The Fugitive's Secret Child. Geri Krotow
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needed, from weaponry to foodstuffs. He enjoyed life as a civilian secret agent almost as much as he’d loved being a Navy SEAL or CIA agent. He dug the added benefit of being able to choose his missions these days. For the most part. He’d wanted to participate in another especially tricky op that involved travel to Ukraine and Russia. Claudia Michele, his boss and Trail Hikers director, had nixed it. She didn’t care that he’d already completed several successful missions against Russian organized crime in Eastern Europe and New York City. Said his talents were better spent in the former honeymoon capital of Pennsylvania, where a ROC crime boss was reportedly holed up. A mobster who’d eluded the FBI and all other law enforcement agencies.
The irony of this mission, so very unromantic in what was considered a romantic area, wasn’t lost on him. Anger fueled his motivation to take down his target, the man who’d helped ROC bring the ugliness of high-stakes crime to this beautiful area. Rob’s weapon’s sight was trained on the one building on the planet that the world’s most sought-after crime bosses were operating from. He’d followed the dirtbag for the last six weeks. Dima Ivanov was the head of a major Russian organized crime group on the East Coast. Yuri Vasin was number two, Ivanov’s right hand. Ivanov led up to two thousand criminals and a plethora of illegal enterprises. The most recent was human trafficking, and that’s what had pushed the FBI to ask for Trail Hikers’ help. Several dozen underage girls had been smuggled into the US via the Canadian border in Maine and trucked down to the Poconos. From here they were about to be dispersed to the winds of the ROC sex trade.
Time was of the essence.
Ivanov was an old badger, but he wasn’t stupid. In his most recent photos he’d looked older, less energetic than the younger ROC member he’d been. Back when Rob had been with the CIA he’d trailed Ivanov to Russia, Ukraine and back without ever being detected by one single ROC member or any government officials. Rob had helped bring down an entire branch of the East Coast crime ring over a three-day period in the hot hell of New York City and Trenton, New Jersey, last year. It was during a summer heat wave that included power outages and heat-induced rage. He’d come face-to-face with Ivanov. Close enough that the criminal spat in his face as the FBI cuffed him and carted him off. Ivanov had gotten off on a technicality, thanks to the best attorneys money could buy. That was a year and multiple lifetimes ago, as far as Rob was concerned. He’d participated in countless missions since then.
But this was his favorite. He’d majored in Russian in college and knew Russian history inside and out.
Come on out, Ivanov. Rob forced his muscles to relax and drew upon years of experience as he waited for his prey. If he could disable the son of a bitch and his guards, allowing for law enforcement to come in and apprehend the criminals, he would. If not, he’d at least take out Yuri Vasin, who was responsible for ordering hits; nearly two thousand deaths were known. Countless victims’ bodies would never be found. One of Vasin’s main trademarks was leaving no trail of human remains. Vasin didn’t care about getting credit for a hit.
Hot summer sun beat on the back of Rob’s neck and through his drab olive T-shirt and cargo pants. The Poconos were beautiful when snow covered, or drenched in green as they were now. But the July humidity was oppressive, soaking his clothes after only an hour on target.
He’d thought Ivanov would have shown his face by now. There’d been no sign of him since last night, when Rob spotted him taking his last smoke break before bed, around nine o’clock. He knew Ivanov chain-smoked and had come out for fresh air, a risk when he had to know he was a wanted man. Ivanov and Vasin had been surrounded by guards. If Rob wasn’t on such strict orders from Trail Hikers headquarters in Silver Valley to keep collateral damage to a minimum, he’d have taken out both monsters and their thugs in that moment. His mission was to disable Ivanov and Vasin, call in other law enforcement agencies, or LEAs, and then get the hell out of Dodge. Typical of a Trail Hikers op, there were to be no fingerprints of his government shadow agency’s involvement.
Rob liked to think of Trail Hikers as the helping hand for all other LEAs, national and local. A Trail Hikers agent enabled an FBI agent, state trooper, sheriff or local cop to come in and finish the job. And take credit for it.
The real reason he’d gone with Trail Hikers instead of another shadow agency was for his mental health. After three years of ignoring the regret of not crossing the street to let Trina Lopez know he’d lived, he’d sought counseling six months ago. And discovered he still needed to finish what he’d tried to do in Norfolk. Trina was with the US Marshals in Harrisburg, and Silver Valley was only twenty minutes away across the Susquehanna River. He’d made the move to Silver Valley a month later, so that he could face her again, put to right the lack of initiative on his part three years ago. As far as he knew she was still with someone else, had her own family, but he still needed some kind of closure, if only to wish her well. It was for his own sanity.
The beauty of Trail Hikers was that he could live anywhere in the country and work for them. He’d grown to like Silver Valley over the past several months, and it would be nice to stay, but he didn’t think permanently living that close to Trina would be healthy, even with closure.
A gnat flew into his eye, and he swatted it away.
He wondered why Ivanov was staying inside so much today. Usually he liked to go for a walk, at least twice a day if not more often. That sense of dread Rob identified as his instinct waved a warning flag. Did Ivanov and Vasin know Rob was out here?
Ivanov had puffed on his cigarette with Vasin and four other men around him, as if he knew he was hunted, that his enemy was close. Of course by now the criminal had to be downright paranoid, considering his constant need to be on the run. Add in his love of women, vodka and tobacco and he probably had at least the beginnings of cirrhosis and lung cancer. Ivanov’s mind and sense of trust in humanity were pretty much shot, Rob figured.
That Rob understood.
A glint of metal in the sun was his only warning before the building’s door opened. He took the safety off, positioned his fingers to shoot without hesitation.
He waited. And waited.
Nothing. The door was open, but nobody came out. With experience wrought only from years of tortuous situations, Robert ignored his annoyance, his impatience. He could outwait the best of them. As he watched, a tiny figure appeared at the edge of the doorway. An animal? Peering through the scope he discovered he was looking at a puppy.
A dog? He’d seen a lot of strange things in his years as a SEAL, CIA operative and now Trail Hikers secret agent, but he’d never seen a dog, much less a puppy, around Vasin. Unless it was a guard dog with killer instincts. He hadn’t seen any sign of guard dogs or any strays around this compound of sorts. He swiped at the sweat on his nape, the bandanna around his head unable to keep it as dry as his temples as sweat streamed off him, making rivulets through his sunscreen. He sensed a slight breeze around his neck and shoulders and went still.
“We meet again, Robert Bristol.” Hearing his name spoken by the all-too-familiar bass voice chilled him to the bone and made him grateful he’d heeded the CIA’s suggestion and changed his name after he’d been presumed dead as a Navy SEAL. The cold metal of a gun barrel pressed painfully into his temple. “Get up slowly, and leave your rifle. You won’t be needing it.”
Rob did as instructed. He knew the voice, the heavy accent. His captor was no one to brook argument.
Once Rob was standing, his nemesis shoved the gun more deeply into the side of his head, the pressure making white floaters appear in Rob’s vision.
“You try my patience, Bristol. Put your hands up and turn around.”
Robert turned, his arms at shoulder level, dreading whom he’d see.
“Vasin. Fancy seeing you in the Poconos, of all places. I thought Jersey City was your jurisdiction.”
“Go to hell, Bristol. Your time is over.” Vasin’s voice pulsated with acrimony as he stared at Rob, surrounded by four henchmen who also carried the best handguns money could buy. Vasin had stayed as lean and lethal as when Rob had tracked him in a CIA operation three years ago, and ended up in actual