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The Hunted. Rachel Lee
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“No,” she said, and forced herself to down a spoonful of soup.
“That he and I wouldn’t be shooting hoops anymore. That’s what we’d done, last thing at night, every night. There was a basketball net in the hangar back at base, and every night, we’d wind down from the shit by playing three-on-three or H-O-R-S-E or just whacking the damn ball off of the backboard until the world no longer seemed so…loud. No way we were ever going to do that again, not with his leg hanging by a tendon and me pinching the femoral artery so he wouldn’t bleed out. That’s when I knew I wasn’t like you, that I couldn’t shut everything out and learn to love the chaos. That’s when I knew I had to get out.”
Her soup had lost its appeal. She pushed the bowl aside and looked at him. “I know. Kind of. Some stories still give me nightmares. Ever since a plane crash I covered, I still can’t eat spaghetti. A county commission meeting may be boring, but at least I know that after the deadline rush passes, I’ll sleep.”
He nodded, but offered nothing else in return. She fell silent, then got up and began once again pacing the room, hating this caged feeling, hating the notion that her movements were limited because someone was after her. They really wouldn’t go far enough to kill her—would they? It was like a bad movie. Reporters didn’t get killed for doing their jobs.
But this story…Something inside her seemed to freeze. Maybe some stories were worth killing over. Maybe this was one of them. It was certainly worth dying for.
“What are they after, Erin?” Jerrod asked quietly behind her.
She paused, then wrapped her arms around herself. She realized that someone else had to know. In case…This was too important. If something happened to her, someone else had to be able to pursue this, and who better than an FBI agent? She decided to take the leap of faith.
“I think Mercator’s in the white slave trade.”
Seconds ticked by in silence. Then he said, “You think, or you know?”
“I knew most of it. I needed confirmation.”
“Jesus.” He was quiet for a little longer. “And they took everything you had.”
She faced him. “I’m not a bimbo. When I work on a story this big, I keep backups.”
“So they didn’t get it all?”
She almost forgot and shook her head, but caught herself just in time. “I send everything I get to an anonymous e-mail account.”
“Could they trace it from your computer?”
“Not unless they’ve been following me. I used cybercafés all over town. I guess at some level I was already paranoid.”
“Not paranoid,” he said. “Careful. There’s a big difference. So…what do you know?”
“I had a source. Inside Mercator, I think, but I’m not positive.”
“Then he’s in their crosshairs, too,” Jerrod said.
She shook her head. “Maybe not. I hope not. After our first contact, I never dealt with him on my work or home machines.”
“Why did he contact you to begin with?”
“He saw the story in Fortune. He said I’d caught the jaywalkers and missed the killers.”
“He said that?”
“Word for word,” she said. “He said it was one of the perks Mercator offered for some customers. Buy Mercator’s stuff and they’ll get you a girl.”
His face seemed to freeze. “Shit.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Can you prove it?”
“That’s what I was working on.”
He nodded. “And your boss knew about it?”
She faced him. “Yeah.”
He sighed and rubbed his face, as if he were tired. “You really do need protection.”
“They don’t know I have anything. With luck they think they took it all.”
His cheeks were taut, the muscles in front of his ears flexing as he drew a slow breath through his nose, as if trying to hold back some part of him that she found almost…frightening.
“They want the whistle-blower. They think you know who he is. Or she. That means they need you, Erin. And you don’t want to even think about what they have in mind once they have you. You don’t know these people.”
“And you do?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I do. I was one of them.”
5
“Okay, who are you really?” Erin asked.
It was a good question, Jerrod thought. He wasn’t sure it had a good answer. “I’m not who I was.”
“So who were you? You said special ops before. But that’s not what you meant just now.”
He nodded. “Once I got out, I did what a lot of special ops guys do. I went to work for a PMC.”
“Private Military Corporation,” Erin said. “So you were a mercenary.”
He’d always hated that word, but he couldn’t deny it. “Yeah. I was a mercenary. Private executive security at first. Then K-R-and-R work. Kidnap, Rescue and Recovery. There are a whole lot of fringe groups whose main source of income comes from kidnapping foreign executives or their families. The execs usually have insurance for it, if the companies they’re working for want to spring for it. Some of them buy it for themselves. The company I worked for had a K-R-and-R team that contracted out to the insurance companies. We’d handle the ransom negotiations, cover the exchange, and generally keep stressed-out people from making stupid mistakes.”
“And rescues?” she asked. “You’d try to find the victims and get them out without having to pay?”
He stifled a bitter laugh. “I wish I could say yes. That’s what I’d hoped I’d be doing.”
“But you didn’t?”
“Almost never. It was a straight business deal. Negotiate the ransom down to a reasonable amount. The insurance companies had actuaries who actually had tables of this stuff. A site manager for a Fortune 500 company is worth X. Chief engineer is worth Y. Everything according to the ransoms that were customarily paid. The kidnappers knew it, and we knew they knew it. So they’d give their demands, we’d go through the motions, and they’d eventually come down to the standard asking price. We’d show up at one side of a bridge with a big bag of cash. They’d be at the other with our client. Sometimes the guys even shook hands at the exchange, like they’d bought a house or a car.”
“Sounds…cold,” Erin said.
“It was.” He chewed his lip for a moment. “It was like a big play. GloboCorp wants to build a pipeline in some dust- or mud-covered corner of the world. The locals have two legal choices—go to work for GloboCorp and help tear up their ancestral homeland or be out of work. So they pick door number three. They get together and give themselves some fancy name…the People’s Liberation Army of Revolution or some such. They write a big manifesto against GloboCorp. GloboCorp buys K-R-and-R insurance and sends in a supply of easy-to-abduct workers, guys who want the hazard pay or whatever.
“The People’s Liberation Army abducts a few of them a month, not enough to really upset GloboCorp’s pipeline project, because then the gringos would come down in force and stomp the ‘movement’ into so much jungle jelly. So long as the kidnappers don’t