Recursion Protocol

Chapter 9: Hunter

Lars Thorne had been tracking the archaeologist for thirty-seven minutes when the world went dark.

The BMW's heads-up display flickered once, then died completely. The GPS navigation system crashed mid-sentence, leaving only the mechanical hum of the engine and the whisper of tires on asphalt. Thorne's satellite phone, mounted on the dashboard, showed no signal bars.

He maintained his speed, muscle memory guiding him along the A14 while his eyes adjusted to the sudden absence of electronic aids. The motorcycle's taillight—his only reference point for the past half hour—had vanished somewhere ahead in the darkness.

Thorne's hands remained steady on the wheel. In fifteen years of his job, he'd learned to adapt to unexpected circumstances. The clients who employed his services paid premium rates precisely because men like Thorne could complete assignments regardless of complications.

The sudden darkness was disorienting. It reminded Thorne of Manila, three years ago, when the typhoon floods knocked out the city's power grid. Miguel Santos had been working late in his office. Thorne had found him hunched over financial documents, trying to finish his calculations by candlelight.

The man had looked up as he entered, his face illuminated by the flickering flame. He'd opened his mouth to speak, but Thorne had moved quickly, clamping his hand over Santos's nose and mouth. The struggle had been brief—Santos was exhausted from long hours at his desk, and caught completely off guard.

He'd held him underwater in the office bathroom sink, letting the floodwater that had already begun seeping through the building's lower levels do most of the work. When the body went limp, he'd carefully arranged Santos's position near the office's emergency exit, where the flooding was deepest.

Just another tragic victim of Manila's inadequate flood defenses, who'd tried to evacuate too late, overcome by the rapidly rising water in the building's basement levels.

Thorne never asked questions about the targets or their work. That wasn't his business.

Tonight's target was no different. Dr. Brandon Hayes was a problem that needed solving, and Thorne's client had been explicit about the stakes.

The BMW's fuel gauge showed three-quarters full. Thorne had modified the vehicle with extended range tanks, giving him nearly 800 kilometers before refueling. Hayes's motorcycle had half that range, maybe less.

Time favored the hunter.

Thorne reached for his tactical radio, then remembered it had gone dead with everything else. The silence was irrelevant. He'd operated in harsh conditions before, always completing his assignments through methodical application of proven techniques.

The road ahead curved sharply left, following the contours of a river valley. Thorne slowed, scanning for motorcycle tracks or any indication of Hayes's direction. The darkness was absolute—no streetlights, no illuminated signs, no distant glow of civilization.

The darkened farm building ahead reminded him of the private hospital in Stockholm, eight months ago. Erik Lindberg had survived the car bombing that should have killed him, but the blast had left him comatose with multiple fractures and internal injuries.

Thorne had posed as Lindberg's cousin, arriving during visiting hours with flowers and a grief-stricken expression.

Lindberg had been unconscious, connected to multiple machines and IV lines. The man's breathing was shallow but steady, his body fighting to recover from the assassination attempt that had failed to finish him.

Thorne had pulled up a chair beside the bed, speaking softly about family matters while carefully observing the medical equipment. When the nurse stepped out to check other patients, he'd acted quickly.

A syringe filled with air, injected directly into the IV line. The air bubbles had traveled through Lindberg's bloodstream to his heart within minutes, followed by cardiac arrest.

The road climbed into hills, winding between stone walls and stands of oak trees. Thorne's headlights swept across fields and hedgerows, searching for any sign of his quarry.

A red taillight appeared ahead, perhaps two kilometers distant. Thorne accelerated, closing the gap steadily.

The motorcycle ahead was moving cautiously—consistent with someone navigating unfamiliar roads.

Thorne's usual advantages were gone. No communication with backup, no electronic surveillance, no GPS. But the target was equally disadvantaged, riding on unknown terrain in complete darkness.

The gap narrowed to one kilometer. Thorne could see the vehicle now—Hayes on his Kawasaki, apparently unaware of the pursuit. The archaeologist was maintaining steady speed.

Thorne considered his options. The simplest approach would be to force Hayes off the road.

The road ahead narrowed, with a sharp bend around a limestone outcrop. Perfect terrain for the maneuver.

Thorne accelerated, intending to force the confrontation before the dangerous curve.

Hayes spotted the headlights and suddenly gunned his engine. Both vehicles entered the curve at dangerous speeds, but in the complete darkness surounding them, Thorne had misjudged the corner. The car drifted wide, tires losing grip on the narrow road. The BMW struck the stone wall at eighty kilometers per hour.

Hayes felt the impact behind him, the crash echoing across the empty countryside.

Hayes slowed his Kawasaki and glanced back. The BMW was completely destroyed, its front end crumpled against limestone blocks. Steam rose from the twisted metal. Hayes kept his distance from the smoke.

The driver had been thrown clear during the impact. Hayes approached the body cautiously—a man in dark clothing, face obscured by blood, clearly dead. Hayes discovered a tactical knife secured to his belt and a compact pistol holstered under his jacket.

Wedged between the seats was a small black device, about the size of a matchbox. It looked undamaged despite the crash. Hayes pulled it free—smooth plastic with no visible buttons or markings, just a small LED that pulsed green every few seconds.

As Hayes examined the device, the LED suddenly shifted from green to red, pulsed three times, then went dark completely. He had no idea what it was or what the color change meant.

He found Thorne's satellite phone and tried to establish communication, but the blackout continued.

Whatever had caused the electronic failure was still affecting the region.

Suddenly he realized the full scope of what had just happened—someone had sent a professional killer after him. The blackout had saved his life, but the mysterious device had somehow activated after its owner's death.

Hayes searched the dead man's clothing one more time. Tucked inside the man's jacket pocket was a hotel key card from The Savoy in London, with "Room 451" printed below the hotel's elegant logo.

Hayespocketed the the key card, started the Kawasaki and rode into the darkness,leaving the wreckage behind.