The Hunters Read online

  THE HUNTERS

  Chris Kuzneski

  Copyright (c) 2013 Chris Kuzneski, Inc.

  The right of Chris Kuzneski to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP in 2013

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 0 7553 8650 5

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also By

  Acknowledgements

  Map: Railroads of Eastern Europe

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Thanks For Your Help!

  About the Book

  The Hunters: Financed by a billionaire philanthropist, this elite team - an ex-soldier, an historian, a computer whiz, a weapons expert, and a thief - is tasked with finding the world’s most legendary treasures.

  The mission: Fearing a German victory in WWI, the Romanian government signed a deal with Russia to guarantee the safety of the country’s treasures. In 1916, two trains full of gold and the most precious possessions of the Romanian state - paintings, jewellery, and ancient artefacts - were sent to the underground vaults of the Kremlin. But in the turmoil of war, the treasure was scattered - and lost. Almost a century later, the haul is valued at over 3.5 billion dollars. Despite hundreds of attempts to find it, its location has remained a mystery … Until now.

  Can the Hunters find the treasure and succeed where all others have failed?

  About the Author

  Chris Kuzneski is the international bestselling author of numerous thrillers including SIGN OF THE CROSS and THE DEATH RELIC, featuring the series characters Payne and Jones. Chris’s thrillers have been translated into more than twenty languages and are sold in more than forty countries. Chris grew up in Pennsylvania but currently lives on the Gulf Coast of Florida. To learn more, please visit his website: www.chriskuzneski.com

  BY CHRIS KUZNESKI

  Payne & Jones Series

  The Plantation

  Sign of the Cross

  Sword of God

  The Lost Throne

  The Prophecy

  The Secret Crown

  The Death Relic

  The Hunters Series

  The Hunters

  Acknowledgements

  As always, I’d like to start things off by thanking my family. They have given me so much over the years, both as a writer and as a person. Thanks for putting up with me for so long. I know I can be a giant pain-in-the-butt. Then again, so can you! (It must be genetic.)

  Next, I want to thank my friend and agent, Scott Miller. Before we teamed up, I was a self-published author, selling books out of the trunk of my car. Now my books are available around the world. I owe a lot of my success to him. I also want to thank Claire Roberts - my foreign agent, who landed my British deal and many more across the globe. It’s quite comforting to have Scott, Claire, and the rest of Trident Media in my corner.

  Not only is The Hunters the first novel in a new series, but this is my first book with the Headline Publishing Group. They have gone out of their way to make me feel at home. In particular, I’d like to single out my editor, Vicki Mellor, for her suggestions and unwavering support. She helped this story come alive. I also want to thank Jane Morpeth, Martin Fletcher, Frankie Gray, Anna Bowen, Anna Hogarty, and everyone else at Headline/Hachette.

  Next up is my longtime friend Ian Harper. I want to thank him for reading, rereading, and then re-rereading everything, and for answering my late-night phone calls and emails. His advice and expertise are truly invaluable. If anyone’s looking for a freelance editor, please let me know. I’d be happy to put you in touch with him.

  Lastly, I’d like to thank all the readers, librarians, booksellers, and critics who have read my thrillers and have recommended them to others. At this stage of my career I still need all the help I can get, so I would appreciate your continued support.

  Whew! I think that just about covers it.

  It’s finally time for the good stuff.

  Without further ado, please sit back, relax, and let me tell you a story …

  Railroads of Eastern Europe

  Prologue

  Friday, December 15, 1916

  Iasi, Romania

  (246 miles north of Bucharest)

  The biggest theft in modern history didn’t occur at a bank. It happened in a train station in the dead of night, under the watchful gaze of armed soldiers.

  Amazingly, no one knew it was a robbery until years later.

  And by then, the treasure had been stolen again.

  It was miserably cold as Bela Dobrev left the three-story building where he and his wife lived in a small, second-floor apartment. The streets were empty at this late hour, and the wind from the northeast carried the damp, dreadful smell of the Prut River. He pulled his new wool scarf higher on his face, over his full mustache to the bridge of his nose. He was grateful his wife had given him this Christmas gift early. The winter was unforgiving, the odors of sewage even worse. At least in the summer the winds tended to blow from
the south.

  From the moment he started out for his evening shift, he walked with his eyes downcast to protect them from the incessant wind. He did not have to look up to walk the three blocks to the sprawling station. He had worked there for over forty years, since the proud, palatial structure had opened in 1870. He knew the cobbled roadways stone by stone. He remembered when a carthorse had stumbled and broken this one, when an axe had fallen from a laborer’s backpack and cracked that one. He remembered it all.

  A block from the station, Dobrev smiled beneath the scarf, the bristles of his mustache prickling his upper lip. It was then that he always smelled the first, faint scent of the lubricants used to oil the trains. Crawling under the big locomotives to apply grease to the wheel hubs had been his first job here. That scent invariably took him back to a more innocent era. They were good times, when cities were being united by rail and each new arrival brought a sense of wonder, not dread. When the new year had brought hope and happy reflection, rather than fear of invading armies and the ghastly horrors of war.

  Dobrev’s gloved hands held the collar of his worn overcoat to his throat. His newly mended socks kept his heels warm, though his toes were starting to tingle from the cold. He quickened his pace, his eyes narrowing as he heard unfamiliar sounds coming from the tracks. He was accustomed to the clatter of unwieldy crates, to heavy machinery being loaded onto flatbeds by screeching mobile cranes, to the clomping of hooves as horses pulled baggage carts. But he had never heard so many sounds, so much activity, especially this late at night. His mind spun at the thought of the wages the stationmaster would have to pay - but for what?

  He looked up and saw rows of canvas-backed military trucks parked nose-in along the platform. That was not unusual: troops in their light-gray uniforms came and went from Iasi, heading to the frontier. In the late summer they came from Bucharest, but the city was now in German hands. More and more they were returning to Iasi from combat, along with crowds of refugees fleeing typhus outbreaks. These months since Romania had joined the war were the only time in Dobrev’s married life that he and his wife were glad his only child had moved away. The sorrow in the homes of his neighbors was difficult enough to witness.

  Cold as he was, Dobrev did not go straight to the cathedral doorways that fronted the towering facade. His curiosity wouldn’t allow it.

  This contingent was different from any he had seen. There were troops just beyond the parked convoy, but they were fresh and facing the street, holding rifles with fixed bayonets across their chests. Beyond them, illuminated by the hooded lamps that lined the platform, a train jutted far beyond both sides of the building. That was unprecedented. The tops of the cars were wrapped in steam from the locomotive. The train was ‘active’, ready to move at any moment. Given the cost of coal during winter - during wartime - this was most surprising.

  Dobrev went to the west side of the terminal where, shielded from the wind, he lowered his scarf and wiped his tearing eyes with his sleeve. He saw boxcar after boxcar, twenty-one in all. On the platform beside them were dozens of crates, stacked in columns, with armed soldiers massed around each, but nowhere on the military train did he see the red, yellow, and blue flag of Romania.

  The soldier nearest him took several steps toward him. He wore the insignia of a pigeon messenger. That was unusual too. In four months, Dobrev had never seen those troops as part of a guard detail. They were generally assigned to priority missions.

  ‘What is your business?’ the soldier asked curtly. His cheeks were red. They did not look old enough to support a beard.

  ‘I am the assistant stationmaster,’ Dobrev told him. ‘I am beginning my shift.’

  ‘Begin it inside,’ the young man told him.

  ‘I’m about to,’ Dobrev said. ‘But I’m wondering - there was nothing about a train this size on the sched—’

  ‘Inside, Assistant Stationmaster,’ the soldier ordered, shifting his rifle nervously so the bayonet was angled downward.

  Dobrev’s eyes lingered on the young man a moment longer. Then he raised a gloved hand in surrender, took a last look at the spectacle, and turned away. That exchange had told him more about the war than any of the reports in the newspapers. The situation was desperate when a young Romanian talked to an elder Romanian with no show of respect. Even youths from the capital had better manners.

  This boy was tense, afraid.

  Dobrev walked back to the front of the station. He noticed that the treads of the trucks were badly worn. This too was an indication that things were going poorly.

  What an ill-advised venture, he thought as he neared the door.

  Romania had joined the war on the side of Russia, France, and England in order to seize Transylvania from the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Most of the people Dobrev talked to thought that was a waste of men and resources. The population in Transylvania was already largely Romanian. Did it matter who actually owned the high, daunting mountain ranges?

  Dobrev stopped abruptly. He saw something on the ground beside one of the bare truck tires, a flash of golden light. He shuffled over and picked it up.

  It was a valuable, twenty lei gold coin issued in 1868. Dobrev’s first thought was that it had probably been dropped by a harried passenger. The wealthy often departed by train for day trips to country estates. Mishaps like this occurred when they eagerly pulled gloves from their coats, searched with panic for misplaced tickets, or checked a pocket watch to see if they had time to visit the bar. As a youngster, Dobrev used to supplement his income handsomely with dropped coins. French francs, Turkish lire, and once a silver Russian ruble. Local coins were not as highly prized as foreign coins, which always seemed to be rising in value.

  But he had never found a coin of gold.

  Feeling a flush of warmth, as if he had just downed a nice plum brandy, he stood and tucked the coin in a pocket that he knew did not have a hole. Then, fueled by his good fortune, he decided to push his luck. Standing just out of view of the soldiers, Dobrev peeled back the corner of the canvas and peered inside the back of the truck. The space was empty, except for two benches along the sides, a few crowbars on the floor, and a pile of bent nails.

  The cargo has been opened, but why?

  For an official examination? Or something criminal?

  As he walked into the station, Dobrev considered the possibilities. Glancing east, he stared at the powerful locomotive. He pondered the significance of the guarded cargo, the pigeon messengers to signal its progress, and the unscheduled departure in the dead of night.

  None of this makes sense, unless—

  Dobrev stopped and trembled at the thought.

  His feeling of good fortune disappeared when he realized that the coin he found was probably a tiny fraction of the contents of the dozens of crates. Vast tons of coins and treasures, all being taken away. The wealth of a nation being removed from his homeland.

  The chill he felt as he entered the cavernous waiting area was deeper than any he had felt during his short walk through the winter night.

  It was the chill of despair.

  1

  Present Day

  Tuesday, August 21

  Brooklyn, New York

  The surveillance van was parked down the street on the left. The same place it had been the day before and the day before that. Its location was the second-worst-kept secret in the Eastern Bloc neighborhood of Brighton Beach.

  The first was the name of the man that the FBI was watching.

  Vladimir Kozlov had built a criminal empire in Moscow. He dabbled in everything from drugs and weapons to prostitution and smuggling. In recent years, he had discovered the advantages of cybercrime, though he rarely used computers himself. Through it all, he had managed to avoid prosecution. Thanks to the liberal free-trade laws established after the fall of the Soviet Union and, more importantly, millions of dollars in bribes to key officials, Kozlov was viewed by most Russians - the same people that he secretly robbed, and threatened, and extorted - as a national
hero.

  But to the FBI, he was something else.

  He was a person of interest.

  Possibly the most interesting man in New York.

  Because of his ‘clean’ criminal record, Kozlov was allowed to enter America in order to expand his legitimate businesses. He immediately bought the largest house in Brighton Beach, an area of Brooklyn known as ‘Little Odessa’ because of its huge population of Ukrainians. He then used his reputation and connections to unite the local bratva, a term that meant ‘brotherhood’ to Russians but meant ‘mafia’ to everyone else. In less than five years, the Brighton Beach Bratva had become the most notorious syndicate in New York. They weren’t the largest operation in the city - that distinction still belonged to the Sicilian Cosa Nostra - but they were considered the deadliest.

  In the media, they were known as the Killer Bees.

  Inside the van, they were called something worse.

  ‘I’m telling you,’ Special Agent Jason Koontz said as he stuffed noodles into his mouth from a takeout carton, ‘these guys are cold-hearted Russian motherfuckers. American criminals don’t think like them. Neither do the Italians. These Commie bastards are a different breed. They’re as nasty as the Triads, only a lot less Asian.’

  His partner, Rudy Callahan, nearly spit out his lukewarm coffee. He quickly glanced at his computer screen and made sure that neither of their microphones was actively transmitting. If they had been, his partner’s profane and racist rant would have been recorded on the Bureau’s mainframe, and it undoubtedly would have been red-flagged by their superiors and cited in Koontz’s ever-growing discipline file.

  ‘Stop doing that!’ Callahan demanded.

  ‘Doing what?’ Koontz asked, seemingly oblivious to the problem. He accented his ignorance by slurping up more lo mein. Soy sauce sprayed everywhere.