2
Merc hunkereddown on the rise just outside of the palace, his binoculars pressed to his face for so long they should have melted into his skin hours ago. But he wasn't about to break eye contact with this place. Not when he’d finally found it.
For years he’d hunted Jack Mankel, aka Mr. J, and for years he’d come so close, only to have his mortal enemy dance just out of reach. Until today.
Today Merc actually saw Mr. J in the flesh – not through some grainy drone surveillance he pulled from secret military files. He saw the man responsible for more deaths than he could count, stroll into a second story room wearing a black suit that probably cost more than Merc made in a single year.
As a member of the United States Special Forces unit Task Force Scorpion, TF-S, his paycheck didn’t exactly buy corvettes and nice houses. But then, Merc didn’t exactly care about money.
Mankel, now secondhand to the leader of the Islamic State of Afghanistan, was living a life of luxury in the Middle East supported by illegal funds grown on the bodies of dead women and children.
Jack Mankel.
Merc rolled the name around in his mind. For years he’d only known the man as Mr. J – former CIA liaison to Task Force Scorpion, and Merc's former mentor.
His teammates had asked Merc where he came from, who he was, what his last name was – only to be left empty handed as Merc stared them down without a word. He hadn't gone into the SF for the same reasons his teammates had, that altruistic need of honor and glory. No, he’d gone into the SF because he’d had nowhere else to go.
His first memory was of waking up in that cold sterile room laid out on a gurney with blood leaking from his body and Mr. J's face floating above him, peering down at him like he was a damn lab rat instead of a human being. Merc couldn't have been much more than a teenager at the time – although he didn't remember his actual birth date.
Just like Merc didn't remember his last name.
The only thing he remembered was his training. He was an assassin. A blacked out operative without a past, unable to exist in the civilian world.
“Any sighting of the little bird?” The voice of Hunter James, his team leader, crackled through the hidden communication device in his ear. TF-S waited two klicks out in a hide they’d set up over two days ago.
Merc activated his comm device by pressing a nearly invisible button near his throat. “Negative on little bird, but the vulture is present.”
There was a pause while Hunter processed the news that Merc spotted Mr. J. Years of tracking a man they’d all once looked up to, a man who had betrayed his team and his country, and they’d finally found him because Mr. J had made a mistake. Instead of only kidnapping Caroline Cotter from her arranged wedding at the plantation nearly a month ago, his goons had taken another hostage as well, Celine Latimer. In a bid Merc guessed was to keep Celine quiet, Mr. J had sold her to a Russian sex slave trafficker. TF-S barely rescued her in time.
It had been Celine who’d unwittingly provided the clues to Mr. J’s location.
“Hold for eyes on little bird,” Hunter finally said.
“Roger.” Merc kept his binocs trained on J.
J strolled to the large open archway as if he hadn’t a care in the world. If only Merc could train his sniper rifle on him and end his miserable life right now. But if he did that, if he gave in to that temptation, he might never find out about his past. Mr. J was the only man Merc knew who might have some insight into where he came from. Who he was. If he had a family....
Merc clenched his hands into tight fists around the binoculars. He’d wait. He’d been patient so far, tracking and hunting J down, and he wouldn’t blow these past few years on a whim of rage.
He did another sweep of the courtyard, timing the movements of the guards. It had taken him a full hour to figure out their schedule, realizing the seemingly random changing of guards actually had a pattern.
It was a trick he’d learned from none other than Mr. J himself when he’d first started his training:Never let the enemy know your next move, never work on a timer – that way no one can ever predict your movements.
Every nine and a half minutes, the guard from the left corner crossed the courtyard like he was going to the west wall, only to veer off north, leaving the corner he’d vacated unguarded for no more than thirty seconds as the guard from the furthest corner of the courtyard shifted to take up residence in the abandoned spot. During this time, other guards, seeming to shift in and out of the palace at random intervals, filled in the empty spots so they formed a constantly moving maze and impenetrable wall. Except every thirteen minutes there was a one-minute window on the east wall where he could slip through completely unnoticed.
In Mr. J's attempt to be unpredictable, he’d left himself vulnerable. And just like Merc had been trained, he would exploit that vulnerability to capture his former mentor and leader.
Merc caught a movement deep within the room and zoomed his lens. His chest went cold like someone had poured a bucket of ice water through his veins. Caroline Cotter. She appeared relatively unharmed, dressed in a flowing black tunic and pants.
“Eyes on little bird. Need back up now,” Merc watched helplessly from his position outside the castle wall as J crossed to her, the inherent power of a predator in his movements.
He dragged her into the light. Caroline tried to struggle, but J kept going, throwing her to the floor at his feet in the center of the room.
“Moving now.” TF-S was headed this way. Hunter didn't need to say his ETA. His team could move at lightning-fast speed on foot, covering two klicks in record time – twelve minutes a klick.
J said something and then struck Caroline on the face, sending her into a sprawl on the floor. Merc nearly crushed the binocs as rage churned inside. “I’m going in.”
“Negative. Wait for backup.”
