training the dogs or practicing with that old bow of his. Sergei and all those who carried the blood of his people remained stuck in the past, aboriginals fretting out a meager existence much as they had for centuries. They had not adapted to the changing environment. They had even attempted to defend themselves against Russian colonization with bows and spears. The result had been catastrophic. Where disease and war failed, alcoholism and forced migration picked up the slack. Sergei, whose Koryak blood had been diluted through breeding and the ravages of a war the world knew little about, still favored the ancient bow of his people over the modern crossbow that Aleksandr carried on their hunts. Aleksandr scoffed at the thought. The Siberian native had been conscripted into the Russian Army. There he’d excelled in the ranks of the spetsnaz, serving with distinction in the Second Chechen War, putting down the insurgency using the tactics and techniques that had earned them the respect of the mujahideen in the Soviet-Afghan campaign. Sergei’s unit had been responsible for the targeted assassinations of Chechen separatist leadership. By any means necessary. In the Russian Army, he’d learned an appreciation for the Russian martial art of Sambo, to which he continued to devote himself with zeal. Aleksandr couldn’t fathom why the huge Koryak dedicated so much time to unarmed combat. After all, his size seemed sufficient to deal with anyone reckless enough to fight him hand-to-hand. It seemed to be the one vestige of his time spent with the spetsnaz that he carried forward into his work for Aleksandr. He’d spent months building a baidarka, a kayak made of driftwood with a deck covered in seal and sea lion skins. The fool even hunted from it in the tradition of his people. He knew the dogs, though, and, much like the canines whose company he kept, he was loyal to the man who fed him. For that, Aleksandr would allow him his little bow and kayak.
A light on a computer used for only one purpose roused him from his musings.
Aleksandr hovered over a Tor network icon and depressed his keypad before entering a twenty-eight-character password and entering the world of the Dark Web.
The platforms that hosted illicit activity on the Dark Web changed as international consortiums of law enforcement built cases on a virtual battlefield. Silk Road, AlphaBay, and Hansa were but a few of the cyber auction houses whose specialties catered to the dark side of man. Weapons, child pornography, human trafficking, and illicit drugs were the mainstays of the realm, traded for with bitcoin cryptocurrency, moving people and destroying lives at 50 megabits a second. The Dark Web was where Aleksandr offered a specific service to a discerning and niche customer. It was where Aleksandr offered the hunt of a lifetime.
To those who had adorned their walls with most every species the planet had to offer, a few longed for one more trophy, one they wouldn’t be able to brag about at cocktail parties in polite society. They yearned to experience the hunting of man.
Marketed via the Dark Web, the prey were described as prisoners destined for execution. These hunters would be fulfilling a civic duty. For $500,000 USD in bitcoin, rich Russians, Europeans, and Americans had traveled to Medny for the experience that had thus far eluded them in life.
Aleksandr ran his tongue along his bottom lip as he read the email.
“It is so nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Rainsford.”
PART 3 THE KILL
“I am still a beast at bay…”
—Sanger Rainsford, The Most Dangerous Game by Richard Connell
CHAPTER 55
Boundary County, Idaho
United States/Canadian Border
REECE WOULD HAVE PREFERRED to somehow bring Dimitry’s body back to the Hastingses’ property and leave it where a bear could dispose of it. Dimitry dying in the firefight at the ranch made a lot more sense than him sustaining life-threatening wounds there, then wandering a hundred miles to a property coincidentally owned by Tim Thornton. But, with law enforcement still combing the crime scenes, Reece and Liz had no choice but to dispose of the body in the deepest part of the lake.
“I think the chair’s a goner, buddy,” Liz said as they contemplated how to clean up the cabin.
“I’m afraid you’re right.”
Donning surgical masks from the med bag, and using bleach from under the sink, they cleaned off the leather chair as best they could. The tarp and towels went into a trash bag along with the coffee grinder, French press, and baking tray. Reece dismantled the