bog, along with one of the o
thers, and kept a spare one. He knew the facility would be tracking the phones. They’d wonder why only one of the signals was being picked up. The first assumption they’d work on was a technical glitch. The second assumption they might make was that only one of the operatives was headed back to base. But either assumption would work in Stone’s favor.

  He mulled that as he headed back onto the high trail for another few miles, then descended hundreds of yards from the usual entry point for the mountain. Then he climbed a stone wall and walked through a field of Highland cattle grazing under the dark sky.

  Stone wanted to get off the mountain and away from any early-morning hikers or rescue teams. His detour took him through boggy ground, so he was glad of his sturdy leather hiking boots.

  Just after 4:00 a.m. the sky lightened enough to allow him to read the map and check the compass. He got his bearings and doubled back along little-used paths and trails to the outskirts of the village as the land flattened out by the lakeside. He took out the night-vision glasses from his backpack and saw in the cove a small, empty boat intended to take the two operatives back to the mainland.

  Stone climbed in, started the motor, checked the sea maps, and set a course.

  Just over an hour later, the sun edging over the horizon, he pulled the small boat onto an isolated sandy cove three miles from Mallaig.

  He walked across a country road to a woodcutter’s shed he’d seen marked on the map. Inside were two high-powered BMW motorbikes. Two small backpacks with biker gear. He took off his dirty clothes and put them in one of the backpacks. The shed had a sink, and he washed off the mud and blood and filth from his face and head the best he could. He opened the pannier of one of the bikes and found a comprehensive first-aid kit. He pulled out some antibacterial spray and liberally applied it to his wounds. Then with a needle and thread, and using one of the motorbike mirrors, he carefully sewed up his head wound. He popped the last of the amphetamine and morphine sachets and swallowed the pills with water from the tap. Then he pulled on the gear.

  Stone saw two sets of keys hanging from a nail. He took one set and put on a helmet, flipping down the visor. He opened the shed doors and wheeled out one of the BMWs, locked the door, pulled on the backpack, and fired up the bike.

  He gave it a couple of revs. It sounded strong. Powerful. He cranked it into first gear and pulled away, heading down the isolated country lane. The sun was now flooding a dark-orange sparkle over the water of the lake and a gentle glow across the distant hills and mountains.

  He sped on faster and faster. It wasn’t even 6:00 a.m., and Nathan Stone was back on the mainland.

  Sixty-Five

  Brigadier Jack Sands was watching Fox News coverage of the death of Senator Crichton on a hiking trip in Scotland. A solemn female reporter with blond hair stood outside Crichton’s home, which was located in an affluent gated community. She described him in hushed tones as a great American, a great believer in free enterprise, free choice, and small government. But a man of principle. Victim of a tragic accident. Speculation, fed by Pentagon sources, suggested the accident might have been caused by a heart attack after a series of stressful meetings.

  Sands folded his arms. He’d heard all that bullshit a thousand times before.

  His cell phone rang.

  “Jack, it’s Dr. Brian Foster.” Sands had known the CIA doctor for nearly two decades. He was based at the embassy in London and was medical liaison with the CIA.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Sorry to bother you, Jack. Just wanted to let you know I’ve arrived at Campbeltown Airport.” Sands knew the former NATO airfield was still mostly run by the British Ministry of Defence, although the eastern side was used for civilian flights. “I’ve signed for the body of the senator, and he’s now on board a US government Gulfstream.”

  “Very good work. Tell me, was there any medical examination?”

  “No. He was in the hospital morgue in Inverness and removed by British military personnel while I was there.”

  “So the diplomatic niceties have been taken care of.”

  “They’re fine. Good people.”

  “And he was helicoptered off the hills?”

  “RAF Mountain Rescue helicopter picked him up, and he was taken to Raigmore Hospital, in Inverness. Jack, do I now have your permission to give the all clear for the flight to take off for the States?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’ll be accompanying the flight before the formal handover.”

  “Very good work, Doc. I owe you one.”

  The line went dead.

  Sands felt happy with the news. Crichton was dead, with an autopsy carried out by a CIA-approved medical examiner. His mistress, Jessica Friel, was lying dead in an unmarked shallow grave. And Nathan Stone had been disposed of. But despite everything, Sands still had a gnawing feeling of doubt in his gut.

  Why was that?

  He pondered that point. Two operatives still out in the field. One hadn’t been in contact for three hours, and the other hadn’t replied to any message in the last hour.

  A hard knock at his door snapped Sands out of his reverie. It was Major Frank Drenge, his face drawn and lined.

  “Frank, what’s the latest?”

  “We’re looking very good. I’m hearing through diplomatic channels that there’s no formal police investigation, and the procurator fiscal will not be launching a fatal accident inquiry. No suspicious cause of death, and we’re home and dry on that front.”

  “My only concern is the one signal we’re getting,” Sands said. “Operative B is en route as we speak.”

  A tracker of Operative B’s cell phone buzzed as a red dot on the big screen. But this wasn’t the approved route.

  Sands stared at the screen showing the GPS location. “Shit.”

  Drenge said, “What?”

  “He’s not taking the agreed route home.”

  “Maybe things changed. You know how it is.”

  “He’s not on the right road.”

  “There’s probably a perfectly suitable explanation,” answered Drenge.

  What was happening slowly began to dawn on Sands. He ran the scenarios in his head. And then he got it. “Son of a bitch!”

  “What?”

  “Things aren’t what they seem, Frank.”

  Drenge shrugged.

  “We’ve been blindsided. All of us. Right down the line. Your guys have been deleted.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Jack?”

  Sands pointed to the screen showing the moving red dot. “This is not Operative B.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This is Nathan Stone. The photo was a setup. Very cute. I get it.”

  Drenge rubbed his hands across his face.

  “We need to intercept.”

  “How can you be sure it’s him?”

  “Trust me, it’s him.”

  “But are you sure?”

  “Damn right I’m sure. I trained the fucker. That’s what I’d do.”

  “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “Trust me on this one. The guys we sent in are gone. Nathan Stone is on his way back.”

  “To do what?”

  Sands stared at the moving red dot on the big screen with a growing understanding of what they now faced.

  Sixty-Six

  The rain was falling as Nathan Stone negotiated a winding Highland road on the high-powered motorbike. He checked his rearview mirror and overtook a slow-moving trailer. Sped on for nearly fifty grueling miles. Stopped off for gas and a bite to eat at a roadside café. Fried eggs and toast washed down with black coffee.

  The waitress poured him a refill. “Bit of a bad one coming in today,” she said.

  Stone nodded.

  “Deepening low, according to my husband. He listens to the weather forecast night and day.”

  “Is that right?”

  The woman smiled. “You from America, if you don’t mind me asking?”

/>   “Yes, ma’am. Doing some hiking and climbing.”

  “Well, probably not the best day for it. Get yourself into a nice wee B&B and get warmed up. You look frozen.”

  Stone grinned. “Appreciate your concern.”

  The woman returned to her post behind the counter.

  Stone pulled out the map from his pocket and checked his location. He was about seventy-five miles from the grounds of a private estate in northwest Scotland, where a chopper was waiting. But that wasn’t an option for him now.

  He began to run escape scenarios through his head. What he was going to do. How he was going to do it.

  The more he thought of it, the crazier he felt.

  Stone was being engulfed by a fury almost unquenchable. He loved that feeling.

  The rain rattled the café’s metal roof. Stone went to the bathroom, wiped his visor, and left. He fired up the bike and sped off through the horizontal rain, riding hard. The rain was slashing at him. And the bike was sliding around bends on the slick asphalt. He pressed on. Farther and farther north. The miles being eaten up. Fifteen miles away from the café, he saw lights in his rain-streaked mirror. A fast-moving car. He slowed down, giving the driver time to pass. He glanced back and saw the driver staring back at him. He indicated for the car to pass. The driver just sat on his tail for a mile. He sensed in that moment that something was wrong. He wondered if the guy was just driving cautiously on the isolated narrow road. But if that were the case, why the hell was he driving so close?

  He again signaled for the man to overtake him.

  The driver just hung back, maybe ten yards behind him. Way too close for comfort.

  Stone looked back as the driver continued to stare at him. What the hell was the guy playing at?

  He opened the accelerator and lifted the speed of the bike, revving hard. Hitting eighty, ninety, keen to put some distance between the bike and the tailgating driver.

  Stone glanced back and didn’t see any lights. He slowed down to sixty and rode on. Just a couple of minutes later, the lights of the car came into view at high speed. But this time Stone sensed the driver wanted to run him off the road. Kill him.