Part 1 (1/2)

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 winds.h.i.+eld: 116 mph and climbing.

The Corvette's short throw s.h.i.+fter 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 s.h.i.+fting 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, s.h.i.+fting 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 s.h.i.+fted 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.