Mitch Kearns Combat Tracker Omnibus Page 2

  Mitch tilted his chin up, sniffing at the air. “Notice anything?”

  The men followed in unison, inhaling the scents coming off the creosote bushes and mesquite trees. The youngest officer craned his head towards the nearest overhanging mesquite branch. “Something smells putrid—it’s very faint but it’s there.”

  “Excellent. I took some sardines and smeared a little on the branch above your head.” Mitch stood up, the sun backlighting his wiry six-foot-two frame. “Remember to use all of your senses when tracking a fugitive, not just what your eyes can locate. Your life may depend on it one day. If a subject is a smoker, has a particular ethnic diet, has spent the night around a campfire, or just has the B.O. of a road-killed badger, then it can tip you off to their presence where no tracks can otherwise be found.”

  Mitch put his fingers up to his lips and emitted a high-pitched whistle to alert the other teams to regroup at his location. When the rest of the tracking students arrived, he reiterated the lesson in scent awareness to the twelve other men and women. While he finished his summary of the weekend’s topics, Perry came up alongside him with a handful of course certificates as they all squatted under the shade of some nearby Palo Verde trees. After the training wrapped up, the instructors gave hearty handshakes to each member and then began packing up their teaching materials.

  Mitch and Perry had known each other for the past two years while working at the FBI’s Phoenix Division. Mitch had begun there shortly after joining the bureau and his hard-won combat experience was quickly put to use on HRT and joint U.S./Mexico operations. Perry had worked as an undercover narcotics cop in El Paso, Texas before transferring to the FBI. Perry decided a relocation north would be a good career move to start over away from the seedy border towns he frequented in his line of work. Both men were skilled trackers but Mitch was the more seasoned field operator, always spending time in the wilds on his days off or volunteering with search-and-rescue.

  Where Mitch was content to ride out the next few years in his current role in the field, Perry’s ambition was to become regional director of all the bureaus in the Southwest.

  “You headed back to the office or home?” said Perry.

  “Home for sure. I’ve been going at it now for nine days straight and just want to lie in the hammock out back for a day or two. What about you?”

  “I’m in the doghouse right now with my wife. She thinks there’s something goin’ on between me and the office manager on the first floor—you know, Rachel.”

  Mitch raised his eyebrows. “Well, is there?”

  Perry shrugged his shoulders, emitting a slight grin. “Look, it’s not like I’m a player. Rachel and I hooked up one time when the old lady was out of town.”

  “Dude, what the hell? You’re married to a lovely woman and you’re screwing around behind her back. That’s just bad karma that’s gonna smack you in the face some day.”

  “It was one time, bro. It’s not like it’s going to happen again. Besides, we can’t all be monks like you.” Perry patted him on the shoulder. “And what’s this ‘karma’ shit—you going New Age on me?”

  Mitch sighed and ran his hand along the back of his neck, wanting to change the subject. He had heard a few rumors about Perry’s after-hours interests from other colleagues but it never interfered with his conduct on the job so he disregarded it.

  “Heard anything about the bureau chief job in Phoenix yet?” Mitch said.

  “It’s still on the backburner. Nothing’s opened up—not with this new interim chief in from the East Coast. This is my third attempt and I’m getting pretty restless—read pissed off—about all the red tape.

  “Yeah, Evan Ryker—he’s a real dilettante. Prefers to interact with his staff via the keyboard rather than in person. I think I’ve spoken with the dude three times in the past month and yet he walks by my desk every time I’m at the office. Plus, I don’t have much to say about a guy who wants more funds allocated for the cyber division than for field agents.”

  “Ah, men like us, and especially you, are fucking dinosaurs, bro. One day soon, we’ll be replaced by drones.”

  “There’s never going to be a substitute for sweaty grunts on the ground.”

  “Speak for yourself, man. I showered this morning and put on deodorant. You’re the one who kept the female students at bay.”

  Mitch chuckled. “A man oughta smell like a man.” He nodded at Perry as they headed towards their vehicles. Mitch tossed his gear bag in the back of his weathered jeep and did a final sweep of the shade structure where they had conducted the lecture portions of the course.

  The men bid farewell and drove off in their respective directions. Since his divorce, Mitch had taken up residence in an old bunkhouse on a friend’s ranch on the cusp of the city limits. It was a small cattle operation north of Phoenix and had the rustic feel of the place he had grown up at while only being a forty-minute drive to work. With all of the ranch hands attending a rodeo in Prescott, Mitch would have the place to himself. No emails, no cellphone service, and no staff meetings. Just the sound of the canyon wrens and the wind. He felt his shoulders ease back into the seat as he contemplated the next few days of rest amidst the solitude.

  Chapter 2

  Two Days Earlier

  Aeneid Corporation, Anaheim, California

  As Dev Leitner stepped out into the warm night air of the parking garage adjacent to the Aeneid Corporation, she saw the glint of a blade as it nearly grazed her right cheek. Another step closer and she would have suffered a grave knife wound to her face. Something primal in her instincts had been aroused a micro-second earlier, causing goosebumps to roll over her neck and alerting her to danger. She had learned long ago never to ignore such signals.

  As she dropped her shoulder bag and backpedaled on an angle off to the side of her blue Camry, she caught the image of cold steel coming from a tall man in a blue shirt. Unconsciously, she parried the blow using her right forearm, driving the man’s knife hand down and then viciously slamming her fist sideways into his neck muscles. She heard the man gasp for air, giving her an opening to step forward and smash her foot into his groin. He buckled but managed to still flail his blade out at her in a desperate attempt to keep her at bay. The tip of the tactical knife caught her on the underside of her forearm but she hardly noticed the pain from the superficial incision, instead focusing on the man’s eyes, which bore the look of a fierce predator and not the crazed meth-head she initially took him for.

  She glanced down at her shoulder bag. In any other case she would have bolted and left the perpetrator to her belongings but this was too valuable. Her entire life was inside there, though it seemed it was also now in her own hands.

  Dev knew it was unlikely anyone in the area would come to her aid as it was ten o’clock at night and she had already seen to the security cameras in the garage being disabled.

  She could see the exposed butt of a Beretta pistol bulging out from the thin man’s beltline. Dev’s thoughts quickly returned to the offensive and her years of Krav Maga training sprang to the forefront as the attacker rushed forward in a partial stagger, slashing wildly, his formerly refined movements diminished from his injuries.

  She angled off to his right, blocking the knife hand again with another parry while smashing her heel down across the top of his instep. The attacker crumpled, going down on one leg while she drove her elbow into his face, sending him to the asphalt. She retrieved the blade from the ground beside him and kneeled by his head, the tip of the edged weapon pressing against his carotid while she removed the pistol from his waist.

  As the man lay groaning, he muttered in between breaths, “We found the software mole you installed. Did you really think you could steal data from the mainframe without getting caught? You’re done for.”

  “It’s your boss who’s finished,” she said while inspecting the tiny surface wound on her forearm.

  Dev stood up, moving out of reach of the man while she pulled the slide of the Beretta ba
ck to perform a partial chamber check and scan for a round inside. She glanced around for any other assailants while flipping the safety of the pistol off and pointing the weapon at the grumbling figure on the pavement.

  Dev looked down at the man, studying his chiseled face which resembled that of a groomed professional soldier like she had grown accustomed to seeing at her workplace. Aeneid was one of the largest defense contractors in the U.S. and provided their small army of trained mercenaries to third-world governments around the globe though few in the public knew that. For seven months, she had labored undercover at Aeneid to gather the critical intel on the nefarious business undertakings of the company’s CEO, Nelson Ritter. The thought of spending another second in this den of insanity is going to cause me to retch. This assignment was way more than I bargained for. I need to get the hell out of here.

  She glanced down at her leather shoulder bag and then resumed her attention at the sound of an approaching vehicle, its tires screeching in the street below. “Shit, they’re onto me this fast,” she yelled, rushing to grab her bag while keeping the pistol trained upon the injured man, whose mouth was gurgling out blood with each word.

  “You can’t get away from him. His eyes are everywhere. You know that,” he said in a bronchial voice. His face became ashen as he struggled to suck in a breath and finally went unconscious.

  Dev could hear the vehicle closing as it rounded the last bend in the avenue below the parking structure. She leaned over the man and combed through his pockets, removing a flip phone and a billfold with fifty-dollar bills secured in a gold clip. She stood up and scanned the exit doors.

  Dev ran along the pavement, bolting down the stairwell two steps at a time. She flipped the Beretta safety back on and tucked it into her appendix region under her jeans. Coming around the corner, she saw another security officer headed towards her, thirty feet away. She spun to the right but ran directly into the chest of another guard, a bearded goon who grabbed her by the hair. “Not so fast, bitch.”

  She drove her index finger into his eye, causing him to reel back, then she swiftly delivered a low kick to his knee, hearing the side of the patella crack. The man fell forward and she deftly removed his pistol. All of the years of repetitive drills had saved her life and she was grateful for the hard-earned skills her father had imparted to her growing up. She turned to face the other guard, who had come to a halt eight feet before her. They met with their weapons extended at each other’s faces.

  “You didn’t disable all the cameras. We have you stealing corporate files.” He looked down briefly at the disabled guard, who was bawling. “And now two counts of assault.”

  “Better make that three,” she said, firing a round into his shoulder then peeling off to the left between two cars. The two guards’ constant shrieking echoed off the concrete walls as she slunk away. She stood in the shadows near the ground-level garage entrance and peered ahead through the door as a white security van sped up the parking structure ramp.

  Dev waited until they were out of sight and then sprinted across the street towards a bar. She made her way to the restrooms and then made an abrupt turn for the rear exit door at the last second. She crept along the vacant alley and slid down into a cement aqueduct behind the storefronts, trotting for a half-mile along the trash-strewn corridor until she arrived at an intersection below the highway. She paused and pulled out her work phone. Dev removed the sim card and smashed it on a rock with her boot heel. She activated the guard’s phone and scanned the last few numbers. All of them indicated they were restricted except one whose numbers showed in blue. The area code indicated Phoenix, Arizona. She committed this one to memory, reciting the digits several times, then flung the device on the ground.

  Her mind raced and her pulse quickened more so now than it had during the fight. She felt trapped, like there were crosshairs upon her. She clutched the shoulder bag close to her and inspected the critical contents: the palm-sized micro device she had used to force pairing with Aeneid’s mainframe, the flash drive containing the data that implicated Aeneid, and her forged identification documents were all present. Everything for which she had put her life on the line for so long was safely in her possession. Her work at Aeneid had provided the proof she needed about the CEO’s involvement in multinational corporate espionage and a lone-wolf terrorist attack that somehow involved the Iranians. Now she just had to uncover the timeline and hopefully unravel this plot before it was unleashed.

  She quickly ran through her list of options, knowing she would be on the run, never able to return to her apartment or former façade of a life. For the past seven months she had gone by the name Mira Sanchez. Her dark Israeli complexion, multi-lingual skills, and raven hair allowed her to blend into a variety of ethnic backgrounds. With her forged documents and passport, she could slip by the eyes of the TSA and most database systems. Her undercover assignment working in cyber security at Aeneid was connected with an operation two years in the making and it had consumed her life. She’d had no time for visiting the coast, sightseeing, or any of the other pleasantries Americans enjoy when they come to L.A. The data files she had acquired were all that was holding her here now.

  Dev reached in her pocket and retrieved a small encrypted cellphone. She’d carried it for months but this was the first time she had need of it. She tapped on the only preloaded number on the menu. A few seconds later the raspy voice of an older man answered, his Israeli accent barely noticeable.

  “I’ve been compromised here,” she said. “I have the data. They’re planning a series of lone-wolf attacks with sleepers around the Southwest but I don’t know when. There is a link to Phoenix that I need to track down. There isn’t time to wait for you and your team to assemble in the U.S. I need to move on this now.”

  There was a pause and then the man spoke. “I have someone in that city—an old associate that can be trusted. I will text you his location. Once you get there, lay low and make contact with me in 48 hours.”

  “Roger that.” As she went to hang up, she heard the man’s voice soften in tone. “And stay safe—remember what I’ve taught you, Devorah.”

  She shoved the phone back in her pocket, listening to the maddening swish of traffic above her and relishing the comforting aroma of cedar trees which reminded her of home in Tel Aviv. She inhaled deeply, embracing the fragrance. Time for a change of scenery—the desert beckons, it seems. My mission is almost over—I hope—I pray. Then I can return to my country and my parents once more.

  Chapter 3

  Phoenix, Present Day

  Mitch drove his dusty green jeep up I-10 then hopped onto the less congested Highway 101 which carried him across the east valley. Though it was Sunday, drivers were still bent on exceeding the speed limit by fifteen miles, tailgating and zipping between lanes without signaling. For a moment, he was glad that he was not on the metro Phoenix Police Department or he’d have gotten in his daily quota of speeding tickets within the hour.

  He stopped at the Safeway grocery store in Cave Creek on the edge of the desert. He loaded up on a twelve-pack of cold Corona beer along with enough trimmings for making enchiladas for dinner.

  Driving along the sinewy dirt road that led out of the small town, he skirted along Cottonwood Creek for eighteen miles until he arrived at the ranch entrance which was little more than a wrought-iron gate beside a stock pond laced with cattails. As he stepped out to unlatch the lock, he noticed a set of boot prints in the dusty soil of the road which overlaid the older tire tracks of the ranchers leading out from last night. The pattern had two oval figures in the heel section and lightning bolt-shaped lines running up the center towards the toes. There was a slight micro-tear, a mere crack, on the right shoe near where the little toe would be. The shoe size indicated a size seven or eight and the slender contours of the inner arch revealed it was most likely a woman though there were no absolutes in tracking. You gathered all the data you could from the ground and your surroundings and made your best guesstimate. Thi
s time, though, he was puzzled by the unfamiliar tread and hoped his precious days off wouldn’t be consumed with a search.

  Mitch figured the tracks probably belonged to one of the owner’s daughters who may have stayed behind. The only other person at the ranch was Miguel, an old, nearly deaf Mexican cowboy who rarely ventured off his front porch anymore. Upon careful scrutiny of the tracks on the road ahead, he could see that the person had a short stride which meant she was either carrying a heavy load or was tired.

  Mitch backtracked and saw the prints coming in from the right side of the road, opposite his approach. He walked a hundred yards up until he came to a bend in the road and noticed that there was a green Nissan parked under the shade of a sycamore tree. The vehicle was angled back behind a fallen branch and it appeared to be a rental with only a crumpled map on the passenger’s seat and some empty water bottles on the floor. Hmm…probably another dumb tourist who broke down looking for lost Apache gold.

  He retraced his steps and unlatched the gate, swinging it open on its creaky hinges. He drove down the narrow road past the main houses, waving to old Miguel who was sitting on a rocking chair on his porch. The man did a partial attempt at a wave and Mitch could tell he had woken him. Heading down the road, he saw the usual slew of black cows grazing in the field to the left, near the edge of the rim where his bunkhouse was situated.

  Mitch kept hoping that he wouldn’t have to render assistance to some dehydrated explorer waiting on his porch steps. Cellphone coverage was spotty, especially in the basin where the ranch was nestled, and he dreaded having to drive someone out even for a few miles to get reception. He just wanted to unwind in the shade without anyone demanding his time. All the same, he kept his seatbelt off so he could access the Glock on his hip just in case it was more than a stranded motorist.