Savage Son Read online

  The silence was broken by the sound of barking dogs. This time the shiver that went up her spine was not from the cold. It didn’t matter if the dogs could reach her, they would sniff her hiding place out; she was trapped. She peered over the ledge in front of her boots and saw the waves hitting the rocks several hundred feet below. The barking was suddenly very close; she could see and hear small pebbles roll past her as her pursuers made their way down the steep incline. She took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled as she adjusted her grip on the makeshift dagger.

  * * *

  For a minute the man thought that his prey had fallen to her death, but the dogs’ interest in the rocky face suggested otherwise. He slipped the sling over his head and readied his weapon. The long carbon fiber shaft of the arrow was resting perfectly in its rail, the thin braided cable holding the limbs’ kinetic energy at bay. He flipped up the caps on the scope and shouldered the modern rendition of the ancient tool to ensure that the lenses weren’t fogged from the cold. His quarry was at bay; now he just had to wait for her to flush.

  Sergei unclasped the brass hooks from the dogs’ thick collars, releasing them from the yoke of the leather lead. They lurched toward the cliff, then slowed their pace to tiny steps as they tested the ledge. Their deep-throated barks were nearly deafening. The lead animal looked to his master, wary of the terrain before him. Sergei gave a command and all doubt evaporated; the dogs began a controlled slide downward. An ordinary canine would have plummeted into the sea but these were sure-footed mountain animals, bred for this very task.

  * * *

  She couldn’t see them but the roar of their barks told her that they must be just outside her field of view, obscured by the wall of her stone prison. She pulled her left hand back into the sleeve of her jacket so that the material below the elbow hung empty. Terror; a snarling muzzle bearing wolflike teeth materialized before her. She flung her sleeve in its direction and the shepherd snatched it instinctively into his jaws. She pulled her hand from under her fleece and grabbed the beast by the collar as she plunged the seal bone into its neck. She screamed as she stabbed it over and over in unbridled rage, feeling the animal’s hot blood spray onto her hands and face. Switching her attention to the dog’s lungs, she used all of her strength to pierce its armor of thick fur. Her first blow glanced off a rib but the second and third stabs found their way into the chest cavity. The dog jerked out of her grasp and stumbled in his retreat. His footing lost, he tumbled out of sight.

  * * *

  Sergei shrieked as his finest hound plummeted into the Bering Sea, howling in agony. “Ataka,” he commanded to the younger male, his voice devoid of its usual strength, hesitant for the first time to send his dog to do its work. Whatever uncertainty the animal felt was put aside, obedience taking over. Growling, he charged into the fray.

  * * *

  She scarcely had time to compose herself before the second dog came, all fur and fury. What this animal lacked in experience, he made up for in aggression. He ignored the matador sweep of the jacket sleeve and lunged for her throat. She pushed herself back as far as the mountain would let her, the dog’s breath and musky coat heavy in the confined space. Saliva spurted across her face as the thunderous barking reverberated in her soul. She tucked her chin to her chest to protect her exposed neck and put her left arm across her face. Powerful jaws snapped onto her elbow, the canine’s teeth piercing her flesh down to the bone.

  She stabbed for the dog’s flank and felt its hide give way as the seal bone found its home. This dog recognized the threat, shifting its attack to the arm that held the instrument of pain, tearing flesh and crushing through skin, bones, and tendons. The makeshift seal bone dagger dropped to the ground. Grasping a small rock with her free hand, she hit him again and again but he did not relent. Instead, he dragged her toward the opening, toward his waiting master. The dog outweighed her by thirty pounds, and her bloodied and beaten body was no match for her vicious antagonist. Her spirit, however, was anything but beaten.

  Keep your nerve.

  Knowing that she would be exposed in seconds, she whispered a quick prayer and grabbed the dog’s collar with her right hand. The dog’s actions were based on pure instinct, but she had the element of reason. Pulling him off balance, she bent at the knees and thrust forward with her feet toward the opening.

  Freedom.

  * * *

  He had the scope to his eye now, ready to send his first arrow into her as soon as Sergei’s hound pulled her clear. He would wound her first; no sense rushing to the climax. He disengaged the safety and put his gloved finger on the curved metal trigger of the Ravin. The scope’s reticle danced, the inevitable result of blood, breathing, and adrenaline, but at this range, he would not miss. He would take her in the thigh, careful not to hit the femoral artery and give her a quick end.

  The animal had her. He could see its rear legs moving backward; the anticipation made him feel uniquely alive. He saw a glimpse of her filthy jacket before the dog changed position and stumbled. Then he gasped. The woman’s body flung headlong into the air, the animal’s jaws still locked on to her. The pair seemed to hang for a moment before crashing downward onto the jagged rocks four hundred feet below.

  The selfish bitch had robbed him of his kill. He dropped the crossbow in the snow and reached for a cigarette as he turned toward the lodge, commanding Sergei to retrieve the body as he stomped away.

  No matter. The woman was just bait. He was after bigger game; she would still serve her purpose.

  PART ONE THE TRAP

  “One does not hunt in order to kill; on the contrary, one kills in order to have hunted.”

  —José Ortega y Gasset, Meditations on Hunting

  CHAPTER 1

  Kumba Ranch, Flathead Valley, Montana

  Three months earlier

  JAMES REECE RODE IN the passenger seat of the 1997 Land Rover Defender 110 in silence, taking in the serene beauty of the landscape. The road cut through a thick stand of ponderosa pines that towered in every direction. His college friend and former Navy SEAL teammate Raife Hastings was driving the British SUV and wouldn’t tell Reece the exact nature of their destination. Raife’s family had owned the sprawling ranch since they’d emigrated from southern Africa in the 1980s, when he was in his early teens. What had begun as a small and humble cattle operation had grown into tens of thousands of acres of prime grazing land and pristine wilderness. The family’s successes in the cattle and real estate businesses had allowed them to expand their operations and they now owned properties throughout the state. Despite their hard-won wealth, Raife’s father had ensured that the family never forgot their humble beginnings or took the opportunities afforded by their adopted homeland for granted.

  As a former Navy SEAL, Reece had recently proven himself particularly skillful at adapting; he’d outwitted a national security apparatus set on killing him and then unraveled a plot that put the president of United States in the crosshairs. A man named Vic Rodriguez led the paramilitary branch of the Central Intelligence Agency as the director of the Special Activities Division. He’d then recruited Reece for the mission that had saved the president’s life and spared Ukraine from a chemical weapons attack. Vic recognized Reece’s aptitude for aggressive problem solving and wanted to bring the frogman further into the fold. As a result, Reece was technically now a temporary contract employee of the CIA’s paramilitary Ground Branch, though currently his only job was to recover from his recent surgery someplace where he could take a breath and reset. Unbeknownst to his new masters at Langley, he had a more personal reason for joining their ranks; two men needed to die.

  Reece lifted his ball cap and ran his fingers over his closely cropped hair. He hadn’t had a haircut this short since BUD/S. They had shaved his head at Walter Reed and, though it was beginning to grow back, he still hadn’t accustomed himself to the feeling. He gingerly touched the scar on his scalp with his fingertips, still amazed at how small it was. The procedure to remove his benign bra
in tumor had been a complete success. He was relieved that he wouldn’t be required to undergo radiation or chemotherapy and was happy to be alive after all that he’d been through over the past two years; there had been too much death.

  The 4x4 crunched over gravel as Raife accelerated up a set of dirt switchbacks that led over a ridge.

  “These things were always underpowered,” Reece commented with a straight face. The Land Rover/Land Cruiser debate was a near-constant source of entertainment for the two friends, neither of whom ever passed up an opportunity to criticize the other’s favorite vehicle.

  “I should let you walk,” was Raife’s response.

  Raife stopped the old Defender as it leveled off at the top of the trail. The vista of the endless green trees leading to the massive alpine lake below was breathtaking, even for someone who’d spent decades living on this land.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “I thought you might like it.”

  “The view?”

  “No, your new home.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “See that cabin down there by the lake?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Lucky for you, my dad and father-in-law are James Reece supporters. They had it fixed up for you. They thought you might want a quiet spot away from everything to recover. It’s yours.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Raife nodded, pleased. It’s not every day one gets to surprise their best friend with a new house.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “ ‘Thanks’ would do it.”

  “Well… thanks.”

  “You always wanted to live in Robin’s guest house.” Raife smiled, referring to his father’s middle name and knowing his friend would get it. “I’m sure he’ll put you to work sooner or later and make you earn your keep so, if I were you, I’d play sick for as long as possible.”

  “Good tip.”

  “Reach under the seat.”

  Reece reached down and pulled out a SIG P320 X-Compact in a Black Point Tactical mini-wing holster.

  “Mato thought that might come in handy,” Raife said, referring to their former command master chief who now ran the training academy for SIG Sauer.

  “Does everyone know I’m back?” Reece asked.

  “You know this community, brother,” Raife said with a smile. “We’re worse than old ladies in a sewing circle.”

  Raife put the vehicle into low gear and let the engine rev as it slowly descended the grade that led toward the cabin. A circular crushed-stone driveway curved toward the home from the dirt road that ran past it. The wooden framed house had begun as a small pioneer cabin and that façade had been preserved and incorporated into the newer, larger structure. The building suited its surroundings and was large without being ostentatious. Raife stopped in front of the home’s broad front porch and the two former commandos stepped out of the vehicle.

  They wore jeans and faded T-shirts with holstered handguns that rode inside their waistbands. Reece wore his usual Salomon trail running shoes while Raife’s Courtney boots were of a more traditional design, made from Cape buffalo hide and imported from his native Zimbabwe. In many ways, their choice of footwear typified their personalities. Though he’d moved around a lot, Reece was a native Californian, always looking for the latest and greatest piece of gear that might give him an edge in terms of performance. Raife was the opposite, a traditionalist who preferred the feel and soul of an earlier time. If Reece was Kydex, nylon, and Kevlar, Raife was leather, brass, and walnut.

  The men’s athletic physiques were obvious to the most casual observer, with broad, thick chests and powerful arms built by decades of intense physical training. Though their wardrobes were nearly identical and their builds similar, no one would mistake them for brothers. Reece’s hair was dark with flecks of gray in his stubble. Raife was two inches taller than his friend’s six feet and his build was leaner, with broader shoulders and a narrower waist. His longish hair was a sun-streaked blond that hung from the back of his cap and nearly touched his collar. His eyes were an almost iridescent green that stood in contrast to his tanned face. A discolored scar swept the length of his cheek. Raife stopped short of stepping up onto the planked wooden porch and made a sweeping gesture for Reece to take the lead.

  The door was made of local Douglas fir and bore the scars of more than a century’s exposure to the elements. Reece pressed the refurbished iron latch and the solid door swung open easily on new hinges. The two-story open space was bathed in natural light thanks to the large windows on the wall opposite the front door. The floor was Montana slate, a mosaic of grays and browns that contrasted with the blond planks that paneled the walls. A stone fireplace rose toward the open fir rafters. Reece’s throat went tight when he saw what hung above the hearth.

  “Is that my dad’s bull?”

  “Indeed, it is. He passed away before we could ship him the mount. We thought this would be a good spot for his elk.”

  The families had become close when Reece and Raife’s friendship blossomed at the University of Montana. Reece’s father, Tom, had visited the ranch in the fall of 2000 when both Reece and Raife had already graduated from BUD/S and been assigned to SEAL Teams on opposite coasts. Tom Reece, himself a frogman veteran of Vietnam, had elk-hunted during the visit and had taken the six-by-six bull that hung in his son’s new home. It had been the last time they’d hunted together. The 9/11 attacks struck the following year and Reece had spent the next decade and a half chasing Al Qaeda, ISIS, and their ilk to the far corners of the globe. Tom Reece had passed away suddenly and tragically while Reece was deployed to Iraq in 2003, killed in an apparent mugging in Buenos Aires, Argentina, while working for the CIA.

  A comfortable-looking nail-head leather sofa faced the fireplace and a tawny hair-on cow rug covered the stone floor, framing a sitting area. Reece noticed it bore the raised keloid scar of the Hastings family brand. Raife hung back a step as his friend toured his new home, humbled by the generosity shown to him by the Hastings family. There was a large kitchen with what looked to be the original cast iron stove, surrounded by modern appliances, a comfortable bedroom with a rustic pine-framed king-sized bed, a guest bedroom, bathrooms, and a loft area that was set up as an office. Nearly every room in the home had a view of the lake.

  “I have one other thing to show you.” Raife broke the silence and motioned toward the door that led outside from the kitchen. He descended the steps and strode toward a small barnlike structure. He pulled open the two large doors and stood aside wearing a rare grin. Inside the detached garage sat a perfectly restored 1988 FJ62 Toyota Land Cruiser, its bluish gunmetal gloss clear-coat paint gleaming under the room’s overhead LED lights. The vintage paint scheme contrasted tastefully with the flat black aluminum wheels, off-road bumpers, and roof rack.

  Reece’s eyes widened at the sight of the custom off-road vehicle. He’d been forced to abandon his beloved Land Cruiser more than a year earlier as part of a one-man mission of vengeance that had left a trail of bodies that stretched from coast to coast. Since then, he’d driven Land Cruisers while working anti-poaching patrols for Raife’s uncle in Mozambique, but he hadn’t had a vehicle to call his own.

  “It comes with the house. You know I’d never drive it so you may as well.”

  “Now I really don’t know what to say.”

  “All of a sudden you’re the quiet one?” Raife joked, referring to Utilivu, a Shona nickname given to him by the trackers in Africa. “Don’t just stand there like a bloody idiot, hop in.”

  Reece walked forward, as if he were approaching an extraterrestrial object. The door handle unlatched with a tactile and positive click; whoever had done the restoration work had done it exceptionally well. The dark interior combined utilitarian finishes and materials with style and comfort. The keys were in the ignition. The 376-cubic-inch, 430-horsepower General Motors LS3 V-8 roared to life instantly, its throaty growl tamed by an effective ceramic-coated exhaust s
ystem that allowed the vehicle to maintain a reasonable amount of stealth given its power.

  “Not bad for a Japanese import, eh?” Political correctness was not one of Raife’s strengths.

  “I love it.”

  “This one’s from Thorn,” Raife confessed, using the nickname for his father-in-law. “He’s taken pity on you in your weakened state.”

  “Where did he find it?”

  “Don’t you recognize her?”

  Reece looked in the seats behind him and then back to his friend.

  “It’s yours. Ol’ Clint couldn’t bring himself to destroy her when you left California. He held on to it just in case. When he found out you were alive, he reached out to Thorn through the Special Operations Association. Their Vietnam network is strong. Thorn had it shipped out here, but not before having it fixed up for you.”

  “This is a bit more than ‘fixed up.’ This is a work of art!”

  “Glad you like it. ICON 4X4 did the restoration so it should actually make it to town unlike your stock original. I almost forgot, look behind the seat.”

  Reece switched off the motor and looked over his shoulder. Hanging in a purpose-built Greyman tactical rack behind the seat was a Daniel Defense MK12 with a SilencerCo Omega suppressor and a Nightforce 1-8x24mm ATACR optic mounted on the receiver’s top rail.

  “Trouble seems to find you. I figured it would be wise to have more than that nine-mil pea shooter in your holster.”

  “You were not wrong, my friend,” Reece said with genuine sincerity.