Fallen Hunter (Jesse McDermitt Series) (34 page)

As she turned to walk away, Doc started to turn
the wheelchair to wheel me through the door, but I reached down and set the brakes on the wheelchair.

“Hang on,” I said. “She’s going to look back.”

She strode across the entrance road to the parking lot, with her hair blowing in the light breeze. I waited. She got to a Jaguar sedan that was facing away from us and unlocked the door and tossed her purse inside. I waited. Finally, she looked back over her left shoulder toward us, the wind blowing her hair across her face and she reached up and tossed it over her shoulder. I waited. Then she smiled and waved. I waved back, reached down and released the brakes.

I was released from the hospital the next day, early in the afternoon. I was disappointed that Jackie wasn’t there to say goodbye. Deuce picked me up in Julie’s yellow Jeep. As we left the base and headed north on US-1, Deuce brought me up to date on what had transpired over the last couple of weeks.

“Santiago has been singing like the proverbial canary,” he said. “He didn’t last four days of interrogation. Those CIA guys down there are very good at extracting information from people. Fayyad, on the other hand, hasn’t said anything yet. He will, though. Santiago said something you might be interested in.”

I was looking out the window, staring at the ocean, as we crossed Big Coppitt and Saddlebunch Keys. I noticed without thinking that it was a falling tide, the current running toward the open ocean. “What’s that?” I asked.

“The Cuban woman that was with him out on the boat?” he said. “The one that was supposed to seduce you? Her name’s not Isabella Espinosa.”

I turned toward him and said, “Who is she?”

“She’s not even Cuban,” Deuce said.

“Who the hell is she, Deuce?” I asked.

He glanced over, his face showing the seriousness of what he was thinking. “Her name’s Afia Qazi, Jesse. She’s al Fayyad’s daughter and a trained assassin. She’s fluent in English, Spanish and French. We just assumed she was Cuban.”

“His daughter?” I asked. “What the hell kind of man trains his daughter to be an assassin?”

We rode on in silence for a little while, crossing Sugarloaf and Cudjoe Keys. I looked over at Deuce and asked, “Did they get any information from Beech, about Lester?” We hadn’t talked about this, since the day my wife was murdered. Lester Antonio killed Russ, Deuce’s dad, a few weeks before that. He worked for Elijah “Sonny” Beech. Two of Beech’s men were responsible for killing Alex.

“I was wondering if you were ever going to ask about that,” he said. “Beech broke down on his first interrogation session. Confessed everything, including several unsolved murders in the Palm Beach area. Lester came to him with a few doubloons, the gold bar and a gold cross with
emeralds. Beech fenced them locally and paid Lester less than half what they were worth.”

“You think your dad found one of the gold bars from the Lynx?” I asked.

“Beech said it had the letters CSA stamped it,” he said. “He didn’t mention anything about there being more than just the one.”

“Your dad found that wreck,” I said. “And it got him killed. I’m certain it’s the last way point on his GPS. Wanna take a few days off next month?”

“Yeah,” he said. “We could do that. Fayyad’s daughter is a loose end. The new ADD wants her found, if she’s still in the country.”

“New?” I asked.

“I didn’t tell you,” he said with a grin. “Smith’s been transferred. The new Assistant Deputy Director is an Army Officer. A bird Colonel by the name of Stockwell. You’ll like him. No bullshit, no political ambition.”

“Where’d Smith get transferred to?” I asked. “Probably some Senator’s Aide?”

Deuce laughed heartily and said, “No, nothing like that. He pissed someone off and got his ass transferred to Djibouti.”

I laughed so hard, it made my back hurt where I’d been shot. “You’re kidding. He must have really pissed someone off bad.”
We rode on for a while crossing Big Pine Key then and starting up the Seven Mile Bridge.

“I’m sorry about Tina,” he said after a while.

“Don’t be, man. There wasn’t anything there,” I lied.

“So, what about that Navy doc?” he asked.

“Now, that’s a woman,” I said. “But, I think I better steer clear of her. Probably jumped into water too quick.”

A few minutes later, we pulled off the highway onto the crushed shell driveway to the
Rusty Anchor
. There were a handful of cars in the lot, most of which I recognized.

I got out of the car and Deuce and I walked toward the bar. It was late afternoon and it looked like it might rain. I
was only going to stop in and say hi, maybe have a beer and then go to my boat and get some rest.

Suddenly, Pescador came running around the building toward us. I dropped to my knees and said, “Pescador! Good to see you buddy.” The dog nearly tackled me, his huge tail swinging his whole body. I didn’t realize just how much I’d missed him until just then. I stood up and the three of us walked to the bar.

Deuce opened the door to the bar and held it as Pescador and I walked in. Suddenly there was a loud cheer from about thirty people inside. Deuce came through the door and seeing my surprised look he said, “Welcome home, man. This was Tony’s idea.”

I looked around the room and noticed that all my friends were there, old and
new. Jimmy and Angie came over with Trent, Charlie, and the kids. Angie and Charlie both hugged me and Trent extended his hand and said, “I just want to thank you for everything, Jesse.” I took his grip and he pulled me to him and in an unusual display of emotion he said, “You saved my family. I won’t ever forget that.”

Tony approached me and offered his left fist for a bump. He said, “The whole time I was there, I knew that big ass Rampage was on its way.
You don’t ever buy a drink if I’m anywhere around, hermano.”

Rusty and Julie walked me to the bar and I sat down with my back to it. A lot of the team was there and each stopped to shake my hand and to thank me for going back to get Deuce, “We ain’t got him trained quite right, yet,” Hinkle said. “Be a bloody shame to have to start over with a noob.”

Across the bar, I caught a glimpse of a wild mane of dark red hair, then someone got in the way. Al Fader handed me a cold Red Stripe and said, “I heard through the coconut telegraph what happened. That snake Santiago was trying to force me to do the same as what Trent did. Glad you’re alright.”

“Thanks, Al,” I said, while trying to look over his shoulder. I got up and said, “Excuse me.” I walked across the bar
to where Jackie was talking to Chyrel, Doc and Nikki.

“Welcome home, Gunny,” Doc said.

Nikki hugged me and said, “We were just talking to Doctor Burdick here about how close it was for you.”

“Hi Doc,” I said.
“Surprised to see you here.”

“I try to keep an eye on my patients,” she said. “Especially the interesting cases.”

Williams came by and winked at Doc. “Think he’s ready for the surprise?” he asked.

“A surprise party isn’t a surprise?” Jackie asked.

“Dave has something special out back,” Doc said.

“Mind if I join you,” Jackie said.

“I have no idea what this is about,” I said. “But knowing these guys it could be embarrassing.”

“For you, maybe,”
she said.

“To the backyard!” Doc yelled. He and Williams led the way out the back door and I followed, with the whole bar following behind me.

In the middle of the backyard was my old International,
The Beast.
Alex had named her the day we met. She looked a little different, though. Then I realized it was sitting a little higher and had brand new off road tires. I’d never put new tires on her, because I’d always figured the next mile would be the last.

Williams walked over to the open driver’s window and reached inside to turn the key. The engine sprang to life, with the chugging sound of a big diesel. I walked over as he came around to the front and opened the hood.

“Deuce and Julie’s idea,” he said. “It’s a brand new 6.7 liter Cummins with a supercharger. Behind it’s a Ford five speed automatic Torqshift transmission and a nine inch Ford rear end. If you can find a trailer, you can tow the
Revenge
with this thing now.”

I was amazed. I loved the old Travelall and it certainly needed a little work, but I never dreamed of doing this.

“Skeeter cleaned it up on the outside and shot it with clear-coat, so it won’t get any rustier than it already is,” Rusty said. “And Chyrel and Charity put new seat covers in it along with some new electronics.”

I didn’t know what to say. I just stood there with my mouth hanging open. “You sure have some wonderful friends,” Jackie said as she stepped in front of me.

Just then, a shot rang out and she fell forward into my arms. I felt something warm and sticky on my hand and lifted it up. Blood. I looked where the sound of the shot had come from and saw Santiago’s Riva about a hundred yards down the dock. Afia Qazi was standing at the stern, with a rifle in her hands.

Doc took Jackie and gently laid her on the ground. I looked at Deuce and then back at Qazi, who was untying the expensive speedboat. I ran across the lawn and boarded the
Revenge
. Everything was just as I’d left it. My seabag was leaning against the bulkhead in the salon, with my fly rod case still strapped to it. I grabbed the case, opened it and took out my M40-A3 rifle, inserted a magazine and jacked a round in the chamber. I climbed back down to the cockpit. The
Revenge
is a big boat and she was tied tightly to the concrete dock. I dropped down onto one knee and braced the big rifle on the transom.

Qazi had untied the speedboat and already turned around. Looking through the scope, I saw her mash the throttles and the boat surged forward. As I adjusted the elevation, my mind automatically felt the air. It was still and heavy. I added another click of elevation, as the boat started gathering speed about 300 yards down the canal.
She was up on plane and moving fast now, nearing the end of the canal and open water. My index finger found the trigger. My mind sensed others gathering on the dock and I heard someone shush them. I put them out of my mind and took a long slow breath, then let it out slowly. I had Qazi square in my crosshairs, I wouldn’t miss.

The barrel dropped imperceptibly and a
second after I squeezed the trigger, the expensive boat erupted in a fireball and veered to the right, crashing into the rocks at the end of the canal. I jacked the bolt back and caught the spent shell casing in my hand in a single fluid motion, then deposited it in my pocket.

Standing up, I removed the magazine and closed the bolt, dropping the mag into my pocket with the spent shell. I stood there on the deck, looking up at my team and my friends. Then I went into the salon, put the rifle in the case and took it forward into the stateroom. I punched in the code, raised the bunk and stored it away. I walked back through the salon, down to the cockpit and climbed up onto the dock.

Deuce, Julie, Rusty and the rest of the team stood there looking at me. Deuce finally said, “You must have accidentally hit the gas tank.”

“Wasn’t an accident,” I said. “No loose ends.”

The End

Wayne Stinnett is a Veteran of the United States Marine Corps and currently earns a living as a commercial truck driver. Between those careers, he's also worked as a deckhand, commercial fisherman, Dive master, taxi driver and construction manager. He lives in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, near Travelers Rest, SC, with his wife and their youngest daughter. They also have three grown children, three grandchildren, two dogs and a whole flock of parakeets. He was born in St. Albans, WV, grew up in Melbourne, FL and has also lived in the Florida Keys and Cozumel, Mexico.

Fallen Pride, the exciting sequel to Fallen Hunter, will be available on Amazon in the Spring, 2014.

Spring, 2004

Two men lay among a cluster of large boulders. They’d been there over 24 hours, shivering through the still, cold night, and sweating through the midday heat. Each man was covered with what’s commonly called a ghillie suit, a heavy garment stitched with colored strips of free hanging cloth meant to blend in with the surrounding elements. In this case, most of the surrounding element was rock and boulders, so there was a lot of gray in their covering. Indeed, they were nearly invisible from a distance. However, the ghillie suits were designed more for use in jungle and woodlands and here on this desolate gray landscape they were quite visible if someone got within 40 or 50 feet.

Fortunately, there were few people in this part of Iraq and anyone that wandered within a hundred meters of where the two men lay waiting, were visible to them. Behind, was an overhanging cliff about 30 feet high that kept them shadowed throughout most of the day. No chance anyone would stumble on them from the rear. They’d chosen this particular location for just this reason. It offered ideal cover considering the options and was easily defendable, should anyone from the small cluster of homes and shops below happen to come up into the hills.

One man had a high powered spotting scope mounted on a short tripod and covered with the same cloth their ghillie suits were made from. As he looked through the scope, he spoke into a small microphone mounted on a boom in front of his mouth, “Alpha Six, Raptor has acquired the target. It’s Nine of Diamonds, sending photo for confirmation.”

Moments later, the image was received by analysts at Field Operating Base Grizzly in Camp Ashraf, Iraq. The FOB was where Alpha Company of the 1st Battalion, 9th Marine Regiment was based, attached to the 6th Marine Regiment. The image was scanned and facial recognition software only took a few seconds to confirm that the person the two men were watching was a high value target by the name of Ahmed Qazir al Ramani, the 9 of diamonds in the most wanted deck.

Over the headset, the man on the scope heard a voice reply, “Target is confirmed, Raptor. You’re clear to engage.”

“We have confirmation Jared,” the man on the scope said to his partner. “You were right, it’s Nine of Diamonds

The second man lay motionless behind an M-40A3 rifle, loaded with Lapua .308, moly coated, dovetail ammunition. “It’s a gift, Billy,” he said. “Had it all my life. I see a face and can remember it forever. Range me.”

Marine Sergeant William ‘Billy’ Cooper leaned into the scope, taking readings. “Range is 905 meters. Declination, minus 10 degrees. Air is still and heavy.” Billy was the spotter. Marine Scout/Sniper teams worked in pairs, almost always alone and far from the units they were assigned to, in this case Alpha, 1/9. The battalion was only recently reactivated, having been stood down in 1994. In Vietnam the battalion earned the nickname Walking Dead and still carry it today.

The second man, Corporal Jared Williams, was an accomplished shooter long before enlisting in the Marine Corps after the terrorist attacks on 9/11. Born in the mountains of Kentucky, he’d won a number of shooting competitions starting at the age of 12 and all through his teenage years. He made a slight adjustment to the elevation of the rifle and said, “Target acquired.”

Billy relayed the message to the FOB and waited. He didn’t have to wait long before the voice in his headset replied, “You’re clear to take the shot, Raptor. I repeat, shot cleared.”

Billy took a slow breath and said, “You’re clear to fire when ready, Jared. No change in conditions.”

Jared hadn’t moved a muscle in more than fifteen minutes. Only now did he make the tiniest of moves, his right index finger, which had been alongside the trigger guard, moved imperceptibly to the trigger. He could see the target clearly through the U.S. Optics MST-100 scope. He was inside a small stucco and stone house a little over half a mile away. He was sitting in a chair, reading. Jared slowly took the slack out of the trigger while taking a long slow breath and releasing it. It was an easy shot, conditions were ideal and the target was unmoving. He had 12 prior confirmed kills, all of them more difficult than this one. Eight on his previous tour in Iraq, and four in the last three months since joining 1/9 and arriving back in country.

The pressure slowly increased on the trigger as the image in the scope moved up and down a fraction of a millimeter at regular intervals, caused by the beating of Jared’s own heart. He knew exactly the pressure required to release the firing pin and send the round downrange and timed it so that it occurred when the image rose with the beat of his heart and the cross hairs fell on the bridge of the man’s nose. The report of the rifle echoed off the granite cliff behind them.

At half a mile, it took slightly more than a second for the round to traverse the distance from the barrel to the target. A second that would change the young shooter’s life permanently. It all seemed to happen in slow motion as he continued to watch through the scope to confirm the kill. In the first half a second, a slight shadow passed over the man’s face as he was reading. In the next half a second, his eyes came up slightly over his reading glasses and a smile came to his face. In the next millisecond, which seemed to take hours, someone stepped in front of the man in the chair. His 8 year old daughter. In the next few milliseconds a hole appeared in the glass of the window and cracks radiated out from it like a spider’s web. In the last millisecond a pink mist emanated from the girls head, spreading over the man in the chair and the girl fell forward into her father’s lap, dead.