Reckless

He preferred Latvia to Romania, and especially liked Riga, a city steeped in both history and romance. His hotel looked directly over the dome cathedral in Vecriga, the old city, a building that dated back to the thirteenth century and still whispered of knights in shining armor and damsels in distress. Only two weeks ago, Group 99 had orchestrated a flyover of the cathedral, dropping hundreds of red balloons filled with cash for the beggars who still flocked there, hoping for alms. In the last month alone, the group had redistributed well over a million euros to Europe’s poor, through balloon drops or less dramatically, by simply depositing cash into the bank accounts of impoverished citizens as well as filling the coffers of various charities and NGOs, particularly in Greece.

Hunter spent his days in Riga working on his story and his nights playing cards. He would have liked to stay longer, but it was too risky. After Romania he’d started using aliases and taking small steps to change his appearance. The CIA would find him eventually, he knew that. He just hoped to stay under the radar long enough to finish his story, to get the truth out there. If . . .

Wheesh! The bullet whistled past Hunter’s left ear. He’d been in enough war zones to recognize that sound, even though the shot itself was silent. Professional. Instinctively Hunter dropped to the ground, scrambling on his hands and knees to the walled side of the alley, away from the glare of the streetlamps. Wheesh! Another shot. This time it clattered against something metal. A trash can, perhaps, up ahead? Or a fencepost.

Hunter looked around him. The narrow streets around Antoine’s apartment were utterly deserted at this time of night. He couldn’t see his attacker, or anyone, in the darkness. His only hope was to run, to try to make it to one of the main streets or squares where he might find safety in numbers.

Sprinting towards Remtes Street, Hunter’s mind spun faster than his legs. He had about $5,000 in his pockets, but he was pretty sure whoever was shooting at him wasn’t interested in money. He’d assumed the Americans wanted him alive—clearly they had back in Bratislava. But something had obviously changed. Unless it wasn’t the CIA. Unless it was . . .

Wheesh! Another shot, and this time he could hear running behind him, boots pounding the cobblestones just like his own. The lights of a tram up ahead shone straight at him, momentarily blinding him. Panicked, Hunter turned around. The last thing he saw was Apollo’s face staring back at him, his sadist’s eyes alight with excitement as he raised the gun. Pointing it between Hunter’s eyes, he calmly pulled the trigger.

SALLY FAIERS WAS DEEP asleep when her mobile rang.

“Can you talk?”

It was the first time she’d heard from Hunter in almost a month. He sounded out of breath and antsy. Probably just climbed out of some married lady’s bedroom window with the husband in hot pursuit. In typical Drexel style he’d asked Sally to do something for him, something complex and time-consuming and of no benefit to her whatsoever, and then gone completely AWOL. Admittedly he was being hounded by the most powerful government on earth, not to mention a group of potentially murderous terrorists. But it was still deeply annoying.

“No.”

“Did you find anything out? About Major General Frank Dorrien?”

“What part of ‘no’ do you not understand, Hunter? It’s one in the fucking morning.”

“Don’t hang up!” It was a yell, panicked and desperate. For the first time Sally detected real fear in Hunter’s voice. “Please.”

“Where are you?” Her tone softened. “What’s happened?”

Hunter hesitated.

“Either you trust me or you don’t,” Sally said angrily, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “Because if you don’t, I’m done busting my balls for this stupid story of yours. And I’m done keeping your secrets.”

“I’m in Riga,” Hunter said. “Group 99 just tried to kill me.”

He told her about Apollo, his captor in Bratislava and the man who’d shot Bob Daley.

“He was firing right at me. This truck came out of nowhere and blocked the shot. By the time it passed he’d gone.”

“Does he know where you’re staying?”

“I assume so,” Hunter panted. “He must have followed me to the poker night. Unless one of the players tipped him off. In any case I can’t go back to the hotel. I left a bunch of notes there. Research. FUCK!”

Sally sat up in bed. “It’s OK. You’re alive. And it’s all in your head anyway, right?”

“I guess.” Hunter’s breathing began to normalize. “So did you find anything?”

“That depends on your definition of anything,” Sally said, fully awake now. “General Frank didn’t kill Prince Achileas. That much I’m pretty sure of.”

Hunter let out a long, disappointed breath.

“But he does work for MI6. And he’s part of the team that’s looking for you.”

“MI6 is looking for me?”

“Yes,” Sally said. “After Bob Daley’s murder the U.S. and UK governments formed a joint intelligence task force to counter Group 99. As part of the information sharing I guess the Yanks told our boys the truth about what happened in Bratislava, that you’re on the run. They seem to believe you might be in league with Group 99. That your abduction might have been staged.”

Hunter said nothing.

“Was it?” Sally asked.