Counter-Strike (A Mitch Kearns Combat Tracker Novel Book 2) (12 page)

Chapter 27

Pain and delirium traversed the breadth of
Von’s being as he stood on his toes while his arms were tethered to the rafters
with an abrasive manila rope that was digging into his wrists. He awoke to the
unpleasant sensation he’d experienced during interrogation training at the farm
only this time there’d be no respite. It was unlikely even Crenna knew of his
location. Even if he did, his boss probably wouldn’t risk sending in a team for
a lone operative who’d gone off the radar.

He glanced around the cinder-block room,
his vision coming in and out of focus as he tried to regain his thoughts. The
overhead fluorescent lighting was flickering, causing his headache to increase,
and he didn’t know if that was an intentional irritant or just a sign of the
seemingly makeshift nature of the rundown location. Von heard the moans of
another man coming from the room to his left and suspected it was Schueller. There
was a rivulet of water leaking in from the tin roof to his right alongside a
crack where there were several finger-length red centipedes scurrying along the
bricks, snagging the small ants with their curved pincers and snapping them in
two before consuming them.

Von did a mental check of the rest of his
body to make sure there were no serious injuries and concluded that he had
sustained a mild concussion from when he collapsed to the pavement in the
alley. As he pried his crusted eyelids open a second time, he saw a burly man
with a three-day beard walking up to the door frame, a bullwhip over his
shoulder. In the corner of his mouth was an unlit cigar that he was feverishly
chomping on. The man moved forward and grabbed Von’s chin, rotating his head
like it was a volleyball he was about to serve. “Good, there appears to be no
significant damage. This makes me much happy as there is plenty my boss needs to
liberate from you.” The man spoke in broken English as he paraded around Von,
clasping the handle of the bullwhip once before reaching for a walkie-talkie
clipped to his belt.

“He is awake now.”

A few minutes after the surly goon
delivered his message, Von heard the clacking of shoes on the hallway floor. A
lean figure dressed in white trousers with an off-white jacket and a green
button-up shirt entered the room. He stood with poise for a moment, like a
sprinter confidently studying the hurdles on the track ahead of him.

“Von Harut, it’s a pleasure to meet my
latest incarnation. You probably came onto the team just after my supposed
disappearance, I’m guessing.”

Von squinted at the man, noticing a large scar
beside his temple beside the piercing blue eyes. Von felt his stomach churning
in part from the drugs in his system coupled with dehydration. He was in no
position to be able to maneuver his body and even if he could try to grab the
figure before him with his legs, his mind wasn’t coherent enough to make sure
he’d be coordinated in his efforts.

“Have we met before?” Von said, playing
dumb while trying to contain his astonishment at the face before him. He’d
heard the stories amongst other agents about the notorious traitor Kyle
Redstrom, a former agent of Crenna’s. He had read the man’s files and instantly
recognized the face despite the nasty scar near his eye. From what he recalled,
the rogue agent had gone missing in Beijing after being exposed as a double agent.
Yet here he was at the mercy of a fellow agent connected with his boss, a man
whose own backstory he was beginning to question once more.

“No but I’ve been pursuing you since
hacking into the security feed at the Munich Airport. You do like to globetrot
it seems.” Kyle raised his eyebrows and offered a crooked smile. “Oh, and then
there’s that other connection we share—our mutual friend—my dear old mentor,
Darren Crenna. Surely he must have told you about his comrade in arms, Kyle
Redstrom.” He raised his palm to his mouth. “Oops, did the villain really say
his real name, my bad. I’ve crossed a line. I’ve told you something personal about
myself. Now, it’s your turn.”

“Von Harut is my name. I’m a relief worker
with UNICEF. I don’t know why I was kidnapped but the United Nations office
here will be looking for me.”

Kyle raised his index finger and pressed
it to Von’s lips. “Shh…come, come now. We are both professionals. It doesn’t
have to go this way. I know you have to foist your cover story and then when we
break you down a few notches, you’ll pretend to yield, delivering a more
polished secondary cover story about a fictitious company you work for, hoping
to buy some time while we check things out.”

“I’m not sure who you are but I’m a
foreign aid worker. Please let me go.”

Kyle grabbed Von’s right arm and squeezed
it. “My, you are a fine specimen. I was once so robust. A few years in a
Chinese prison changes a person though. Lack of nutrients, daily beatings, nerve
damage from electric shock—you know how it goes. Oh, wait, no you don’t because
Crenna still has a use for you. Well, that’ll change one day. Then he’ll see to
it you have an accident or suffer an unexpected allergic reaction to some food
or slip false intel to the country you’re stationed in.” Kyle moved around Von
and punched him in the kidney then pressed his face against Von’s ear as the
man was groaning. “Or Crenna might even send an operative to snipe a woman in a
fucking airport for instance.”

Kyle snapped his fingers to his man at the
door and then motioned to the crack in the wall.

“But I apologize for such a violent
outburst like that, it’s not like me to lash out with such pugilistic fury—so
primitive and uncouth. Not something befitting professionals such as us.” He
took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and padded the sweat on his
forehead. “All of these different torture methods that we humans have refined
over the centuries, even the ones in the agency manual which call for
waterboarding and the use of drugs, they’re just so crude. There are so many
alternative, more efficient methods that come from the natural world that work
far better.” Kyle turned and looked at his brutish guard near the door. “Now my
man, Carlos, he likes the corporal punishment. That leather whip of his can
remove a dime-sized patch of skin wherever he chooses.”

“UN workers have rights. You must have me
mistaken for someone else. I’m just a foreign employee here for three months to
assist with famine relief efforts in remote villages.”

“My sweet boy, you’re still so young,
probably at the top of your physical game with so many skills and achievements
handed out by the same agency who trained us both. I’m really not surprised
Crenna didn’t tell you about me. He didn’t want you to lose faith in him—in so
upstanding and fatherly a figure.” Kyle flailed his arms in the air. “What a
good daddy, always looking out for his children. You are just another agency
puppet, though I’d hoped you’d extend me the courtesy of skipping the bullshit
façade.”

Von tried to turn his head and see what
the guard was doing but Kyle redirected his attention by tugging on his hair.
Von exhaled and shot a hard glare, his outward demeanor of innocence suddenly replaced
by a fierce rage. “I make my own choices. No one pulls my strings, not even
Crenna.”

Kyle tapped him on his cheek and smiled.
“That’s what he’d have you believe. Even now you think you’re doing the agency’s
bidding but you are really cleaning up his mess. A mess he can’t afford to let
out. What do you think will happen to you once you’re finished here? Return to
Langley and start a new assignment? Not likely, my friend.”

“We’re no friends. You’re listed on the
files as a traitor and psychopath.”

Kyle leaned back and rubbed his chin. “Hmm,
maybe a hint of the latter—who wouldn’t be after living in your own filth in a
cell and having to kill your fellow inmates for food.” He strode around Von.
“But a traitor—a traitor.” His voice changed to a deep bellow at the latter
word. “No, sir, I was a patriot who served my country with honor even in the
weeks after Crenna disavowed me.”

“Then why hide out in the jungle, kidnap a
U.S. citizen, and commit atrocities?”

“Crenna sent you to remove me from the
equation so there’d be no trace of the bioresearch that the agency funded.
Research which I originally obtained from the Chinese and passed along to him
before he cast me aside as a traitor to cover his own betrayal. Did he mention
that he later sold the secret files?” Kyle stopped dramatically and stared into
Von’s eyes. “I’m guessing you don’t know about that shady little deal he made
for a few million dollars.”

Von gave him a startled look then clenched
his jaw. “I’ve got nothing that can help you. Crenna has always kept me in the
dark about his doings.”

“We’ll see.” Kyle hooked a finger inside
Von’s lower lip, tugging it down forcefully. “Careful, don’t resist too much or
this soft tissue by the mouth can tear. It’s very painful and it never heals up
very well, causing you to slur your words for the rest of your days like some
bumbling child.” Kyle ran his other hand over Von’s hair as if caressing it.

He moved up an inch from Von’s trembling
face. “The red centipedes here just love nutrient-rich tissue filled with warm
saliva. Normally they sting their prey only once to paralyze them so the more
you thrash around and try to remove it with your tongue, the more they will
teach you to remain still.”

Von’s eyes were so wide that the whites
seemed to occupy his entire tan face. He started to groan but the grip on his
lower lip tightened. He tried kicking his toes away against the damp floor but
Kyle just grabbed his hair and held him close.

“Put it right there,” Kyle said to Carlos
while he pulled the gum line back enough to allow the man to drop a centipede from
his gloved hand into Von’s cheek.

Von screamed in pain and began gagging
while his entire body shook violently. Kyle had stepped back a few feet and massaged
his own cheek with a finger while directing his intense gaze at the suffering
figure before him. Then he went to the wall and peeled off two more centipedes
with his bare hands, holding them by the tails.  

“Now, Von Harut of the CIA, let me begin
the questioning anew. I would like to know everything about Crenna’s current
operational protocols and what he’s told you about your righteous mission.”

As Redstrom inched forward with the
centipedes, Von knew he would be brutally interrogated and then killed. If he
did manage to escape he would be escaping through miles of green hell on his
own. And if he made it back, what then? Would he confront Crenna, demanding to
know the truth about Beijing and his cover-up in Redstrom’s disappearance and
subsequent torture? Was Crenna even coming for him or was he now deemed
disposable? Surely the man knew of his location with his implanted GPS
microchip by now. As these thoughts ran through his foggy brain, he smelled the
acrid odor of the approaching arthropods, squeezing his eyes shut and bracing
for the coming agony.

Chapter 28

At dawn, when the jungle seemed to be
fighting off the advances of the sunlight which struggled to pierce the dense
foliage, Mitch and the others downed a hasty meal of MREs and packed up their
hammocks. Marco led them down the ridge towards the river whose rapids could be
heard gurgling above the chaotic blend of monkey calls and birdsongs.

They made their way to the edge of the waterway,
concealing themselves in a grove of young palm trees. The humming sound from
upriver was increasing as a narrow wooden boat came into view. It contained five
men clad in camouflage clothing amidst stacks of rectangular wooden crates. The
weathered vessel was propelled by a large diesel engine at the rear which frequently
coughed out black smoke. The boat continued up another half mile before pulling
over beside a cleared out swath on river right. The men secured the bow to a
tree and then got out and began passing the items in a fireline onto the muddy
embankment.

“Those guys don’t look like birdwatchers,”
said Petra. “Thought you said the old Japanese base was a few miles up still.”

Marco rubbed his whiskered chin. “That’s
the information I got. This could be another way in or maybe they’ve just got a
secondary location.”

“Or a supply depot apart from their main
quarters like that place we hit south of Kandahar once,” said Mitch, recalling
a previous mission with his unit.

“Yeah, what a cluster-fuck that was, eh.”
Marco pulled up the binoculars around his neck and scanned the small group then
handed them to Mitch who began studying the distant ground for tracks.

“It looks like there’s been a lot of
activity here in recent weeks given the trail erosion from foot traffic and the
amount of canopy that’s been cleared.”

“That’s a pretty swift current. How far
down did you say that bridge was?” said Dev.

“Too far to make it worth our while. We’ll
need to cross there,” Marco said, pointing upriver to a distant bend. “That
should give us enough distance to swim across to the other side without getting
swept away in the rapids.”

Marco motioned them to follow him as they
walked the river’s edge, heading away from the boat. He walked for a half mile
up and then paused beside a large logjam of bamboo. “This stuff was blasted
down here during the last flash flood.” He slung his AK, shoving it over his
back, and then started grabbing calf-thick sections of bamboo and removing it
from the pile. Marco laid three stout pieces on the ground and then pulled out
his parang. He walked in a circle around the group, examining the array of
trees before selecting a nearby patch that had copious amounts of finger-thick
vines dangling from the upper reaches. He swiftly hacked down a dozen and
carried the lengthy strands over to the pile of bamboo. “Grab three six-foot
pieces of bamboo like I’ve got and then wrap both ends with a few clove-hitches
or whatever the fuck lashing you know the best. Then we’ll use these to float
across.” He stopped and studied the river for a minute then looked back at Dev.
“Just hope there’s no alligators out this early.”

“Shut up. Besides, they’d go after you
first with that big mouth,” said Dev.

Marco chuckled and beat his fist against
his massive chest. “Marco eat gators for breakfast.”

Dev and the others got busy with
assembling their makeshift rafts and then dragged them down to the river’s
edge. Watching Marco and Mitch cross first, the three Israeli warriors followed
in procession. The swift current shot everyone a quarter mile down the river
but Marco had selected the launch point with that in mind and he intercepted
each floater before they hit the rapids just beyond their point.

Stowing their improvised vessels in the
bushes, the group made their way in a half-crouch through the thick foliage,
keeping their vision fixed on the ground for any pit vipers. Marco’s keen eye
had already spared them from a few near encounters and his jungle navigation
skills became more evident as they proceeded along the torturous route. Thirty
minutes later, they made it to the edge of the palm trees near a wide trail
that the men had taken from their boat.

Out of habit, Mitch scanned the muddy
substrate for signs of tracks and what they indicated. In addition to the five
men from the boat, he saw the boot prints of three other men who had walked
down to the river to assist the crew. Two of the men bore a short stride with a
wide straddle, indicative of someone who was either very stocky or carrying a
heavy load.

“I count eight meat-bags,” said Marco.
 

Mitch nodded in confirmation.
Hmm…guys
with lots of mysterious crates—wonder what the hell they’re scheming up back at
their base camp?
Mitch thought.
And how many more dudes are there?
As
he squatted, he pondered their predicament
—
it was just the five of his
friends and the weapons they carried. No backup to support them and no
helicopter to whisk them away if things turned ugly. This had to remain a
reconnaissance operation. There’s no way they could engage the enemy with their
limited firepower. He looked over his shoulder at the thick jungle around them
and hoped they wouldn’t have to do any escape and evasion moves through such
nasty terrain.

Mitch could see a glimmer of a weathered
concrete structure poking out from the thick foliage around two hundred yards
down the trail. The building was old and covered in vines but its right angles
stood out amongst the natural features of the forest. He motioned to it with
his fingers and then gave the signal for moving through the jungle on a
parallel route to the trail. As he went to stand, he noticed a unique tread
pattern in the mud amidst the others. It was identical to the boot track he had
seen around the Austrian estate and later associated with the mysterious figure
at the Munich Airport. The track was older than the rest that were just made,
its edges more rounded, and there were some rain pock marks present.
This
fuckin’ Charlie Brown guy again! How’s he tangled up in all this? Is he running
this outfit of mercs here
?

Before they moved, he whispered to the
rest of the group huddled beside him, their AKs slung at a low ready, “We go
in, recon the area, then get the hell out. Clear?”

Everyone nodded and then he led the way,
pushing slowly through the thick undergrowth. He heard the patter of raindrops
on the canopy while several drops pelted his face. Mitch knew that feeling in
the air from time spent in the tropics
—
that a doozy of a storm was
rolling in and they’d soon be hammered. Then an hour from now the sun would
probably rear its head again, turning their surroundings into a sauna. For now
he welcomed the cool rain, especially given the sound concealment it provided
to their foot travel.

A few minutes later, they arrived at the
cusp of the semi-developed area. There were four cement buildings situated
around a central courtyard that was overgrown. The farthest structure to the
rear was dilapidated and had a large palm tree growing through the collapsed
roof. Beyond it was a small airfield that contained two old Huey helicopters
next to a cluster of fuel barrels.

The other buildings were intact, a
testament to the Japanese engineers who constructed them over half a century
earlier. Marco had mentioned that the area had been used briefly as a jungle
survival training center during the Vietnam War which explained why many of the
windows were still intact.  Near the back side of the main building was a large
array of corrugated tin that was suspended on knee-high posts. At the lower end
of the sloped tin was a gutter system for collecting rainwater. This led into a
bulbous cistern that was half-submerged in the ground.  

Mitch could smell the characteristic odor
of diesel from a generator which was humming in the background near the main
building. Beyond the structures, opposite their location, was an aerial antenna
that was painted two-tone green. Mitch nearly missed it so clever was its
disguise.
So they’ve got power, comms, fresh water, and a waterway to travel
on. Pretty self-contained, it seems—but for what purpose?

The sun began slicing through the canopy
again followed by a few sprinkles of rain. The dark clouds to the east
indicated that they would be drenched again shortly. As the generator cycled
off, he could hear the faint shrieks of a man coming from the building to the
right. He reached back, asking with his fingers for Marco’s binoculars, then he
peered into the large window at the rear. Strung up from the wooden rafters was
a thin man with a dark complexion whose shirt revealed red streaks running from
the shoulders to the waist. His head was slumped down and he was semi-conscious
by the sound of his groans. The large man encircling the captive was chewing on
an unlit cigar, his taut black t-shirt revealing his muscular figure. In his
right hand was a crimson-stained bullwhip whose tail was slung over his
shoulder.

Mitch grimaced and his heart raced. He
passed the binoculars back to the others so they could witness the horror show
that he knew they would have to put to an end.

Dev moved forward, elbowing Marco aside as
she moved between the two men. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” she said.

“Yep.”

Mitch glanced down at his vest, taking a
mental note of his AK and pistol mags, hoping it would be enough.
Shit, so
much for lying low and doing just a recon mission.