Savage Son (James Reece #3) - Jack Carr Page 0,111
into the adventure that was the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. A producer who knew his father asked the recently unemployed Chavez if he’d ever done any stunt work in Hollywood. He was about to produce a movie on Benghazi and needed someone who knew special operations to take a few falls.
Now, between movies as a fall guy in LA and creating custom Half Face Blades in his shop in Kalispell, many for Raife’s clients, Chavez had found a semblance of peace, though he still wanted to scalp that Iraqi commander.
“Been too long, Reece,” Chavez said.
“That it has.”
The two comrades-in-arms shared a hug. Then Chavez reached into his back pocket and pulled out a blade in a leather sheath. “It’s a Hunter-Skinner. I made it when I heard you were headed back here.”
The passing of a blade between warriors who have spilt blood together carried a unique significance.
“Thank you, brother.”
“Okay, now that you lovebirds have become reacquainted, what’s the plan?” Jonathan said, looking down from the steps.
Glancing at the road behind him, Reece turned back to the Hastings family patriarch.
“While we are waiting on the pilots, we have some weapons to sight in.”
CHAPTER 65
Medny Island, Russia
ALEKSANDR ZHARKOV SAT IN a high-backed leather chair, his feet resting on an ottoman in front of the fire. The outside of the bunkerlike building disguised its luxurious interior, which had the look and feel of a cozy wilderness hunting lodge. Despite the Victorian-era feel of the room, the bunker was equipped with state-of-the-art satellite communications gear, which was appropriate given its joint ownership by the military and Russia’s primary foreign intelligence agency. He scanned the sender and subject lines of his email inbox on the laptop computer balanced on his thigh, a steaming cup of tea cooling on the side table.
One name caught his attention and he double-clicked to open it, waiting impatiently as the message was decrypted by the software. It was from his station chief in Washington, who was running an illegal named Grant Larue. It was marked “Urgent.” He read it carefully and a smile came to his lips. His intended target had taken the bait and intelligence from Larue confirmed that there would be no official rescue. That meant a small force of private citizens were likely on their way without a quick reaction force to back them up. His men would tear them apart and if any survived, he would hunt what was left, the prey of a lifetime. His last chase had left him unsatisfied after his quarry had chosen to take her own life rather than die at his hand. Like a lover who pulled away at the very moment before climax, her act had planted a hunger inside him, one he needed to satiate.
He called to Karyavin Vasilievich, the top Wagner contractor tasked with protecting the island. Wagner was a private military contracting firm with close ties to Russia’s intelligence agencies and was used as a surrogate army in both Ukraine and Syria. Many of the men were veterans of the 2nd Spetsnaz Brigade of the GRU and all had combat experience. Vasilievich, who had worn the rank of captain while in the spetsnaz, appeared in his winter combat uniform with a handgun in a drop leg holster on his right thigh. He stood rigidly, not quite at attention, maintaining the bearing of his military days.
“Captain Vasilievich, we can expect the Americans any day now.”
“I will increase patrols immediately. Do we know their method of insertion?”
“I suspect that they will come from the sea but there’s no way of knowing. We must be ready for anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep all of your equipment shielded inside the bunkers unless directed otherwise. That is all.”
Aleksandr swore he’d heard the man’s heels click before he departed, despite the rubber soles of his winter boots.
CHAPTER 66
Kumba Ranch, Flathead Valley, Montana
AFTER CONFIRMING DOPE ON the rifles 1149’d from the Army, Jonathan led the men into his gun vault.
The former Selous Scout was a serious collector of firearms and his gun room was a sight to behold. The one-thousand-square foot rectangular room was constructed of thick concrete, reinforced within by a web of steel rebar. A vault door sealed the room off from the rest of the house, protecting the valuable collection from fire and theft. The interior was finished with rich walnut paneling, giving the room the warmth and glow of a London club. Rack after rack of rifles, shotguns, and handguns lined the walls, ranging in vintage from centuries-old flintlocks to sporting rifles used