by John Sneeden
She washed her hair twice. As she watched the suds run down her leg, she noticed the makeshift sutures on her thigh. They were still tightly in place, but she could see the area around each wound starting to redden. Just to be safe, she would need to start taking antibiotics soon.
After washing her body, she turned off the shower and got out. She then dried off and returned to the room. Before climbing into bed, she walked over to the window, parted the drapes, and looked to the left.
The gray SUV was gone.
As Drenna slept, her dreams all seemed to center around the life she could have had. In one, she and Trevor walked through the surf on an exotic beach, pausing every few minutes to kiss. In another, the two were lying on a boulder next to a fast-rushing mountain stream, their eyes closed and their fingers locked together as they enjoyed the late-morning sun on their faces. In a third, they were in an upscale restaurant, laughing at an inside joke and ignoring the stern looks from the stuffy people sitting around them.
Some of the dreams seemed to mimic things that had actually taken place, while other events—including the walk on the Caribbean beach—seemed pulled from her vivid imagination.
And while the settings and activities were all different, one part of the dream was always the same. At the end, Trevor’s face appeared to give her some final words of instruction: “Find them, Drenna. Find the men who killed me.”
CHAPTER TEN
Drenna woke from her nap after seven that evening. Although she wasn’t able to completely recharge her batteries, it had given her more energy than she had before. A little was better than nothing at all.
She swung her legs off the bed and put her feet on the floor. She had never been a big drinker, but that was about to change, at least for a few hours. She needed something to dull the pain wreaking havoc on her mind, body, and spirit. She had lost the man she loved, and she had to live with the fact that he would still be alive if it wasn’t for her. She had been the target of the assassination attempt, but he had paid the ultimate price.
She didn’t particularly care why the men had come to kill her. Yes, it would be necessary to figure that out in order to find them, but she was focused on one thing: avenging Trevor’s death and doing it in a way that maximized the pain of those involved. Everyone would pay, from the thugs on the bottom rung to the person or people at the top.
After throwing on some clothes, Drenna left her room and set out for a bar she had seen on her way to the motel that afternoon. The name was Locked and Loaded. She liked two things about the place: it was within walking distance, and it seemed like the kind of establishment she could go to and not be noticed.
Ten minutes later, she stepped inside the tavern and quickly looked around. Tables were scattered across the space, and about half were occupied. It was a busy night but not overly so. Three pool tables stood at the back, and a U-shaped bar was set against the wall on the right.
Seeing two empty seats at the far end of the bar, she walked in that direction. As she wound through the tables, Drenna felt eyes watching her. Shifting her gaze slightly, she saw three men sitting at a table to her left. Over the years, she had developed the ability to look at a group of individuals and take a snapshot of them in her mind. While not perfect, it was good enough to register their appearance for future reference.
Her eyes first locked in on the man who had been looking at her. He was in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair that was combed straight back with gel. His face was worn and rugged like someone who had spent a lot of time outside. His hard stare was meant to be flirtatious, but there was also a menacing quality to it. The man was used to getting his way, either by the target’s willing submission or by force.
Sitting around the same table were two other men about the same age, and it was clear they deferred to the man with the hair gel. He led, and they followed.
One of the two men had a face that was smudged with red across the cheeks and nose, a characteristic that suggested he had spent too much of his life drinking, perhaps at Locked and Loaded. The third man was bald with a bent nose. Drenna wondered if the facial imperfection had come from a brawl in his past. Maybe he had fought Hair Gel when they first met. That might explain why how the latter had risen to the position of alpha.
Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. One man was already leering at her, and the place gave off a bad vibe. If she wanted to drink her pain away, she could have picked up a bottle at the local liquor store and gone back to her room.
But she was already there, so she might as well stay for at least one drink.
A bartender approached soon after she slid onto one of the two empty stools. He was in his mid-twenties, with a mop of red hair, a bushy beard, and a thin build. “Let me guess. This is your first time here.”
“Is it that obvious?” Drenna asked.
He laughed. “We just don’t get your type in here very often unless they wander over from one of the hotels.”
“So what’s my type?”
“Sophisticated, preppy.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Don’t get me wrong. Most of the people here are good, salt-of-the-earth types. But sophisticated? Not a chance.”
“Well, thank you… I think.”
He straightened. “I’m Luke, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“So what can I get you?”
“Bourbon on the rocks.”
“You have a preference?”
“You pick. Give me something sophisticated.”
He grinned. “Good one.”
As he walked away, Drenna thought about her plans for the next twenty-four hours. She would travel to DC the next day and begin her investigation. She would start by taking a deep dive into her most recent overseas operations. She planned to examine each one and determine who might have a reason to want her dead. In most instances, she had killed the primary players, but a few survivors always slipped through the net.
She had completed six missions over the last eighteen months. The most recent involved the takedown of one of the largest criminal organizations in the world. The group was known to be entangled in a number of illegal activities, the most serious of which was the sale of arms to an assortment of bad players around the globe. The group’s leader, a man known only as the Phantom, was killed during the operation. The moniker was based on his ability to operate in the shadows without detection. Although they didn’t have a name, intelligence officials knew several things about the man. They believed he had spent time in the Russian military, most likely a soldier in the elite Spetsnaz unit. He was also said to be one of the most inhuman and barbaric criminals the West had ever come up against. His brutal tactics seemed to have no boundaries, even among those close to him. According to reports, the Phantom had suspected one of his own men after some of his merchandise had gone missing. Not wanting to take any chances, he rounded up all of those with access to the items and cut off all of their fingers. He then let them suffer for twenty-four hours before finally placing them in front of a firing squad.
The Phantom’s physical appearance was also a mystery. There were no known photographs of him, and the descriptions provided by informants varied to the point of being unreliable. The only consistent piece of information was that the Russian’s face had been partially disfigured by third-degree burns. While unsightly, it was said to enhance the man’s ability to strike fear in the hearts of his enemies.
The revelation of the Phantom’s true identity came during the joint mission between the CIA and MI6. Drenna and her British colleagues had followed a trail of clues across Africa, the Middle East, and Europe. After a year of hard work that involved electronic surveillance and infiltration of the group itself, they determined the Phantom’s real name was Nikita Petrov. They also confirmed that he was indeed a former Spetsnaz soldier, a man who could likely kill with his bare hands.
But that wasn’t the only valuable piece of information they uncovered. The investigation also revealed that Petrov’s b
ase of operations was a well-fortified compound in the mountains of Montenegro.
Despite the beauty of the land and its people, the nation of Montenegro had become a gathering place for various gangs and criminal enterprises. Its scenic mountains made an attractive and remote hiding place for those groups wanting to operate outside the probing eyes of law enforcement or intelligence agencies.
Around the same time that the base’s location was uncovered, the NSA learned that a large meeting of the organization’s hierarchy would take place there. Even Petrov, a man known for moving from one secret location to another, was scheduled to attend.
Once all the information was confirmed, the CIA and MI6 brought in the Montenegrin government. In an effort to combat their reputation as a magnet for bad players, the Balkan country’s officials agreed to cooperate. The resulting pact seemed to mark the end of the Phantom and his reign of terror.
The newly assembled team simply waited for Petrov and his entourage to arrive for the big meeting. Once they did, the Montenegrin military surrounded the mountain compound with an elite group of commandos. A stalemate ensued. The gang was cut off, but they refused to turn themselves in without a fight. The special forces could have overrun them, but Montenegro’s prime minister was reluctant to send them in. Not only was the mountain hideaway well protected by the rugged terrain around it, but the gang had also littered the surrounding woods with land mines and booby traps. The military would win the fight, but the losses would be staggering.
The prime minister hoped the group would eventually surrender when their supplies ran low. But instead of giving up, the gang fired artillery at a residential area a mile away. Given no alternative, the prime minister ordered a drone strike on the compound. Just before dawn on the sixth day of the standoff, four hellfire missiles reduced the buildings to rubble.
The gang was utterly destroyed, including Nikita Petrov. The man who had caused so much death and destruction had finally been killed, which was precisely why Drenna didn’t understand why her thoughts kept returning to a mission that had been so successful. The Phantom was dead, and his group would never provide weapons to terrorists and other bad players again.
One of the first things she would do upon returning to DC was obtain the contact information for her British partner in the operation—Simon Driscoll of MI6. The British agency—more properly known as the SIS—had been left to clean up any loose ends. If something had come up, he would know about it. Perhaps others were involved that they hadn’t known about at the time. And perhaps those people were attempting to snuff out any intelligence officers who had been connected to the death of their leader.
But Drenna cautioned herself not to fall into the trap of having tunnel vision. Whoever had wanted her dead had known she was on vacation in West Virginia, which seemed to rule out most foreign players, at least those who weren’t connected to any government. She doubted that arms traffickers, no matter how clever, would have discovered her true identity, and they certainly wouldn’t have been able to lock down her location.
No, that information had to have come from someone close. Someone in the CIA or the US government.
“Well, hello,” a deep voice said, startling Drenna out of her thoughts.
Even though she hadn’t turned yet, Drenna could tell that a man was sitting in the seat next to her that had previously been empty. She turned her head slightly then felt her stomach churn. It was Hair Gel, the old man who had been watching her before.
After getting no response, he leaned closer and spoke again. His speech was slightly slurred, and his breath reeked of beer and cigarettes. “I said hello.”
As the alpha of the bar, he had come over to claim what was rightly his. Drenna knew that if she showed even the slightest interest, he would be on her all night. She wasn’t about to let that happen. She was going to shut him down quickly.
She was about to tell him to buzz off when Luke returned with her drink. “Here you go. And by the way, I opened a bottle of our limited edition just for you.” After setting her glass down, he shifted his gaze to the man sitting next to her. “Wayne, you guys need another pint?”
“No, just talking to my new lady friend.”
Luke hesitated then nodded and walked off.
Now that they were alone again, Hair Gel returned his attention to Drenna. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around here before.”
“That’s because it’s my first time,” she said, keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead. “And get a good look because I won’t be back.”
“What a pity,” Hair Gel said. “Why not?”
“Too many men who try to play outside their league.”
He stared at her as if trying to determine whether she was speaking of him or all the other men in the bar. He seemed to assume the latter. “Yep, most of the men in here would be out of your league.” Getting no response, he leaned closer again. “So what’s your type?”
She faced him for the first time. “I like younger men who don’t use gel in their hair.”
His eyes flashed with anger. “What did you say?”
Drenna took a sip of bourbon and considered her next response. Should she escalate the tension to make her message even clearer or let it go? She decided to let it go, at least for the moment. If she raised the stakes, he might make a scene. And being part of an incident was the last thing she needed.
She nodded at his stool. “If you don’t mind, I’m waiting for a friend.”
He gave her a hard stare for several long seconds. Drenna began to wonder if he was going to make a scene, anyway, when he finally slid off the seat.
He leaned closer to Drenna, his foul breath pulsing in her ear. “Don’t you ever speak to me that way again.”
Drenna bit her tongue. Just a few more seconds.
Hearing no response, he walked off.
“Don’t let him bother you.”
Drenna looked up to see Luke standing a few feet away. He used a white towel to dry off a mug that had just come out of the washer.
“Sometimes Wayne gets his feathers ruffled a little bit.”
“I can see,” Drenna said. “Does that happen very often?”
“Not much anymore. He usually doesn’t get any pushback in here. He pretty much rules the roost.”
“I could tell he wasn’t used to rejection.”
“What did you say to him?”
She shrugged. “I just told him to get lost.”
Luke’s eyes widened slightly. “I wouldn’t recommend doing that again.”
“So I’m just supposed to sit here and take it?” Drenna asked before taking another sip of her drink.
“Well, no. But personally, I might suggest something a little more—”
“Look, I know this is going to be hard for you to believe, but he doesn’t scare me. Trust me, I’ve dealt with much worse.”
Luke nodded but seemed to doubt her claim. “He’ll probably cool off. Even so, I can let you out through the back when you’re ready to leave. We can call you a taxi and have them wait at the back door.”
Drenna looked at him and smiled. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”
“So how’s the bourbon?”
“Excellent. I’m impressed.”
“Let me know if you need anything else.”
After he walked away, Drenna looked over her shoulder and let her eyes run to the table where the men had been sitting.
It was empty. They were gone.
She took another sip of bourbon.
Good riddance.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Drenna decide to leave Locked and Loaded at a quarter past ten. Over the course of the evening, she had consumed four drinks, a large amount for someone who drank very little. Luke, the young bartender who had befriended her, had sensed she was drinking more than she normally did and had taken steps to make sure she didn’t fall off the cliff. He brought her several glasses of water, and he also gave her a complimentary basket of fries, which seemed to help
soak up some of the alcohol.
Even though she had previously declined, Drenna decided to take him up on the offer to let her exit at the rear of the building. She didn’t think she was being followed, but why take the chance? She had already been out in public for far too long.
“You sure you don’t want me to call you a taxi?” Luke asked as he escorted her through the kitchen.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “My little roach motel is only about a half mile down the road.”
When they got to the back, he pushed open the screen door. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
She gave him a smile as she stepped past him. “I will.”
Once outside, Drenna felt the guilt of her poor decisions cutting through her like a knife. Coming to the bar had been a bad idea. Really bad. She should have picked up something at the store and taken it back to her room. She was using an alias, but now she had exposed herself to a bar full of people, including two or three who wouldn’t soon forget her face. If someone stopped in later with a photograph of her, Luke would surely remember she had been there.
On top of that, the trip to the bar hadn’t accomplished anything. The alcohol certainly hadn’t washed away the pain of losing Trevor. If anything, the pain and feelings of guilt seemed worse. And she had no doubt the troubling dreams would visit her again that night.
The putrid smell of a nearby dumpster pulled Drenna from her thoughts. She needed to get moving.
Locked and Loaded was at the periphery of a large shopping complex. Her motel was a half mile down on the other side of the highway. Just to be safe, she would make her way through the retail center, staying behind the buildings whenever possible. Once she was on the other side, she would cross the highway and walk the remaining distance to the motel.
She crossed the bar’s parking lot and slipped behind the mobile phone store next door. As she continued down the back of the building, a man stepped around the corner at the far end. He faced her, his arms crossed.
