The Hunted

Everyone believed in it. But you never knew how you’d react if death was staring you in the face and it was your turn to feel the cold chill close, so very, very close…

Nevertheless, this Thomas Voeckler guy had been an enigma from the beginning, and his dossier raised many unanswered questions, which in turn had raised Brent’s brows:

Thomas had attended Florida State University and had majored in psychology. At that time he’d had no desire to rise above slackerdom, let alone join the military like his brother had. He’d changed majors three times and had finally wound up with an English degree, which he did nothing with for ten years. When he wasn’t taking, dropping, or flunking out of graduate courses, he’d been, in no particular order, a pizza delivery guy, an apartment building maintenance man, a clerk at a local video store, and an attendant at a state park where he rented canoes. He’d volunteered at a local library and at the local animal shelter on Captiva Island, Florida. He built houses for Habitat for Humanity. He fed homeless people during the holidays, even when he was only a pay-check or two away from being homeless himself.

This was not the profile of one of America’s most cunning and lethal covert operatives.

Meanwhile, his brother moved up quickly through the ranks and had made a name for himself in the Marines and in Force Recon. George was a textbook operator, exactly the kind of man you’d expect to find in Third Echelon.

When Thomas had been recruited by Grimsdottir, he’d initially declined, admitting he was not cut out for this kind of work. She’d offered him a six-figure salary to entice him, and though Thomas finally agreed, he’d flunked out of the training program three times before receiving a provisional pass. He was no man of action, as evidenced by several broken bones and other assorted injuries during past operations.

But he was, as Grimsdottir had carefully noted in his record, meant to serve as his brother’s primary alibi and not necessarily his field partner. Third Echelon had been experimenting for years with team operations: large groups, small groups, and pairs, but the implication in Thomas’s dossier was that he should be a human mannequin, meant to stand around and look pretty but do nothing. George was to keep him on a tight leash.

Unfortunately, that was now Brent’s job.

“Thomas, it’s time to go,” Brent told him for the nth time, checking his HUD for maps of the area. “Take Copperfield Avenue northeast toward the woods. Shooting you the grid points now. Go around past the academy, and just keep moving through. We’ll link up with you there.”

“I’m taking George with me.”

“We’ll come back for him. I promise. You cannot afford to be captured.”

“I’m not leaving my brother!”

Brent wanted to scream, but didn’t. “You need to go.”

Thomas hesitated.

“Voeckler, I’m warning you…”

“I know! I know!”

Brent hardened his voice. “Then… get out of there. Run! Right… now…”

“We can’t run. We need to make them pay.”

“We will. Later.”

“I need your word!”

“Jesus, dude, you got it. Just go!”

“All right. You watch this…”

Thomas’s tone was beginning to harden, too, and that was a relief. Brent needed him angry enough to stay alive so he could exact revenge. There would come a time.

After a deep breath audible through his microphone, the Splinter Cell took off in an impressive sprint, but not before shouting erupted behind him, along with gunfire.

“They’ve tagged you!” cried Brent.

Thomas cursed and bolted even faster down the street, suddenly ducking behind a row of parked cars. He glanced over his shoulder.

Three Spetsnaz troops charged after him.

* * *

Manoj Chopra pulled into the petrol filling station. There were no other cars.

The Snow Maiden instructed Chopra to shut off the engine and hand her the keys. She took them and said, “Everybody out.”

“Please, no violence,” Chopra said.

She didn’t answer.

They went into the small convenience store, where two old men stood behind the counter.

Without a word, the Snow Maiden raised her pistol, even as Chopra gasped.

The men barely had time to widen their eyes before they were tumbling to the floor.

It all happened too quickly for Chopra to fully comprehend. That someone could kill in such a cool and casual manner woke a hard shudder across his shoulders.

Hussein seemed less surprised this time, glancing up at her and asking in an eerily calm voice, “Can I get a drink before we leave?”

“Get me one, too,” she said. “Some juice.”

“Okay.”

“Are we this cavalier about murder?” shouted Chopra.

The Snow Maiden rolled her eyes, crossed around the counter, and began working one of the touch-screen computers to activate the filling pump.

“If you’re hungry or thirsty, better shop now,” she told him.

Chopra eyed the men lying behind the counter. He had no thirst, no appetite. Blood pooled around their bodies.

“I thought you promised not to kill,” he said.

“I did not,” she spat back. “I said I make no promises. Let’s go.”

Chopra just stared at her. “You’re a monster. And if I didn’t have something you wanted, you would’ve killed me already.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is that balance will return, once you are gone from this world. Balance will return.”

She shrugged. “Get yourself some cookies, and get back in the car. Hussein? Have you ever pumped gasoline?”

“You must be joking,” said the young sheikh, handing her a bottle of juice.

She popped the cap. “There’s a first time for everything.”

* * *

Brent wasn’t sure how many now, four or five maybe, but they were on Thomas’s tail, gaining on him as he reached the heavily wooded perimeter of the Royal Military Academy. Because the Russians had full control of the target area, this was at best a rescue operation of his remaining operator. They could engage in a stand-up fight against the Russians, but for what? He no longer believed they’d gain much from searching the house, and the Russians might have already secured evidence that indicated the Snow Maiden had been there.

Brent repressed a chill. Was his career already over? The Snow Maiden was gone.

Only for now, he convinced himself. Dennison was working in coordination with a dozen other agencies, and Brent had just learned that the Russian jamming had stopped, so eyes in the sky were busy probing every inch of the U.K. for their target.

Time wasn’t just of the essence; it was everything now. If she got out of the U.K., he feared she could more easily drop off the grid. She no doubt had many contacts in Europe she’d made over the years, friends who owed her favors. She’d left herself much more vulnerable to link up with Chopra and Hussein. If she had both of them now, she need only disappear.

“Hammer, this is Ghost Lead. Anything, over?”

“Still searching, Ghost Lead…”

“Roger, still waiting.” He winced over his sarcastic tone. There it was — the stress beginning to unravel him.

He took a deep breath and glanced over at the driver, who returned the gaze. “What, Yank? Not fast enough