Battle Storm (The Battle Series Book 2) Page 8

  Kirstin Fosburg looked up from her desktop monitor. “He cut short a meeting to fly to New Zealand.”

  “New Zealand? Why is he going there?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think it has to do with a prank call he received this morning. Someone called and said one of Henrik’s Skeptikos Alliance agents was about to commit murder in New Zealand. And if Henrik didn’t rein in the agent the man was going to the authorities.”

  A frown pursed Kroon’s thin lips. “Did he say when he would be back or how we can stay in touch with him?”

  Kirstin shook her head. Her shoulder-length blonde hair barely moved. “I’m sorry, Alrik. What did you need to talk to Henrik about?”

  “The property owners in Brussels just made a counteroffer. They lowered their asking price by two million. So I need to run the offer by Henrik.”

  Kirstin sipped from a water bottle. “Henrik does this sort of thing all the time. He’s so secretive. He just vanishes without telling anybody when he’ll be back. And then I find out he went to a foreign country for whatever reason.”

  Kroon rolled his eyes. “I know. He’s a mystery man for sure. I don’t know how he keeps up such a frenzied pace at his age.”

  “If he checks in with me I’ll tell him to call you.”

  “Thank you, Kirstin. But I won’t hold my breath waiting. Who can really know what Henrik is up to?”

  “Total world domination, I suppose.”

  The real estate attorney laughed. “I think you’re more right than you know, Kirsten.”

  Chapter 20

  Nikko Castellanos could feel his chance at banking seven million dollars slipping away. For the past two hours he’d been chasing his prey hard. But Thorn moved like a ghost, rarely showing himself, using tree cover, high grass, and dips in the terrain whenever it came available. And now nightfall approached, only minutes away. Darkness eliminated his ability to use a sniper rifle. He would have to kill Thorn up close and personal. An unsavory proposition Castellanos would rather avoid.

  But time remained his greatest enemy. Castellanos could hear bloodhounds excitedly tracking a scent and a helicopter flying passes over the hillsides. Pierre Bertrand had kept his word and given him a thirty-six hour head start. But the head start expired and the Interpol agent had obviously told his superiors what he knew. Now Castellanos had to hurry up and make his kill shot before New Zealand law enforcement captured Thorn.

  Even though he pursued Thorn, the ex-SEAL held a clear advantage when it came to familiarity with the terrain. Castellanos had no idea where he was, only the direction he traveled. And he had no food or water or escape vehicle. If the stalk lingered on for days he’d be risking his life to exposure and dehydration.

  Never before had he been so unprepared for a mission. He considered himself a consummate professional, a meticulous plotter who planned every move well in advance and allowed for every possible contingency. He hated flying by the seat of his pants. But this is precisely what he’d been doing for a day and a half now. Bertrand’s time constraint and Henrik Skymolt’s impatience, as well as his thinly veiled threat urged him to take greater risks than usual.

  Castellanos could still remember his first encounter with Skymolt. Castellanos had been a paramilitary officer in the CIA’s Special Activities Division at the time. The CIA had their sights locked onto a fringe group with al-Qaeda ties. They were a low-level terrorist group at best, but some high-level CIA analyst thought they were about to become big time players. A person thought to be a member of the terror group worked at Skymolt’s corporate headquarters.

  Castellanos and his cohorts were taxed with arresting the would-be terrorist. It was supposed to be a simple arrest, a grab and go apprehension. But when they confronted the man in his cubicle he pulled a gun from his desk drawer and started firing. The subject was promptly killed with little effort, but Castellanos was shot in the arm during the fracas. He spent four days in a Stockholm hospital recuperating. And during that time, Henrik Skymolt came by and visited him in his room.

  Skymolt graciously thanked him for his bravery and for eliminating the terror threat in his building. And then he offered him a job within his organization, a job that paid six times more than his CIA salary. Castellanos had loved his job at the CIA, but Skymolt was so persuasive he ended up agreeing to come on board. He later found out there were two stipulations Skymolt insisted upon: Castellanos had to agree to go to law school and become a civil lawyer. The second stipulation was he had to renounce his faith in God. He had no problem with either requirement. He’d never been very spiritual and often found it difficult to believe God existed. And since Skymolt would pay his tuition through law school, he jumped at the chance.

  Once ensconced in his organization, Skymolt used Castellanos’ unique talents in nefarious ways, mostly against religious and charity groups. Skymolt was a modern day Saul of Tarsus. He badgered Christian-based organizations relentlessly. Sometimes Castellanos used his law degree and the court system to defeat the faith-based groups. And other times he simply used strong-arm tactics.

  It didn’t take Castellanos long to figure out the heartless Skymolt wanted to take over the world. But Castellanos didn’t mind. The money Skymolt paid him made him a wealthy man many times over. One thing led to another and now he found himself in New Zealand, a highly paid hit man, killing at Skymolt’s behest.

  Inside a brush-clogged ravine, Castellanos stopped in his tracks. He cocked his head and listened intently. He thought he heard a rustling in the trees. Perhaps a deer or stray sheep moved through the brush to get to the grassy hillsides to graze, or maybe only the wind blowing through the trees made the sound.

  His feet itched to move, but Castellanos held his ground and listened. The low-light conditions made his hearing more acute. He knew one thing for sure, he wasn’t alone. He could feel another presence. Someone or something was behind him, tracking and pursuing him.

  He’d become the hunted.

  Chapter 21

  Coleton Webb lay perfectly still in the undergrowth, not a muscle twitched. A fallen tree lay nearby, rotten and mostly hollow, and displayed more life than him.

  Despite the evening coolness and the damp earth underneath him, Webb sweated buckets. Years of booze overindulgence leached out his pores. He still suffered from alcohol withdrawals, but the worst of them had subsided. For a moment he thought he might die out here in the wild.

  He’d tried to quit drinking several times before. Each time he’d gone through similar withdrawals but never this severe. The suffering he endured over the past few hours made it clear he had to quit drinking or face an early death.

  Like most adults, he first started drinking in high school. Beer on Friday nights after football and basketball games became a ritual. And then he joined the Navy and eventually became a SEAL alongside Andrew Maddix. Drinking with his SEAL teammates was pretty much a requirement of the job, all part of the camaraderie necessary to maintain unity, and a fun way to decompress after hair-raising missions.

  But then Webb’s drinking reached another level after he left the service. And then when he betrayed Maddix back in Utah high atop a mountain, he lost all control. Andrew was the closest friend he’d ever had, maybe the only friend he’d ever had. The guilt sent him into nonstop inebriation that eventually led to homelessness.

  Wearing night-vision goggles, Webb closely monitored Nikko Castellanos. The assassin squatted on his heels about twenty yards ahead, his head swiveling on his neck as he scanned the darkening landscape all around. He must have heard me tracking him, Webb thought.

  In order to pull off his objective, Webb needed to get closer. He couldn’t stay where he was at, pressed down in the dirt like a dead man. So he eased one knee forward, and then the other. And then he inched his arms along, army-crawling toward the killer. It occurred to him as he stalked Castellanos that he’d been saving Andrew Maddix’s life off and on for the past decade.

  He’d pulled Mad Dog’s butt out of the ringer at l
east twice during their stint in the SEALS. And then he saved his friend’s life twice more in Utah, both times in a slot canyon appropriately named Perdition Canyon. In both instances Maddix had been physically battling demons with the Eden sword.

  Webb continued his deliberate stalk, moving stealthily, melding with the groundcover, using the stalking skills he acquired while in the SEALS at Sniper School. At Camp Pendleton is a large section of barren wasteland; hardly any trees grow on the shale and rocks, only scrubby brush. During Sniper School, SEALS have to crawl 1,000 yards across the treeless plot without instructors spotting them. Once the SEAL and his spotter move to within 200 yards of their target, the SEAL shoots the target. After shooting the target, both shooter and spotter are required to retreat without being detected. Meanwhile, instructors scan the area from a high vantage point with binoculars, looking for the snipers. What makes it especially tough for the sniper and his spotter is that the instructors already know all the good hiding places. But excelling at this near-impossible exercise is what makes SEALS so ghostlike.

  As he inched along silently, Webb recalled the fateful day Maddix entered his gun shop in Provo. He couldn’t remember Maddix ever looking so serious. A catatonic mental patient would have shown more emotion.

  Maddix’s fingers shook as he pulled a piece of paper from his pants and handed it to Webb. Written on the paper were items he needed to battle the demons, mostly tactical gear that also included flamethrowers and a FLASH launcher. He wanted Webb to track down and acquire the items on the list.

  When Webb asked his friend why he needed incendiary weapons, Mad Dog said he was going to fight some demons that had been living in his church. Webb insisted he come along. The bizarre request concerned him. He thought maybe his friend had lost it.

  It turned out Mad Dog hadn’t lost his mind at all. During each of the three nights they battled the demons, Webb entered the spirit realm. He saw what mankind wasn’t supposed to see: fallen angels intent on destroying human lives. Twice he saved Maddix’s life when he was about to succumb to a demon. Maybe this is my purpose in life. I keep Mad Dog alive; protect him from harm so he can pull off some mysterious prophecy.

  Since darkness had fallen, Webb didn’t have to worry too much that Castellanos would see him. The noise factor is what he needed to eliminate. Snapping twigs and crunching the fallen leaves could blow his furtive advance.

  Webb squirmed ever closer to the Skeptikos Alliance agent, now less than twelve yards away. Because he wore night-vision goggles, Webb could see the uncertainty in Castellanos’ body language. The man looked tired and frustrated. He’s lost Maddix’s trail, Webb thought, grinning inwardly. He wasn’t surprised his friend gave Castellanos the slip. Mad Dog was one of the finest SEALS ever produced. He thrived in dangerous situations. Even his handicap didn’t seem to affect him any.

  Webb stopped his advance. If he crawled any closer the well-armed assassin might discover him. A sniper rifle hung from Castellanos’ shoulder, and a side arm extended from his left hand.

  Webb silently reached into a pocket on his tactical vest. He pulled out two small objects: a controller with a joystick and a faux spider the size of a young tarantula.

  Webb pressed a switch on the controller, activating the electronic spider. The spider used the same technology as a stun gun and was a high-tech gadget from the CIA’s Directorate of Science and Technology. Caleb Brennan had more connections than a circuit board and had acquired the spider from a retired CIA friend. The spider had been on Brennan’s private jet when Webb flew down to New Zealand.

  Webb set the spider down on the ground and pushed the joystick forward. The spider began crawling toward Castellanos. Webb intended to guide the spider up an outside pant leg of Castellanos. Once the spider reached the assassin’s hip, Webb would push a button on the controller. Prongs would drop down from the spider’s body and high-voltage would then enter Castellanos, immobilizing him for several minutes.

  A final surge of nausea assaulted Webb’s stomach. A cold sweat broke out on his face, and he fought off a strong urge to wretch. Castellanos would definitely hear him purge his stomach. He gritted his teeth and guided the spider on a direct course toward the assassin. Don’t think about moving, Nikko. You’ll miss your electrifying surprise.

  A mist fell from the sky, moistening the grass and dirt and fallen leaves. Webb welcomed the moisture. Although it was only March, the seasons were different in New Zealand. It was autumn here and the deciduous trees were dropping leaves in abundance. The moisture would soundproof the dry leaves and aid his ability to stay undetected.

  The spider reached Castellanos. Webb pushed a button on the controller. Tiny grippers protruded from the spider’s legs and latched onto Castellanos’ pant leg. Webb guided the electronic arachnid up Castellanos’ leg. He let go of the joystick when the spider reached the assassin’s hip. A mischievous smile broke across Webb’s chin. He pushed a second button on the controller. Prongs dropped from the spider’s body and delivered high voltage into Castellanos’ musculature, converting his blood sugar into lactic acid and interrupting neurological impulses to his muscles. Webb continued to hold the button for several seconds. Over three seconds of stun gun contact usually causes loss of balance and muscle control, as well as mental confusion.

  Castellanos flopped to the ground like a sack of potatoes dropped from a three-story window. Webb sprang from his position and sprinted up to the immobilized assassin. He stripped off the sniper rifle and pried the side arm from out of Castellanos’ rigid fingers. Webb pushed the handgun into his waistband.

  He looked down at the Skeptikos Alliance agent. Castellanos groaned but didn’t move. His eyes looked around but didn’t see much. He was too stupefied, probably didn’t even know where he was. Webb pointed the sniper rifle at the assassin’s head. It would be so easy to end the man’s life. One tiny squeeze would send a high-caliber bullet spiraling into Castellanos’ brain.

  Webb’s index finger hovered over the trigger. Temptation screamed at him to pull the trigger. But Webb shook his head. “I may be a lot of bad things, but I’m not a coldblooded killer like you, Nikko. But then again, I’m not a nice guy either.” Webb reversed the rifle and delivered a blow to the assassin’s face with the rifle butt, knocking him out cold.

  Webb dropped to his knees and quickly untied the assassin’s shoes. He removed the hiking boots and stood up. And then he flung the shoes in opposite directions as far as he could throw them. Each boot landed in tall grass and brush.

  Pleased with how the ambush went, Webb glanced once more at the incapacitated assassin, and then he disappeared into the underbrush.

  Chapter 22

  Adam Thorn felt like a runaway slave. He could hear the bloodhounds tracking him. Their frenzied baying sent chills racing up his spine. The super-smelling dogs had locked on to his scent and were closing fast. Thorn guessed the bloodhounds were half a mile away, maybe less. And that’s about how much further he needed to go to reach the cave.

  Thorn didn’t know what happened to the shooter. He’d somehow given the killer the slip. The darkness aided his cause, but it also hindered him. He couldn’t retreat as fast. He ran a high risk of injury if he couldn’t see fall hazards.

  And then there was the other reason he couldn’t move as fluidly. Quite some time ago he’d turned off his microprocessor prosthetic. The Ottobock prosthetic is an amazing apparatus, far superior to early prosthetic models. Because of the micromechanical motors and electronic sensors he could actually run and climb and walk without any noticeable limp. But it had a drawback. It was noisy. He sounded like a robot when he moved. Thorn turned it off to keep the shooter from hearing him. So now his high-tech prosthetic became as low-tech as a wooden leg. He hobbled painfully around like a pirate with a peg leg.

  Thorn finally gave in to necessity. He stopped and took off his rucksack. He pulled out a headlamp, adjusted it to its lowest setting and put it on. The LED lamp illuminated the falling mist and gathering fog. />
  Thorn took a deep breath and checked his compass heading. He’d wandered a little off course during his cat-and-mouse game with the shooter, but not much. He needed to angle a little more to the east to get back on track. Thorn adjusted course and resumed his journey. He couldn’t stop thinking of Emily and Spencer, and wondered how they were doing, what their mindset was, and if they’d made it to the cave yet. His heart ached to be with them, to hold them tight, to reassure them everything would be okay.

  But is everything really okay? How long could they hold out? And what would happen to them after they were captured? What will happen to Spencer? These nagging questions tormented him. But the questions also motivated him to make it to the cave and find out the answers firsthand. If his luck held he’d be there shortly. Only the ridge ahead and a steep descent into a ravine stood in his way.

  The fog spilled over the ridge and wrapped around his legs. His headlamp could barely penetrate the curdling fog. He supposed he should be thankful for the fog’s concealing properties. But the eerie mood it set for the evening overshadowed its benefit. Thorn felt as skittish as Ichabod Crane on Halloween night, and half expected the headless horseman to come galloping over the ridge and sling a pumpkin at him.

  Thorn touched the scabbard on his hip. The supernatural weapon inside the scabbard buoyed his resolve. He still found it difficult to believe he carried the iconic weapon on his hip. He was just an ordinary man, a run-of-the-mill Jesus follower. He didn’t feel worthy enough to carry the Eden sword. It should be up in Heaven, held by an archangel performing sentinel duty near the throne, or displayed in a celestial museum, not with me, he thought. And yet he reminded himself that the sword held no power on its own. The real force came from the power behind the sword.