Endwar_ The Hunted Part 1

Endwar_ The Hunted.

by David Michaels.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

The author would like to thank a wonderful group of family members, friends, colleagues, and supporters. In particular, Mr. Tom Clancy and all of the folks at Ubisoft who created the EndWar game deserve my grat.i.tude, as well as the following individuals: Mr. Sam Strachman of Longtail Studios helped me create this story from the ground up, working from brainstorming to outlining to final draft ma.n.u.script. His contributions are greatly appreciated and invaluable.

Mr. James Ide served as our primary researcher and story expert. He scrutinized every page, relying on his extensive military background, his keen writing skills, and his commitment to this story to provide criticism, advice, and suggestions that greatly improved the ma.n.u.script.

Ms. Jackie Fiest graciously volunteered to serve as our first reader and provide her reactions and sharp eyes as a proofreader.

Mr. Tom Colgan is simply the keenest and most supportive editor an author could have, and I'm fortunate to have worked with him on many projects.

Nancy, Lauren, and Kendall Telep know quite well why they are mentioned here.

I will kill the president of the Russian Federation.

I will bring down the motherland. And then I will stand back and watch it all burn.

-VIKTORIA ANTSY FOROV, AKA "THE SNOW MAIDEN"

PROLOGUE.

San Fernando Valley Los Angeles, California 2009.

Alexander Brent dropped into sixth gear and studied the digital head-up display glowing in his windshield: 116 mph and climbing.

The Corvette's short throw shifter felt warm, while the 505-horsepower LS7 engine roared its demand for more fuel and pinned him to the sport seat.

Streetlights and shop windows blurred by in a kaleidoscope of reds and blues and greens.

Taking his cue from the car, Brent jabbed his foot on the accelerator pedal, and the beast leapt forward across the rain-slick pavement, the scent of burning rubber still wafting up into the black leather c.o.c.kpit.

Just a few minutes ago he'd come off the mark in a ma.s.sive burnout, reaching sixty miles per hour in just 3.7 seconds. For a few heartbeats he'd lost control, the rear tires hopping, the back end swinging out until the traction control system engaged. He wasn't used to this. In fact, this was not him at all.

He tensed. Would he hit 120 ... 130 mph down this munic.i.p.al street? Would he dare go 150 mph? It was a Sunday night, 11:50 P.M., and there were still a few other vehicles on the road, although the sidewalks looked clear of pedestrians. How fast would his rage take him?

He kept a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel with both hands. There was no more shifting to do; it was pedal to the metal, and the future would unfold.

He flicked his gaze to the right and saw Villanueva's door just a few feet away, both Corvettes neck and neck now, their Borla exhaust systems thundering as they raced up the four-lane road.

Carlos Villanueva was just eighteen, the same age as Brent, and they were seniors at Northridge Academy High. They had never spoken to each other until Brent had rolled into the school parking lot with his Corvette. Brent had inherited the Vette from an uncle who'd pa.s.sed away, and from that day on Villanueva had been challenging Brent to a street race, going so far as to follow him, hara.s.s him at every intersection, cut him off, and even show up at Brent's doorstep, waiting for him to leave in the car. Villanueva had an older Vette, a yellow 2003 Z06 that he and his brother, Tomas, had heavily modified to boost the car's horsepower. They called Brent's car "the blue devil" and vowed to send him and the vehicle straight back to h.e.l.l.

Villanueva's hara.s.sment was brutal, unrelenting, and he even enlisted his gang buddies to threaten Brent, telling him he'd better not drive the car unless he was willing to race. As Brent quickly learned, you can't hide a jet-stream-blue Corvette very well in traffic; it tends to stand out. The bullying became so fierce that for a while Brent stopped driving the car, opting to walk or hop on his bike to school.

Admittedly, an eighteen-year-old kid behind the wheel of a fifty-thousand-dollar sports car would draw some animosity and jealousy; in fact, his father, a successful city engineer with ties to local and state government, had warned him about that, but Brent had had no idea it would come to this.

Villanueva's bullying crossed the line on the night of Brent's senior prom. Brent had picked up his date and they'd had a great time, but then, on his way back to drop her off, Villanueva had shown up and had forced Brent onto the shoulder as they'd descended Laurel Canyon Boulevard's tortuous series of switchbacks and hairpin turns. Brent missed the guardrails by inches, pulled over, and bolted out of the car, only to watch as Villanueva flashed him the bird and squealed off.

"I can't take this anymore," he told his girlfriend.

"Then do something about it."

Two days later, as Brent was returning from a late movie, Villanueva pulled up beside him at a streetlight. Brent glanced over-and a mental switch was thrown.

Villanueva sat there, revving his engine, his evil eyes sparkling, his shaven head and the tattoos spidering over his forearms suggesting he'd spent a lifetime in prison while he was really just a punk.

Brent had taken a long breath. Enough. He was going to dust this b.a.s.t.a.r.d once and for all. And when they were finished, maybe Villanueva would bow out like a man and stop the BS games. Maybe this fool would realize that driving a fast car did not make you a man.

Yet now, the faster they drove and the more they challenged each other, the more Brent realized that if he lost this race, he'd never live it down; Villanueva would never get off his back. The bullying would grow even worse because Brent would be the loser who got dusted. Winning meant he'd be free of this b.a.s.t.a.r.d forever.

Or so he'd thought.

As part of its modification package, Villanueva's Corvette was equipped with a nitrous oxide system, or NOS, that allowed the engine to burn more fuel and air. He suddenly boosted away, pulling a full car length ahead of Brent, who, seeing this, reacted with more acceleration.

121, 122, 123 mph ...

There had been long stretches between intersections, but now they rocketed into a much busier part of town, with cross streets coming in five-second intervals.

A string of green lights gleamed overhead, but then a small commuter car pulled onto the road far ahead, blocking Villanueva's lane. The two lanes for oncoming traffic were empty, so Brent rolled the wheel, taking himself across the road, allowing Villanueva to take his lane so they could both pa.s.s the car. This was a tacit understanding between street racers that Brent knew about but had never practiced.

They whooshed past the unsuspecting driver, who saw only blue and yellow streaks from the corner of his eye and whose car shook violently from their pa.s.sing.

In unison, Brent and Villanueva cut back into their lanes.

125 mph ...

Brent's mouth fell open as he once more checked Villanueva's position: perfectly aligned with him.

The dotted yellow lines were a continuous ribbon, and the apartment buildings that walled in both sides of the road squeezed tighter as sheer acceleration made the road appear more narrow. Brent was now one with the machine, and he'd never felt anything more powerful and invigorating. There was no other adrenaline rush like it. At the same time, his shoulders knotted in terror because he knew just the slightest deviation in his course or sudden obstacle in his path could end it all. He drove along a cliff between pure terror and utter joy.

During the winter months in Los Angeles, when those precious rains most often occurred, a year's worth of oil would begin to bubble up through the pavement. So as they crossed the next intersection, Brent felt the rear wheels begin to drift, and he realized with a start that they'd hit a large patch of oil and blasted over it, but now their wide race tires had grown slick.

Villanueva must have felt it, too, because he suddenly course-corrected, shifting over toward a row of cars parked along the curb.

Brent began to lose his breath as both he and Villanueva began sliding even more rapidly, but then the yellow Vette jumped forward, the car's front end rising as Villanueva accelerated out of his slide, missing the parked cars by a side mirror's width, Brent estimated.

With a gasp, Brent shifted his wheel and missed the last car in the row by what could be a hairsbreadth.

Now Villanueva was squarely in the lead.

There wasn't much time. The first driver to cross La Bonita Avenue was the winner, and Brent figured they had only a half mile or less to go.

But these speeds were ridiculous, the whole idea that he'd succ.u.mbed to this insane.

He should abandon now. Cut his losses. Deal with Villanueva's c.r.a.p. Just take his foot off the pedal and go home ... with his tail between his legs.

But then Brent remembered the look on his prom date's face, how she, too, had been humiliated by Villanueva, and he considered all those days he'd cycled to school to avoid dealing with the guy. Was he supposed to be a victim all his life?

He booted the accelerator pedal, and his neck snapped back.

Villanueva held his position in the right lane as Brent came blasting up beside him, and then, taking in a deep breath and holding it, Brent stomped on the pedal. The engine's whine lifted, and the tailpipes rumbled even more loudly. He was almost afraid to check the HUD for his speed, and when he did, he thought, This is it, I'll be arrested This is it, I'll be arrested.

131 mph ...

No one would believe he'd gone that fast down a city street, and everyone would say what an utter fool he was, that he was no better than Villanueva, that he was endangering lives and belonged in jail. But first the police would confiscate his car and make him watch as they put it in the crusher. This was the well-advertised fate of cars used by street racers.

The string of lights ahead turned yellow.

Beyond them, a few cars rolled to stops, the drivers waiting for their green lights.

They would cross into Brent's path. Their timing was perfectly horrible.

Brent glanced over at Villanueva, who mouthed a curse and accelerated again.

Brent's heart was in his throat and sweat dappled his forehead. He could hardly breathe as one after another the lights turned red and Villanueva streaked toward them, his car blurring into a yellow sun impaled by crimson taillights.

Cars began to move across the intersection.

Villanueva would attempt to weave through them.

Something told Brent to check his rearview mirror, but nothing was back there, no police car or other vehicle, nothing-but then he noticed them: his eyes, bloodshot, heavy, and aching. He did not recognize himself.

A wide pothole rushed up, and Brent veered so sharply to avoid it that he b.u.mped-ever so slightly-the rear quarter panel of Villanueva's car. The impact was so light that Brent knew there'd be no damage to his Vette, but at their speeds, the slightest shift of tires could be catastrophic.

And it was. Brent watched with a horrid fascination as the tap caused Villanueva to slide and lose control. The car broke into a spin that sent him into the oncoming lane.

Villanueva's pinwheeling came to a sudden halt as his back tire slammed into the curb and the momentum lifted the entire car into the air.

The yellow Vette now spiraled like an Indy racer that had just hit the wall.

Brent gaped as Villanueva's fate became even more apparent. The car was tumbling toward the ma.s.sive concrete column of a streetlight.

And before Brent could pull in his next breath, the Vette struck the pillar, T-boning it so hard and fast that the entire vehicle split in two as gla.s.s, plastic, and shattered fibergla.s.s rose in a debris cloud while the heavier sections plunged toward the pavement.

Before the rear half could hit the ground, it exploded in a fireball that consumed most of the street.

A half second later, the front end of the car came to a thudding halt and was swept up into the first fireball.

Three, two, one, and a second explosion tore through the front end, engulfing Villanueva in veils of black smoke backlit by the flames.

Brent jammed on the brakes, then downshifted to second, rolling up on the scene.

He was frozen, rapt, unable to fully process what he was seeing.

But with a chill and shudder, he realized he had to get out of there. He hit the gas ...

The flames were painfully similar to the ones Brent watched now, at this moment, some seven years later, flashing across the flat-screen TV ...

Forward Operations Base Cobra Lashkar Gah, Afghanistan 2016.

Brent stood in the base's rec room, watching with the rest of his Special Forces team as the nuclear explosions detonated in Iran and Saudi Arabia.

Indeed, those fireb.a.l.l.s had just taken him back to that terrible moment when Carlos Villanueva had died on that rainy night. While his fellow Special Forces operators had been voicing their disbelief, Brent had remained there, stunned, reliving his senior year in high school, feeling it all again. That night had changed everything.

Everything.

"Hey, Captain? Captain Brent?"

Someone was yelling for him now, telling him to gather up his people, that the evac choppers were on the way ...

But Brent was still in 2009, inside his Vette, crying as he sped down a side street, crying because he fervently believed that his life was over.

What would his parents think? His mother was an elementary school princ.i.p.al, a community leader who also worked for several charities. How would she feel about her only son being involved in a street race in which someone was killed?

If Brent hadn't challenged Villanueva, if he'd just continued to dismiss him, the kid would still be alive. He couldn't just say it was all Villanueva's fault, that he'd deserved to die ... because Brent had been weak. Brent had, indeed, stooped to the kid's level. And because of that, the kid was dead.

The ride home had been the longest one of his life. He'd pulled the Vette into the garage, shut the door, as though he were being followed by someone who'd seen the accident, then dropped to his knees and vomited.

He remained there for five minutes, just drooling and breathing and trying to explain to the police in his head why he'd been racing and how sorry he was and that now, yes, his life was over ... Take me away . . . Take me away . . .

And his parents would stand there, crying, as he was escorted into the police car, the cop placing a hand on Brent's head so he wouldn't bang it as he took a seat inside, behind the wire separating them from him.

He was a dog. A street-racing dog headed to prison.

Brent rose and cleaned up the mess, then went to his room and lay there, afraid to shut his eyes because through that darkness would come the fire. Yet after a few more minutes and even with his eyes open, all he saw was the street, the cars, the Vette shattering into a million pieces.

The next day at school, everyone was talking about the car accident, but there wasn't a single witness who could-or would-identify the other car.

In fact, no one was coming forward with information because the media was reporting that Carlos Villanueva had ties to several gangs in the area, and that word gang gang scared everyone into silence. scared everyone into silence.

Brent was called into a room at school and questioned with several other students who knew Villanueva. Brent a.s.sumed they'd ask him about Villanueva's bullying and that eventually he'd break down and confess to the race.

But the detectives seemed bored, going through the motions, and Brent wasn't the only kid hara.s.sed by Villanueva and his brother. Brent learned that other kids with fast cars both in his high school and in neighboring schools had also been challenged to street races. It seemed the police were already chalking this up to another foolish punk who'd been killed doing something stupid. The police had asked Brent what he'd been doing that night. He said he'd gone to a movie and then gone home-a half truth, to be sure. They even did a cursory inspection of his car, as they did with the other kids, but the Vette yielded no evidence about the crash.