Kill Switch (9780062135285) (3 page)

He sticks to the shadows of the rusted cars
,
following the dark shape through the whiteness
,
which grows thicker. But his world is not one of sight alone. That is the dullest of what he perceives
,
a shadow of a larger truth.

He stops long enough to bring his nose to a treaded print
,
scenting rubber
,
dirt
,
and leather. He rises higher to catch the wafting trail of wet wool
,
cigarette smoke
,
and sweat. He smells the fear in the salt off his prey's skin
;
distantly his ears pick out the rasp of a hurried breath.

He moves on
,
keeping pace with his quarry
,
his paws padding silently.

As he follows
,
he draws the rest of his surroundings inside him
,
reading the past and present in the flow of old and fresh trails. His ears note every distant shout
,
every grind of motor
,
every wash of wave from the neighboring sea. On the back of his tongue
,
he tastes frost and winter.

Through it all
,
one path shines brightest
,
leading to his prey.

He flows along it
,
a ghost on that trail.

10:18
A.M.

From his vantage in the drainage ditch, Tucker watched
his
target slip through the hatch at the top of the crane and close it with a muffled
snick
.

With the man out of direct sight, Tucker stood up and sprinted toward the tower, holstering the Makarov as he went. Discarding stealth, he jumped onto the ladder's third rung and started climbing. The rungs were slick with snow and ice. His boots slipped with every step, but he kept going. Two rungs beneath the hatch, he stopped. The hatch's padlock was missing.

Holding his breath, he drew the Makarov and then gently, slowly, pressed the barrel against the hatch. It gave way ever so slightly.

Tucker didn't allow himself a chance to think, to judge the stupidity of his next action. Hesitation could get you killed as easily as bravado.

And if I have to die
,
let it be while I'm still moving.

In the past, he had pushed blindly through hundreds of doors in countless Afghan villages and bunkers. On the other side, something was always waiting to kill you.

This was no different.

He shoved the hatch open, his gun tracking left and right. The assassin knelt two feet away, crouched over an open clamshell rifle case. Behind him, one of the cab's sliding windows stood open, allowing snow to whip inside.

The assassin spun toward Tucker. The look of surprise on his face lasted only a microsecond—­then he lunged.

Tucker fired a single shot. The Makarov's 9 mm hollow-­point round entered an inch above the bridge of the man's nose, killing him instantly. The target toppled sideways and went still.

One down . . .

Tucker didn't regret what he'd just done, but the contradiction flashed through his mind. Though not a religious man, Tucker found himself attracted to the Buddhist philosophy of live and let live. In this case, however, letting this man
live
wasn't an option. Odd that he found the necessity of taking a human life defensible, while killing an animal was an entirely different story. The conundrum was intriguing, but pondering all that would have to wait.

He holstered the Makarov, climbed into the cab, and closed the hatch behind him. He quickly searched the assassin, looking for a cell phone or radio; he found neither. If he had a partner, they were operating autonomously—­probably a fire-­at-­will arrangement.

Time check:
sixty seconds
.

Fedoseev would be prompt. He always was.

First order of business from here: keep the Russian out of the kill zone.

He turned his attention to the assassin's rifle, a Russian-­made SV-­98. He removed it from the case, examined it, and found it ready to fire.

Thanks
,
comrade,
he thought as he stepped over the body and reached the open window.

He extended the rifle's bipod legs, propped them on the sill, and aimed the barrel over the sea of shipping containers and warehouse rooftops toward the main gate. With the cold stock against his cheek, he brought his eye to the scope's eyepiece and peered through the swirling snow.

“Where are you, Fedoseev?” Tucker muttered. “Come on—­”

Then he spotted the black shadow sailing through the white snow. The limousine was thirty feet from the main gate and slowing for the cursory check-­in with the guard. Tucker focused on the limousine's windshield, his finger tightening on the trigger. He felt a moment of reluctance, then recalled the SV-­98's specifications. The weapon didn't have enough juice to penetrate the limousine's ballistic glass—­or so he hoped.

He fired once, the blast deafening in the tight cab of the crane. The 7.62 mm round struck the limo's windshield directly before the driver's seat. As an extra measure, Tucker adjusted his aim and fired again, this time shattering the side mirror. To his credit, the driver reacted immediately and correctly, slamming the limousine into reverse, then accelerating hard for fifty feet before slewing into a Y-­turn.

Within seconds, the vehicle was a hundred yards away and disappearing into the snow.

Satisfied, Tucker lowered the rifle. Fedoseev was safe for the moment, but someone had tried to kill Tucker's principal. He'd be damned if he was going to let the second assassin escape and try again later.

Tucker ejected the rifle's box magazine and pocketed it before pulling out his satellite phone. He checked the video feed from Kane's camera. Between the wet lens and thickening snowfall, all he got for his effort was a blurry, indecipherable image.

Sighing, he opened another application on the phone. A map of the dockyard appeared on the screen. West of Tucker's location, approximately four hundred yards away, was a pulsing green blip. It was Kane's GPS signal, generated from a microchip embedded in the skin between his shoulder blades.

The dot was stationary, indicating Kane was doing as instructed. The shepherd had followed his quarry and was now lying in wait, watching.

Suddenly the blip moved, a slight jiggle that told him Kane had adjusted position, likely both to remain hidden and keep his quarry in sight. The blip moved again, this time heading steadily eastward and picking up speed.

It could only mean one thing.

The second assassin was sprinting in Tucker's direction.

Hurrying, he scaled down the ladder, sliding most of the way. Once his boots hit the ground, he trudged through the thickening snow, his Makarov held at ready, following the rail line. He hadn't covered thirty feet before he spotted a hazy figure ahead, crouched beside the cut in the fencing. His quarry leaped through the gap and sprinted into the trees.

Damn it.

Kane appeared two seconds later, ready to give chase. But once the shepherd spotted Tucker, he stopped in his tracks, ears high, waiting for further orders.

Tucker gave it.

“T
AKE
B
RAVO
!”

Playtime was over.

Kane lunged through the fence and took off in pursuit, with Tucker at his heels.

Though now in takedown mode, Kane didn't get too far ahead of him. The shepherd wove between trees and leaped over fallen trunks with ease, while simultaneously keeping his quarry and Tucker in view.

Engulfed by the forest, the sounds of the shipyard had completely faded. The snow hissed softly through the boughs around him. Somewhere ahead, a branch snapped. He stopped moving, crouched down. To his right, forty feet ahead, Kane was also frozen, crouched atop a fallen trunk, his eyes fixed.

Their quarry must have stopped.

Tucker pulled out his phone, checked the map screen.

Two hundred yards away, a narrow canal cut through the forest, a part of the dockyard's old layout when it had belonged to the Russian Navy. His quarry was former naval infantry, smart enough to have planned for an escape route like this, one by water.

But was that the plan?

According to the map, there was also a major road on the far side of the canal.

What if the man had a vehicle waiting?

Decide, Tucker.

Would his quarry flee by land or sea?

He let out a soft
tsst,
and Kane turned to look at him. Tucker held up a closed fist, then forked fingers:
Track
.

Kane took off straight south.

Tucker headed southeast, hedging his bet, ready to cut the man off if necessary.

As he ran, he kept half an eye on Kane's position using the GPS feed. His partner reached the canal and stopped. The blip held steady for a few seconds—­then began moving again, paralleling the canal and rapidly picking up speed.

It could only mean one thing.

Their quarry had boarded a boat.

Tucker took off in a sprint, darting and ducking through the last of the trees. He burst out of the forest and into an open field. Ahead, a tall levy hid the canal's waterway. To his right came the grumble of a marine engine. He ran toward the noise as Kane came racing hard along the top of the levy.

Tucker knew he couldn't hope to match the dog's speed. According to the map, the canal was narrow, no more than fifteen feet.

Doable,
Tucker thought.

He shouted, “T
AKE DOWN
. . . D
ISARM
!”

The shepherd dropped his head lower, put on a burst of speed, then leaped from the levy and vanished beyond the berm.

Kane flies high
,
thrilled by the rush of air over his fur. Here is what he lived for
,
as ingrained in his nature as the beat of his heart.

To hunt and take down prey.

His front paws strike the wood of the deck
,
but he is already moving
,
shifting his hind end
,
to bring his back legs into perfect position. He bounds off the boards and toward the cabin of the boat.

His senses swell
,
filling in details.

The reek of burnt oil . . .

The resin of the polished wood . . .

The trail of salt and fear that lead to that open door of the cabin . . .

He follows that scent
,
dragged along by both command and nature.

He bolts through the door
,
sees the man swing toward him
,
his skin bursting with terror
,
his breath gasping out in surprise.

An arm lifts
,
not in reflexive defense
,
but bringing up a gun.

Kane knows guns.

The blast deafens as he lunges.

10:33
A.M.

The gunshot echoed over the water as Tucker reached the top of the levy. His heart clenched in concern. Fifty yards down the waterway, a center-­cabin dredge boat tilted crookedly in the canal, nosing toward the bank.

Tucker ran, fear firing his limbs. As he reached the foundering boat, he coiled his legs and vaulted high, flying. He hit the boat's afterdeck hard and slammed into the gunwale. Pain burst behind his eyes. Rolling sideways, he got to his knees and brought the Makarov up.

Through the open cabin door, he saw a man sprawled on his back, his left arm flailing, his legs kicking. His right forearm was clamped between Kane's jaws. The shepherd's muscled bulk was rag-­dolling the man from side to side.

The Russian screamed in his native tongue. Tucker's grasp of the language was rudimentary, but the man's tone said it all.

Get him off me! Please!

With his gun trained on the man's chest, Tucker stepped through the cabin door. Calmly he said, “R
ELEASE
.”

Kane instantly let go of the man's arm and stepped back, his lips still curled in a half snarl.

The Russian clutched his shattered arm to his chest, his eyes wide and damp with pain. Judging by where Kane had clamped on to the man's forearm, the ulna was likely broken and possibly the radius as well.

Tucker felt no pity.

The asshole had almost shot his partner.

A few feet away lay a revolver, still smoking in the cold.

Tucker stepped forward and looked down at the man. “Do you speak English?”

“English . . . yes, I speak some English.”

“You're under arrest.”

“What? I don't—­”

Tucker drew back his right foot and heel-­kicked the man squarely in the forehead, knocking him unconscious.

“More or less,” he added.

2

March 4, 12:44
P.M.

Vladivostok, Russia

“You owe me a new windshield,” Bogdan Fedoseev boomed, handing Tucker a shot glass of ice-­cold vodka.

He accepted it but placed the glass on the end table next to the couch. He was not fond of vodka, and, more important, he didn't trust his hands right now. The aftermath of the shoot-­out at the shipyard had left Tucker pumping with adrenaline, neither an unfamiliar nor unpleasant rush for him. Even so, he wondered how much of that rush was exhilaration and how much was PTSD—­a clinical acronym for what used to be called shell shock or battle fatigue, a condition all too common for many Iraq and Afghanistan veterans.

Compared to most, Tucker's case was mild, but it was a constant in his life. Though he managed it well, he could still feel it lurking there, like a monster probing for a chink in his mental armor. Tucker found the metaphor strangely reassuring. Vigilance was something he did well. Still, the Buddhist in him whispered in his ear to relax his guard.

Let go of it.

What you cling to only gets stronger
.

What you think
,
you become.

Tucker couldn't quite nail down when and where he'd adopted this philosophy. It had snuck up on him. He'd had a few teachers—­one in particular—­but he suspected he'd picked up his worldview from his wanderings with Kane. Having encountered ­people of almost every stripe, Tucker had learned to take folks as they came, without the baggage of preconceptions. ­People were more alike than different. Everyone was just trying to find a way to be happy, to feel fulfilled. The manner in which they searched for that state differed wildly, but the prize remained the same.

Enough,
Tucker commanded himself. Contemplation was fine, but he'd long ago decided it was a lot like tequila—­best taken only in small doses.

At his feet, Kane sat at ease, but his eyes remained bright and watchful. The shepherd missed nothing:
posture, hand and eye movements, respiration rate, perspiration.
All of it painted a clear picture for his partner. Unsurprisingly, Kane had picked up on the anxiety in the air.

Tucker felt it, too.

One of the reasons he had been paired with Kane was his unusually high empathy scores. Military war dog handlers had a saying—­
It runs down the lead
—­describing how emotions of the pair became shared over time, binding them together. The same skill allowed Kane to read ­people, to pick up nuances of body language and expression that others might miss.

Like now, with the tension in the room.

“And the side mirror of the limo,” Fedoseev added with a strained grin. “You destroyed both windshield and mirror. Very costly. And worst of all, you could have killed Pytor, my driver.”

Tucker refused to back down, knowing it would be a sign of weakness. “At that distance and angle, the rifle I used didn't have enough foot-­pounds to penetrate the limo's ballistic glass. Maybe if I was standing on the hood of the car, Pytor might have had something to worry about.”

Stymied, Fedoseev frowned. “Still, very expensive things to fix on limousine, yes?”

“You can take it out of my bonus,” Tucker replied.

“Bonus! What bonus?”

“The one you're going to give me for saving your life.”

Standing behind Fedoseev, Yuri said, “We would have handled the—­”

Fedoseev held up his hand, silencing his subordinate. Yuri's face flushed. Behind him, the pair of bodyguards at the door shifted their feet, glancing down.

Tucker knew what Yuri and his security team were thinking.
Would haves
were worthless when it comes to personal protection. The fact was, this outsider—­this American and his dog—­had saved their boss. Still, Yuri had intervened on Tucker's behalf with the police, smoothing over the complications that could have risen over killing the first shooter. Russian bodyguards taking down a would-­be assassin was a simple matter; a former U.S. Army Ranger, not so much.

Ninety minutes after apprehending the second man, who was now in police custody, Tucker met Fedoseev and his entourage back at the Meridian Hotel, where the Russian had rented the top floor of VIP suites. The decor and furnishings were comfortable, but overly ornate. Shabby Soviet chic. Outside, snow still fell, obscuring what would have been a stunning view of Peter the Great Bay and mainland Russia.

“I do you better than bonus,” Fedoseev offered. “You become part of my team. Permanent part. I am generous. Your dog will eat steak every night. He would like that, yes?”

“Ask him yourself.”

Fedoseev's gaze flicked toward Kane, then he smiled and wagged his finger at Tucker. “Very funny.” He tried a different angle. “You know, these two
suka
may have had a helper. If he is still around—­”

Suka
was one of Fedoseev's favorite slang terms. Roughly and politely, a
suka
meant
scumbag
.

Tucker interrupted. “If you're right, I'm sure Yuri will find anyone else involved in this attempted assassination.”

Especially with one of the attackers already in custody.

Up here, torture was as common a tool as a knife and fork.

Fedoseev sighed. “Then your answer is?”

“I appreciate the offer,” he said, “but my contract's up in two days. Past that, I've got somewhere to be.”

It was a lie, but no one called him on it.

The truth was he had
nowhere
to be, and right now he liked it that way. Plus Yuri and his team were all ex-­military and that background infused everything they did and said. He'd had his fill of them. Tucker had done his time in the military, and the parting had been less than amicable.

Of course, he'd loved his early days in the army and had been contemplating going career.

Until Anaconda.

He reached for the abandoned glass of vodka as the unwanted memory of the past swept over him. He hated how the cubes rattled against the crystal as he lifted the tumbler. PTSD. He considered it merely a piece of psychic shrapnel lodged near his heart.

He sipped at the liquor, letting the memory wash through him.

Not that he had any choice.

Tucker again felt the pop of his ears as the rescue helicopter lifted off, felt the rush of hot air.

He closed his eyes, remembering that day, drawn back to that firefight. He had been assisting soldiers from the Tenth Mountain Division secure a series of bunkers in Hell's Halfpipe. He had been flanked by
two
partners that day: Kane and Kane's littermate, Abel. If Kane had been Tucker's right arm, Abel was his left. He'd trained them both.

Then a distress call had reached his team in the mountains. A Chinook helo carrying a team of Navy SEALs had been downed by RPG fire on a peak called Takur Ghar. Tucker and his squad were dispatched east and had begun the arduous climb to Takur Ghar when they were ambushed in a ravine. A pair of IEDs exploded, killing most of Tucker's squad and wounding the rest, including Abel, whose left front leg had been blown off at the elbow.

Within seconds, Taliban fighters emerged from concealed positions and swarmed the survivors. Tucker, along with a handful of soldiers, was able to reach a defensible position and hold out long enough for an evac helicopter to land. Once Kane and his teammates were loaded, he was about to jump off and return for Abel, but before he could do so, a crewman dragged him back aboard and held him down—­where he could only watch.

As the helo lifted off and banked over the ravine, a pair of Taliban fighters chased down Abel who was limping toward the rising helo, his pained eyes fixed on Tucker, his severed leg trailing blood.

Tucker scrambled for the door, only to be pulled back yet again.

Then the Taliban fighters reached Abel. He squeezed those last memories away, but not the haunting voice forever in the back of his mind:
You could've tried harder
;
you could have reached him.

If he had, he knew he would have been killed, too, but at least Abel wouldn't have been alone. Alone and wondering why Tucker had abandoned him . . .

Back in his own skin, he opened his eyes and downed the rest of the vodka in a single gulp, letting the burn erase the worst of that old pain.

“Mr. Wayne . . .” Bogdan Fedoseev leaned forward, his forehead creased with concern. “Are you ill? You've gone dead pale, my friend.”

Tucker cleared his throat, shook his head. Without looking, he knew Kane was staring at him. He reached out and gave the shepherd's neck a reassuring squeeze.

“I'm fine. What were we talking—­?”

Fedoseev leaned back. “You and your dog joining us.”

Tucker focused his eyes on Fedoseev and on the present. “No, as I said, I'm sorry. I've got somewhere to be.”

Though it was a lie, he was ready to move on,
needed
to move on.

But the question remained: What would he do?

Fedoseev sighed loudly. “Very well! But if you change your mind, you tell me. Tonight, you stay in one of the suites. I send up two steaks. One for you. One for your dog.”

Tucker nodded, stood, and shook Fedoseev's hand.

For now, that was enough of a plan.

11:56
P.M.

The chirp of his satellite phone instantly woke Tucker in his room.

He scrambled for it, while checking the clock.

Almost midnight.

What now? With nothing on Fedoseev's schedule for that evening, Tucker and Kane had been given the night off. Had something happened? Yuri had already informed him earlier that the Vladikavkaz Separatist taken into custody had broken and talked, spilling everything.

So Tucker had expected a quiet night.

He checked the incoming number as he picked up the phone: a blocked number. That was seldom good.

Kane sat at the edge of the bed, watching Tucker.

He lifted the phone and pressed the talk button. “Hello?”

A series of squeaks and buzzes suggested the call was being filtered through a series of digital coders.

Finally, the caller spoke. “Captain Wayne, I'm glad I could reach you.”

Tucker relaxed—­but not completely. Suspicion rang through him as he recognized the voice. It was Painter Crowe, the director of Sigma Force, and the man who'd tried to recruit Tucker not so long ago after a prior mission. The full extent of Sigma's involvement in the U.S. intelligence and defense community was still a mystery to him, but one thing he did know: Sigma worked under the aegis of the ultrasecretive DARPA—­the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency.

Tucker cleared the rasp of sleep from his voice. “I assume you know what time it is here, Director?”

“I do. My apologies. It's important.”

“Isn't it always? What's going on?”

“I believe your contract with Bogdan Fedoseev is almost up. In two more days, if I'm not mistaken.”

Tucker should have been surprised that the caller had this information, but this was Painter Crowe, who had resources that bordered on the frightening.

“Director, I'm guessing this isn't a casual call, so why don't you get to your point?”

“I need a favor. And you've got forty-­two days still left on your Russian visa.”

“And something tells me you want those
days
.”

“Only a few. We've got a friend I'd like you to meet.”

“I've got enough friends. Why is this one so special?”

There was a pause, one that took too long. He understood. While the call was encrypted, Tucker's room could have been bugged—­probably
was
bugged, knowing the Russians. Any further details would require additional precautions.

He couldn't say such subterfuge didn't intrigue him.

He also suspected this lapse in the conversation was a test.

Tucker proved his understanding of the need for privacy by asking another question. “Where?”

“Half a mile from your hotel—­a pay phone on the northeast corner of the Grey Horse Apartments.”

“I'll find it. Give me twenty minutes.”

He was there in eighteen, stamping his feet against the cold. Using a prepaid calling card, Tucker dialed Sigma's cover trunk line, then waited through another series of encoder tones before Crowe's voice came on the line.

The director got straight to the point. “I need you to escort a man out of the country.”

The simple sentence was fraught with layers of information. The fact that Crowe didn't think their
friend
was capable of accomplishing this feat on his own already told Tucker two things.

One: The man was of high value to Sigma.

Two: Normal travel options were problematic.

In other words, someone didn't want the man leaving the country.

Tucker knew better than to ask
why
this target needed to leave Russia. Crowe was a firm believer in the need-­to-­know policy. But Tucker had another question that he wanted answered.

“
Why
me?”

“You're already in-­country, have an established cover, and your skill set matches the job.”

“And you have no other assets available.”

“That, too—­but it's a secondary consideration.”

“Just so we're clear, Director. This is a favor. Nothing more. If you're trying to court me to join—­”

“Not at all. Get our friend out of the country, and you're done. You'll make twice your usual retainer. For this mission, I'm assigning you an operations handler. Her name is Ruth Harper.”

“Not you?” This surprised him, and he didn't like surprises. “Director, you know I don't play well with others, especially those I've never met face-­to-­face.”