Tom Clancy, David Michaels
The Hunted
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author would like to thank a wonderful group of family members, friends, colleagues, and supporters. In particular, Mr. Tom Clancy and all of the folks at Ubisoft who created the EndWar game deserve my gratitude, as well as the following individuals:
Mr. Sam Strachman of Longtail Studios helped me create this story from the ground up, working from brainstorming to outlining to final draft manuscript. His contributions are greatly appreciated and invaluable.
Mr. James Ide served as our primary researcher and story expert. He scrutinized every page, relying on his extensive military background, his keen writing skills, and his commitment to this story to provide criticism, advice, and suggestions that greatly improved the manuscript.
Ms. Jackie Fiest graciously volunteered to serve as our first reader and provide her reactions and sharp eyes as a proofreader.
Mr. Tom Colgan is simply the keenest and most supportive editor an author could have, and I’m fortunate to have worked with him on many projects.
Nancy, Lauren, and Kendall Telep know quite well why they are mentioned here.
I will kill the president of the Russian Federation.
I will bring down the motherland. And then I will
stand back and watch it all burn.
PROLOGUE
Alexander Brent dropped into sixth gear and studied the digital head-up display glowing in his windshield:
116 mph and climbing.
The Corvette’s short throw shifter felt warm, while the 505-horsepower LS7 engine roared its demand for more fuel and pinned him to the sport seat.
Streetlights and shop windows blurred by in a kaleidoscope of reds and blues and greens.
Taking his cue from the car, Brent jabbed his foot on the accelerator pedal, and the beast leapt forward across the rain-slick pavement, the scent of burning rubber still wafting up into the black leather cockpit.
Just a few minutes ago he’d come off the mark in a massive burnout, reaching sixty miles per hour in just 3.7 seconds. For a few heartbeats he’d lost control, the rear tires hopping, the back end swinging out until the traction control system engaged. He wasn’t used to this. In fact, this was not him at all.
He tensed. Would he hit 120… 130 mph down this municipal street? Would he dare go 150 mph? It was a Sunday night, 11:50 P.M., and there were still a few other vehicles on the road, although the sidewalks looked clear of pedestrians. How fast would his rage take him?
He kept a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel with both hands. There was no more shifting to do; it was pedal to the metal, and the future would unfold.
He flicked his gaze to the right and saw Villanueva’s door just a few feet away, both Corvettes neck and neck now, their Borla exhaust systems thundering as they raced up the four-lane road.
Carlos Villanueva was just eighteen, the same age as Brent, and they were seniors at Northridge Academy High. They had never spoken to each other until Brent had rolled into the school parking lot with his Corvette. Brent had inherited the Vette from an uncle who’d passed away, and from that day on Villanueva had been challenging Brent to a street race, going so far as to follow him, harass him at every intersection, cut him off, and even show up at Brent’s doorstep, waiting for him to leave in the car. Villanueva had an older Vette, a yellow 2003 Z06 that he and his brother, Tomas, had heavily modified to boost the car’s horsepower. They called Brent’s car “the blue devil” and vowed to send him and the vehicle straight back to hell.
Villanueva’s harassment was brutal, unrelenting, and he even enlisted his gang buddies to threaten Brent, telling him he’d better not drive the car unless he was willing to race. As Brent quickly learned, you can’t hide a jet-stream-blue Corvette very well in traffic; it tends to stand out. The bullying became so fierce that for a while Brent stopped driving the car, opting to walk or hop on his bike to school.
Admittedly, an eighteen-year-old kid behind the wheel of a fifty-thousand-dollar sports car would draw some animosity and jealousy; in fact, his father, a successful city engineer with ties to local and state government, had warned him about that, but Brent had had no idea it would come to this.
Villanueva’s bullying crossed the line on the night of Brent’s senior prom. Brent had picked up his date and they’d had a great time, but then, on his way back to drop her off, Villanueva had shown up and had forced Brent onto the shoulder as they’d descended Laurel Canyon Boulevard’s tortuous series of switchbacks and hairpin turns. Brent missed the guardrails by inches, pulled over, and bolted out of the car, only to watch as Villanueva flashed him the bird and squealed off.
“I can’t take this anymore,” he told his girlfriend.
“Then do something about it.”
Two days later, as Brent was returning from a late movie, Villanueva pulled up beside him at a streetlight. Brent glanced over — and a mental switch was thrown.
Villanueva sat there, revving his engine, his evil eyes sparkling, his shaven head and the tattoos spidering over his forearms suggesting he’d spent a lifetime in prison while he was really just a punk.
Brent had taken a long breath. Enough. He was going to dust this bastard once and for all. And when they were finished, maybe Villanueva would bow out like a man and stop the BS games. Maybe this fool would realize that driving a fast car did not make you a man.
Yet now, the faster they drove and the more they challenged each other, the more Brent realized that if he lost this race, he’d never live it down; Villanueva would never get off his back. The bullying would grow even worse because Brent would be the loser who got dusted. Winning meant he’d be free of this bastard forever.
Or so he’d thought.
As part of its modification package, Villanueva’s Corvette was equipped with a nitrous oxide system, or NOS, that allowed the engine to burn more fuel and air. He suddenly boosted away, pulling a full car length ahead of Brent, who, seeing this, reacted with more acceleration.
121, 122, 123 mph…
There had been long stretches between intersections, but now they rocketed into a much busier part of town, with cross streets coming in five-second intervals.
A string of green lights gleamed overhead, but then a small commuter car pulled onto the road far ahead, blocking Villanueva’s lane. The two lanes for oncoming traffic were empty, so Brent rolled the wheel, taking himself across the road, allowing Villanueva to take his lane so they could both pass the car. This was a tacit understanding between street racers that Brent knew about but had never practiced.
They whooshed past the unsuspecting driver, who saw only blue and yellow streaks from the corner of his
