Counter-Strike (A Mitch Kearns Combat Tracker Novel Book 2) by JT Sawyer Page B

devices that dispersed the pathogen through air ducts based upon what
we gleaned from the survivor.”
    “Where’s the body you found in here that
you mentioned when we spoke on the phone this morning?” said Crenna, looking at
Tandy.
    “He’s in the small bedroom next to the
kitchen.” Tandy led him over to the dead man on the wooden bunk bed. His
bullet-shattered skull was cloaked with a bath towel that was saturated with a
circular bloodstain. Crenna stood beside the corpse, noticing that the right
sleeve had been pulled up, revealing a red-and-green tattoo of a tiger on the
inner forearm.
    “Looks Filipino or maybe Indonesian,” said
Tandy, who was standing with her arms folded.
    Crenna’s eyes remained riveted to the
tattoo as he registered her words.  “Not Filipino.” He lifted the crusty towel
and peered at the man’s face, his stare holding for a long moment. He instantly
recognized the tattoo from a mercenary group based out of Indonesia. He had
used them several times years ago when he and Redstrom, a then young agent
under his tutelage, were running drug interdiction raids. They were trying to
disrupt supply lines to thwart funding for an upcoming coup the U.S. didn’t
want to unfold. A calling card from Redstrom — has to be — he was
never so sloppy. That son of a bitch thinks he can slide the rug out from under
me using my former contacts.
    “Must’ve been a pistol at close range, I’m
guessing, given how intact his head is.”
    Crenna was silent but nodded in agreement.
Then he took a deep breath and straightened up, turning towards her. “And who
else has seen this?”
    “Just myself, Rawlins, and the woman.”
    “The woman,” sighed Crenna, whose lips
went flat. “Pity—such a horrible thing to come upon after what she saw down
below.” He motioned with his outstretched hand for them to leave the room.
    “Why don’t you two get her ready to leave
on the helo. I just want to do a final sweep of the cabin for anything we might
have missed.”
    Tandy and Rawlins went back into the
living room while Crenna lagged behind, removing his Sig 229 pistol from his
waist holster and silently attaching the suppressor. A second later, Rawlins’ cervical
region was pierced by a single round, causing him to slump sideways onto Tandy,
who fell under the weight. The next round sliced through the old woman’s
temple, her head flopping backwards like a tetherball. Tandy was squirming out
from under the dead weight of her colleague and shouting at Crenna, who stepped
on her hand as she reached for her pistol.
    “What are you doing? Are you insane?” she screamed.
    “This is nothing personal. You’re a good
agent.” He levelled the pistol at her forehead as she continued writhing and
punching his leg with her free hand. She leaned back towards the fireplace to
grab an iron poker but it was just out of reach.
    “Please, for God’s sake, I have a
daughter.”
    “I’ll see to it she’s taken care of,” he
said, pulling the trigger.
    The waft of smoke discharging from the
barrel of his weapon combined with the coppery odor of blood from Tandy’s head that
was sprayed onto the warm fireplace. Crenna waited for the nausea to approach
but nothing happened, it rarely did anymore. His hands didn’t even shake. Like
the other necessary killings he’d undertaken during his one-man mop-up missions
over the years, he knew this had to be done. He felt justified although he
wished the Swedish woman could’ve been spared.
    He tucked his pistol into his waistline
then went into the kitchen and opened the gas stove, turning up all the knobs. Crenna
tossed some crumpled newspaper on the hot coals in the fireplace near Tandy’s
still figure. He scurried out the back door and hopped inside the truck,
spinning it around towards the direction of the landing strip. As he headed up
the hill and parked the vehicle at the treeline, he heard the explosion in the
distance.
    Climbing into the helo, he wiped the