R Patterson - The Shadow Hunter

They all nodded.

“If you decide to loop anyone else in on your investigation, please notify me,” Morgan said. “That’s all.”

“We won’t let you down,” Hawk said.

“I know you won’t,” she said, patting Hawk on his wounded arm before leaving the room.

Mia sighed and shook her head. “As if things weren’t stressful enough already …”

“Well, why don’t you both join the field team? Getting out might do you both some good.”

Alex’s face lit up. “My aunt and uncle can handle John Daniel for a few extra days.”

“That works for me,” Mia said. “I’ll also send you an idea I have.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “I think I know how we can draw him out.”

“We?” Hawk asked. “So you think you’re fit for field duty again? As I recall, it’s been a while.”

Mia grinned. “I’ll be fine. Besides, I wouldn’t miss a trip to the Dominican for the world.”

Punta Cana, Dominican Republic

FROM A SECOND-STORY balcony, Hawk peered through a pair of high-tech sunglasses Dr. Z had designed, scanning the poolside at the Zoetry Agua resort on the water. Aside from blocking UV rays and providing a darkened field of vision, Dr. Z’s patented Sunglazzes enabled Hawk to run facial recognition searches on anyone in his line of sight. All he had to do was look straight-on at a person. Then the micro-processors embedded in the frames would analyze the person’s face and alert Hawk if they were in the database. The technology was especially helpful when trying to identify someone who was good at changing their look to hide in plain sight.

Near the south end of the pool, a man jammed on his guitar joined by the rest of his steel drum band. A group of bikini-clad women swayed to the music, careful not to spill their margaritas. Hawk’s glasses didn’t identify anyone among the group in the database. He checked a few people relaxing on the steps leading into the water. Still nothing.

“Are you sure he’s here?” Hawk asked into the coms.

“I got confirmation a half-hour ago when he showed up on the hotel’s security feed,” Mia said. “He’s here all right.”

“Maybe he’s in his room,” Hawk suggested.

“No, he was just leaving his room when he was spotted on camera. The image was black and white, but he appeared to be in a solid-colored bathing suit, which I would guess is a bright color.”

“So, what am I looking for?” Hawk asked. “A neon green or bright orange trunks?”

“Something like that,” Mia said.

“You’re going to have to walk down there,” Mia said. “It’s the only way.”

“Why don’t we give Dr. Gizmo’s gadget to Alex?” Hawk asked. “I’m sure she will turn enough heads to get men to look at her straight on.”

“I can’t blow my cover,” Alex chimed in on the coms. “I need to remain out of sight until the operation begins.”

“Oh, Alex, I didn’t know you were listening in,” Hawk said.

Alex chuckled. “Now, you’re just trying to score brownie points.”

“Either way, you’ve gotta admit that Hawk’s smooth,” Mia said.

“Yeah, I guess he’s all right,” Alex said. “I might keep him.”

“Just put your disguise on and go down there,” Mia said. “I want full confirmation that he’s still on site before we commence.”

“Roger that,” Hawk said.

He ambled into the closet and put on a faded t-shirt and flip-flops. Hawk tucked a sun hat low across his brow and shuffled downstairs. After wandering around for a few minutes, he bought a drink from the Tiki hut near the water and strolled casually around the pool. He searched for someone wearing a pair of brightly-colored trunks, but none of them even came close to matching the Reaper’s physique. His bulging biceps and thick neck would make it almost impossible to hide for very long, but Hawk struggled to identify the man.

After fifteen minutes, Hawk spotted a man sprawled out on a lounge chair near the band. He was lying on his back, his hat strategically positioned over his face and his arms crossed over his midsection. He wore a pair of neon green board shorts.

“I think I see him,” Hawk said, his lips moving imperceptibly.

“What do Dr. Z’s Sunglazzes say?” Mia asked.

“I can’t confirm anything because he won’t take that damn hat off his face,” Hawk said. “And I have no idea how long he’s going to remain in that position.”

“Just keep watching him,” Mia said.

“Or maybe buy him a drink and have it sent over,” Alex suggested.

“See, this is why you need to be down here instead of me,” Hawk said.

Hawk asked a woman if she’d buy a drink and have it sent over to the man he suspected was the Reaper. He handed her a fifty-dollar bill, telling her she could keep the change. She readily agreed.

“If you want to impress him, send him a Long Island iced tea,” Hawk said. “It’s his favorite.”

The woman smiled and walked over to the bar to order. A couple of minutes later, the Reaper sat up, curious about why a poolside server was giving him a drink. With his face visible, Hawk’s glasses confirmed the Reaper’s identity.

“It’s a match,” Hawk said. “That’s him.”

“Good,” Mia said. “Hawk, fall back so we can prepare for the next phase of the operation.”

“Roger that,” Hawk said before returning to his hotel room.

DOUG MITCHELL CLOSED his eyes, soaking in the warm sunshine. Visiting North Korea and Russia in the winter chilled him to the bone, and he needed to thaw out. He drained the last bit of his Long Island iced tea, resisting his curiosity to find out who sent him the drink. As a mercenary, he didn’t have time for distractions like relationships. From the moment he joined the Navy SEALs, he decided that his lifestyle wouldn’t be conducive to any long-term relationship, especially since it wouldn’t be fair to whoever he was involved with.

He ran his fingers across the tattoo spanning the width of his collarbones. “Freedom cannot be bestowed—it must be achieved” read the tattooed message overlaid on a colorful American eagle. He was drunk and considered himself naive when he entered the tattoo parlor at age 18 to get the artwork inscribed. It served as a reminder to him of his past. Years of battle had jaded him. He no longer believed the words on his chest, nor did he care much for the idea of patriotism. The only person he was loyal to was himself.

Glancing at his forearm, he smiled as he saw the tattoo of the Grim Reaper. He once completed seven successful assassination missions in a three-month span, hitting one target right between the eyes from more than a thousand meters away on a blustery day. In a matter of days, Mitchell’s exploits became legendary within the SEALs, which was almost unprecedented. As elite soldiers, rarely were they impressed with anything anyone else did. But Mitchell achieved god-like status, which also earned him the Reaper nickname.

He visited the Zoetry Agua so often that he could get a room whenever he wanted, even if the resort was listed as full. Whenever he completed his latest assignment, he’d retreat to the Caribbean. He felt safe there. And despite his nomadic existence, it felt like home, too.

Mitchell felt free, though he knew that wasn’t entirely the case. If he turned down an assignment, there would be questions. And questions were never a good thing, especially from the people he was working for.

His phone buzzed with a text message, alerting him to the arrival of an urgent email.

He recognized the number and navigated on his cell phone to his email.

“On your last mission, you were exposed to a new strand of the Kabalo virus. Please call back for instructions on how to proceed.”