Relentless Page 2

  These thoughts, in infinite variation and levels of gloomy speculation, ran through Santoro’s head as he sat next to Kuga on an Adirondack chair in the shade of a canopy, watching three very lovely young women swim slow laps in a massive pool. Kuga was on his third bourbon of the morning; Santoro was sipping café con miel—coffee with honey, a shot of espresso, and steamed milk. He’d made it himself, layering the ingredients and adding touches of ginger, cinnamon, and cardamom.

  The two of them had been sitting there for nearly an hour, with Kuga slowly getting smashed while watching the women in the pool. One—a petite brunette—splashed and floundered, her head up above the water the way the inept do because they don’t know what they’re doing. She was a pretty woman, but the poor form made her ugly to Santoro. He disliked weakness in any of its manifestations.

  The other two women were taller, fitter, and better at it. They’d gone into the water with the sleek efficiency of experts, barely making a splash and arrowing along for many yards before settling into mechanical crawls. Lifting their heads every other stroke to take quick breaths. One was a woman from Cameroon who had intensely dark skin and a shaved head, and the other was a strawberry blonde wearing a tight swim cap. All three wore Olympic-style swimsuits with racer backs. Santoro had not bothered to learn their names. He did not care to dive into the endless river of beautiful women who came and went through Kuga’s Playroom. Like so many things, Santoro’s sexual life was kept private, and he found fleshy excess quite distasteful.

  As if reading his thoughts, Kuga said, “Can you at least pretend to enjoy the fucking view?”

  Kuga was shirtless and wore a tight and skimpy red Speedo that was clearly chosen because it displayed his phallus to great effect. His body had long since lost the pallor of prison and was now an even golden brown. Kuga wore a white ship captain’s cap with the brim tugged down to shade his face and a pair of Dita Epiluxury Black Palladium sunglasses. A short red-and-white swizzle stick bobbed between his teeth when he spoke.

  “Yes,” drawled Santoro without enthusiasm, “quite charming.”

  Kuga snorted. “Pretty sure none of these broads ever went to charm school.”

  Santoro declined to comment. Another thing he disliked were degrading epithets. Kuga apparently knew this and had recently begun using them more often.

  The sky above the pool was a faultless blue, with no trace of haze or clouds. A few birds rode the thermals high above. Santoro squinted up, shielding his eyes with his hand. Were they vultures? He thought so. How odd. How lovely.

  “Not exactly sure why you have a stick up your ass today, buddy,” said Kuga, “but I can take a guess.”

  “Oh, please enlighten me,” said Santoro.

  “You think I’m wasting valuable time watching three fuck-bunnies play splish-splash when I should be working on the American Operation.”

  Santoro said nothing.

  “You don’t have a lot of faith in me, Rafael.”

  “I have a great deal of faith in the operation we mapped out.”

  “Heh, nice evasion.” Kuga sipped the bourbon. It was not a particularly expensive brand, but when Kuga saw it in a store, he immediately bought two cases. Larceny Barrel Proof. Kuga thought it was the best thing he’d seen in months and smiled like a naughty kid whenever he opened a new bottle. “Of course you like the American Operation,” he continued. “Hugo Vox cooked it up, and you mapped it out. And in case you think I’m ungrateful, I appreciate you sharing the details on all those Seven Kings ops that were in the pipeline. This one is a fucking doozy, and talk about timely. Vox was a visionary, that’s for damn sure. He had his finger on the pulse of my ex–mother country. It’s so right on that nobody will think we had any hand in it because—hey, even the fake news has been calling this for years. It’ll make that freak Church shit a twenty-four-karat gold brick.”

  Santoro stared into the depths of his coffee. “And yet here we sit, like a couple of foolish middle-aged tourists on a Princess cruise.”

  “You see,” said Kuga, pointing a finger at Santoro with the hand holding the whiskey glass, “that’s the part about being executives that you don’t get.”

  “Pray enlighten me about that, too.”

  “You think we need to get our hands dirty. How do you still have that thought? You think we should be down in Texas micromanaging the whole G-55 thing? Hugo Vox never got blood on his hands—or dirt under his fingernails, for that matter. Neither did his mother—your goddess.”

  “Cuidado,” murmured Santoro, the warning clear in his tone. But Kuga ignored it.

  “We have people working for us,” continued Kuga. “Very smart people. The best money can buy. Loyal, too, because they know that you’re around to give lessons in efficiency and to spank them if they step out of line. They are doing the heavy lifting while we are enjoying a gorgeous morning, drinking good bourbon—well, in your case, some fruity-ass coffee drink—and watching three insanely gorgeous women. The sun is shining, and all’s right with the motherfucking world.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Mmmm-hm. That was my actual intention. Happy to report that I’ve met my life goal for the day.”

  Santoro lapsed into a bitter silence. When Kuga was like this, there was no shot at a real conversation. It was a petty response to being scolded, and Kuga had no peer when it came to childish obstinacy or obfuscation.

  The women swam and talked and laughed. Their voices were musical, but the day had soured, and so they seemed to be nothing more than noise.

  After a long time, Kuga said, “Besides, Rafael ol’ buddy, I called in some help.”

  “Help? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Someone with a little more oomph than that Barbie doll you’re mentoring.”

  “Do not mistake Eve’s lack of education for a lack of intelligence. She has great potential to—”

  “Yeah, yeah, she has great potential to become a criminal mastermind, blah blah blah. At best, she’s a useful knife at the end of your arm. But since Ledger killed her boyfriend, she’s been … Well, let’s face it, Eve’s crazier than a honey badger on crack.”

  “Those extremes are useful to me for certain operations,” said Santoro coldly.

  “Sure. Fine. Whatever. But my guy is on a whole different level. He’ll be able to take over the sales—and I guarantee you he’ll send that up like a rocket—freeing us up to work on the American thing.”

  Santoro studied Kuga’s profile, and it became slowly apparent that Kuga might not be quite as drunk as he pretended. He had that little inward smile. The one he wore when he was playing a game on everyone in the room.

  “Who is this person?”

  “Oh, you’ve met him. Did some work for the Kings once upon a time.”

  “Who?”

  Kuga sipped his whiskey and watched the splashing. “He’s currently calling himself Mr. Sunday. Not his real name, and I know you’re superstitious and don’t like to hear his real name spoken out loud.”

  The warmth seemed to leach itself out of the day, leaving the Spaniard shivering despite the sunshine. He was unable to speak for a moment.

  Kuga grinned. “Let’s just say he’s the right man to piss in Mr. Church’s punch bowl. And he’s definitely the right guy to get our sales process back on its wheels.”

  Santoro frowned, and then his eyes went wide.

  “No…,” he breathed.

  “Yup,” said Kuga. He laughed and threw back the last of the bourbon. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

  CHAPTER 4

  TRSTENIK ISLAND

  CROATIA

  We moved inland, following a narrow game trail. Above and around us, the trees swelled with wind as the breeze freshened from the southeast. Far away in the direction of the big island nearby, I heard a boat cutting across the darkened waves, the motor sound like an idling chain saw. An early fisherman heading out to the blue water between Croatia and Italy.

  I heard soft rustling and turned, looking up
to see that the trees around me were thick with birds. It was hard to pick out details, but from what I could see, they looked like crows or ravens. Scruffy, though, and ragged, as if they’d all been standing in a cold blast of winter wind, but this was early summer. They reminded me of something I’d once read in a book, or perhaps a poem. What was the line?

  Night birds … the prophets of apocalypses large and small.

  For some reason I will never understand, I waved to them. A few rustled their wings. One opened its beak to give a call, but if any sound came out, I didn’t hear it. And so I turned away, feeling uneasy. Maybe I should start reading limericks instead.

  Ghost ranged ahead, and every time he encountered an obstacle, he stopped and waited for me to catch up. The first time was—of all things—a kid’s red tricycle that looked like it had been rusting there for thirty years. That made no sense, because until Mitrović bought the island, there had been no habitation here. No resorts or even a small family home. Ghost looked from the bike to me and endeavored to cock an eyebrow.

  “Beats me, furball,” I said, and we moved on.

  And almost immediately jolted to a stop. I quickly dropped to one knee. Up ahead, to the left of where Ghost was sniffing, I saw a figure. A man. Tall, slender, fit-looking. Standing in the woods with his back to me. He was silhouetted against the faint glow of lights from the mansion, which was over a series of low hills.

  I murmured into my mic, “Hostile spotted.” I gave the approximate location and details but ordered my team to stop and hold positions.

  Ghost, for some reason, did not seem to see the figure, although they weren’t more than a dozen yards apart. Ghost is trained for exactly this, but he kept moving.

  I tapped the Scout glasses to bring up the zoom function, but the figure was too dark and at a bad angle. So I rose, silent as the shadows around me, and moved in the direction of the man. He was unmoving, apparently looking down at something I couldn’t see. Ghost has his own coms unit, and I shifted to that channel and ordered him to do a lateral search. I could see him lift his head, suddenly tensing as he stretched out with his canine senses. Then he moved to his left so that he and I were heading in roughly converging lines.

  And then Ghost walked right past the man.

  Not a pause, not a flicker. It almost looked like he walked through him, but that was clearly a distortion of bad light and dense foliage. I raised my rifle and followed the barrel to the spot.

  A bat suddenly broke from a hole in a tree and fluttered straight at me in its panic. I shifted to avoid it, and when I looked again—the man was gone.

  The spot where he was standing was empty.

  I hurried up, signaling Ghost to close on me. He did, looking expectant but not troubled. I moved through the whole area, using the Scout glasses on the thermal imaging setting.

  But there was nothing.

  I knelt once more at the exact spot where I’d seen the man. The soil was dry but not hard, and it was loose enough to take a print. Except there were no prints anywhere.

  It made no sense. I’d seen the man for sure. This wasn’t a case of me seeing a shrub or stunted tree and being confused. He had been tall, maybe middle aged, with gray hair, trousers, and a sweater with some kind of pattern on it. He had been right goddamned here.

  There was a double click of squelch as Top sent a wordless inquiry.

  “Wait one,” I told them.

  Ghost stood by me, his body rippling with tension that he was no doubt picking up from me.

  I searched all around the spot.

  Nothing.

  Then as I straightened, I saw something. Not a man, but a faintness of a line that ran like a strand of silver through the leaves maybe two feet from where I stood.

  Had I not seen that man, I would have walked right through it.

  The wire ran across the various natural walking paths and vanished into the leaves. I followed it to a small metal box attached to the base of a pine tree. It was a kind I’d never seen before, but that didn’t matter. It was without a doubt an antipersonnel mine.

  I tapped into the team channel. “Havoc Actual to Havoc Team, stop and listen.” I described what I found.

  A few moments later, Andrea said, “Copy that, Outlaw. Same over here.”

  And then Top verified that he and Belle found the same thing.

  “What about the hostile?” asked Top.

  “Sighting uncertain,” I said. “Stay alert.”

  I scanned for laser trip wires but found nothing. There were more advanced versions of trip wires, but despite dealing in technology, Mitrović liked it old-school. Physical trip wires were still one of the most effective methods of ambushing foot patrols like ours. I could feel my heart thudding.

  “Leave the wires intact and proceed with caution,” I advised. “Look for other traps.”

  “Hooah,” they replied.

  I stepped over the wire very carefully and then watched Ghost jump clear. He had been trained to avoid trip wires. Maybe he would have found it had he gone a few more yards into the forest. Or maybe he and I would be scattered across this whole slope. These are the things soldiers base their superstitions on. A lucky break? Maybe. Something felt deeply weird about all this. Why hadn’t Ghost seen the man? And where had the guy gone?

  Two questions for which I had no answers.

  We moved on with infinite care. The uneasy feeling lingered, following me like a shadow.

  The trail took us up to a small ridge, beyond which was the main house, with a few smaller outbuildings scattered in a large clearing. Some work had been done to landscape the property, but apart from a few shade trees and trenches dug for hedges, it was bare. Mitrović had filed construction permits to erect a modest mansion, but Bug had picked apart shipping records and determined that more materials had been imported onto the island than were needed to make a twenty-room home. There were corresponding labor records for a construction crew roughly five times larger than needed. Add that to geological surveys from satellite flyovers that showed a radical change in the offshore seabed consistent with the dumping of dirt and rocks far in excess of preconstruction estimates, and you have us all going, “Hmmmm … what on earth could he be building?”

  I mean, it was either a secret base or a secret base. Possibly even a secret base. One of those things.

  Thermal scans also pinged four different heat signatures consistent with industrial generators. So I’m thinking secret base with some kind of laboratory concocting god only knew what horror. Hey, I’m not being paranoid here—or at least not more than usual. Since going to work for Mr. Church a few years back, I’ve actually seen secret labs that would make comic book super-villains weep with envy. Real-world stuff. Not as much fun as what you see in the movies. Because, yeah, there are actually that many brilliant maniacs in the world being funded by rich assholes, rich governments, rich corporations who do not give a limping fuck for human beings. Except when they can exploit them, marginalize them, or remove them as an inconvenience. Like so many of the bastards I’ve gone after as part of the old Department of Military Sciences and now with Rogue Team International.

  Like Kuga and Santoro, who blew my world apart a few months ago.

  Like those monsters.

  So Mitrović was probably living like a king in his mini-mansion while down in the basement unspeakable horrors were being cooked up. Brewed or cultured, assembled or uploaded. However he was doing it, I was coming for him.

  Ghost and I inched up to the ridge top and surveyed the approach. The house was three stories tall and built of gray stone. Nice-looking place, with a retro Eastern European manor house vibe. Lots of windows, only two of them showing weak lights. Probably hallway lights. There was no fence around it, but when I checked the video feeds from Andrea’s bird drones, I saw foot patrols. Two men with Kalashnikovs slung walked slowly around the building, accompanied by a Doberman. They all looked bored, but that was something that could change in a heartbeat. A second pair were sta
tioned in a guard shack built to look like a gazebo. They had another Doberman.

  “Havoc Actual to Havoc Team,” I murmured. “I’m at the east corner. Count four security and two dogs.” I gave the locations of each and the direction of the foot patrol.

  “Got them,” said Belle.

  “Two more each in the towers.”

  I switched the Scout glasses to low-light enhancement but otherwise normal vision. That made it easy to spot one of the two towers. They were really elevated platforms with camouflage canopies. They wouldn’t have dogs up there. Which gave us eight armed sentries but just the two dogs.

  The challenge in situations like this is to decide where we fell on the force continuum. These guards might be bad guys, or they might be rent-a-thugs who merely worked for a bad guy. Killing them was not immediately justified. And I hate to kill a dog.

  I slipped down from the ridgetop to study the video images in my tac-com. The little high-def computer screen was divided into different feeds, one from each bird, but I selected the overhead view from the bird circling the building at a hundred feet. What I was looking for was a blind spot where I could get close enough to ambush the foot patrol and attempt to take them and their dog out using a long-barreled, high-compression Snellig dart gun.

  “Sandman only,” I told my team. “Verify my order.”

  They did, and if I heard some reluctance in their voices, that was fine. I wasn’t feeling entirely charitable myself. Mercy and compassion had taken a lot of really bad hits lately. There was a cloud of darkness boiling inside me that took real effort to keep from filling my head with the kind of hatred that could erase all sentiment and humanity.

  The order to use Sandman actually stuck in my throat.

  It was, however, what I said. It was the only mercy I’d brought with me to Trstenik Island.

  Not that Sandman is especially kind. It is a cocktail of chemicals built around the veterinary drug ketamine. It also has a little bit of BZ—3-Quinuclidinyl benzilate—to cause intense and immediate confusion, and DMHP—Dimethylheptylpyran, a derivative of THC—for muscle failure. And it has some benzodiazepines and chloral hydrate and some other goodies. We call it Sandman because if you get one hit from it, you go right down right now. No bulling your way through. You drop. Everyone does. And for the next couple of hours, you have intensely strange, disturbing, and—I’ve been told—weirdly erotic dreams. And by weird, I mean that one of the members of Havoc Team—the big kid from Orange County, Bunny—dreamed he was being seduced by penguins. And liked it. Says he has fond memories of that dream. Most people, though, have what can best be described as a bad trip. Monsters come out of the walls, memories warped into nightmares.