Skills to Kill

by Brian Drake

  “I didn’t mean—”

  Nina held up a hand. “I know. Come on.”

  Nina and Solange scraped back their chairs; as Nina turned for the door, Fernand, a flour-covered apron wrapped around his clothes, swung around the counter and blocked the way.

  “You can’t take her,” he said.

  “Out of my way.”

  “Fernand—”

  “No. You’ll be safe with me.”

  “Move. Now.”

  Fernand folded his arms.

  Nina socked him on the chin. He spun to one side but did not fall; Nina grabbed Solange by the hand and hauled her out of the bakery.

  Anna steered the convertible into the parking garage, where Dane had left Daudet’s Porsche Turbo. She stopped behind the German sports car.

  “Hope you had fun,” Anna said.

  “We have to do this again sometime,” Hunter said from the back.

  “I have a feeling we will,” Dane said, “and very soon.” He told them good-bye and climbed out, digging the keys to the Porsche out of a pocket.

  Anna made a U-turn, her tires screeching on the smooth garage floor, and shot away with a final wave.

  Dane unlocked the Porsche. It had been a long night on Anna’s couch, and his back was sore. The warehouse discovery still burned brightly in his mind’s eye. It wasn’t hard to figure out the entire scheme.

  He pulled the driver’s door open.

  “Stop.”

  Dane went for the Detonics Combat Master, but Sean McFadden already had him covered with a nickel-plated Browning Hi-Power. He stood near a concrete support beam about 20 feet away and held the gun close to his body. It was still early enough that there were only a few scattered cars in the garage, but bystanders could come through at any time. Dane didn’t want to fool around. He placed both hands on the roof of the car.

  “Take your gun out and kick it away.”

  “Stop it, Sean. Put yours away. Somebody’s going to see us.”

  McFadden approached the Porsche and stopped near the back quarter panel.

  “There’s no reason for you to be doing this, Sean.”

  “I’m doing a job, just like you.”

  “So quit.”

  “And join the ranks of the virtuous?”

  “You don’t have to work for people like the Duchess,” Dane said.

  “If I don’t stay under the radar, I’m finished, old friend. I’m wanted by the British government. Bloody maggots want to hang me. If I start turning up in polite company, it means my neck. Besides, I’ve never been very polite.”

  “They have other fish to fry. You can give them those fish. Turn over what they want, and they’ll forget about you really quick.”

  “Bit of a problem with that, luv,” McFadden said. “What was that one bit of wisdom you taught that was so important to you?”

  Dane sighed. “Don’t cheat your client.” He clenched his jaw. “Now what?”

  “I’m not here to kill you, luv,” McFadden said. “Somebody wants to see you, so let’s go. We’ll take my car.”

  McFadden drove a route not unfamiliar to Dane, and presently parked in the side alley beside the warehouse. He escorted Dane into the office, where a man sat behind the desk; two gunmen stood in there with him.

  McFadden shoved Dane inside. “Here he is.”

  “Are you staying?” the man behind the desk said.

  “Got other orders, luv,” McFadden said. He turned to Dane. “I’m keeping your gun.”

  “You can give it back to me later.”

  “The next time we see each other, yeah?”

  “The next time I see you will be the last time, Sean.”

  “This is the last time,” McFadden said, and departed.

  Dane faced the man behind the desk.

  “I will show you a sign of respect, Mr. Dane, and not restrain you. I trust you won’t let me down.”

  Dane approached the desk. When the goons took a step forward, he stopped. “Well,” he said, “this is usually the part where I’m tied to a chair and you whack my balls with a carpet beater so I suppose I’ll save us all some time and effort and cooperate.”

  “I may have you beaten yet, Mr. Dane,” said the other man. He smiled. Leo Gordov had perfect white teeth. The paunchy former Russian colonel still had a thick mop of hair, but his trimmed beard showed spots of gray.

  Dane said, “You vanished after Tripoli.”

  “There was somebody who came very close to putting a bullet in my head.”

  Dane shrugged. “I’m sorry I missed. But you should have saved your money.”

  “Well, you know how it is. There’s always more money somewhere, you just have to go find it.”

  “What’s on your mind?” Dane said.

  “I want to know where Daudet is.”

  “At his country house.”

  “No, he isn’t. That place was empty when we showed up an hour or so ago.”

  Dane shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Nina. She must have made them move without telling me. I was on my way back there, actually, when Sean showed up.”

  Gordov sighed and rubbed his face with a fleshy palm. He said, “Break something,” to one of the goons. The thug on his left grabbed Dane’s left hand as the right-side goon clamped a thick arm around Dane’s neck and squeezed. Dane choked off a grunt, his windpipe feeling the pressure of the squeeze.

  Dane lashed out with one leg and kicked the first thug in the groin. The big man doubled over, little noises escaping his lips, face glowing red. Dane braced himself accordingly and flipped the second goon over his back. The second man landed on top of the first. The thug tried to rise; Dane kicked the side of his jaw and put him out.

  Dane grabbed the fallen thug’s pistol as Gordov clawed into a drawer; Dane rose as the Russian freed his own gun. Dane shot Gordov in the arm. Gordov screamed, dropping the gun; Dane shot him a second time in the shoulder, and the Russian collapsed in his chair.

  Dane stepped in front of Gordov and pressed the hot barrel into the flesh of his forehead. Sweat already covered Gordov’s tightened face; when the muzzle met skin, he jerked away. Dane pinned his head against the back of the chair.

  “Where’s the Duchess?”

  “I’ve only seen her once! We communicate through a contact.”

  “McFadden?”

  “Of course! He’s the only one who’s seen her.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “I may be a murderer, but I am not a liar!”

  The office door crashed open. Dane jumped behind Gordov; the Russian yelled, “No!”

  Dane covered the two new arrivals who stood just inside the office, holding guns in shaking hands. Both were young, one blonde and the other dark haired; the blonde kid Dane did not know, but the other he recognized. The other also had a bruise on his chin.

  “Well,” Dane said to the dark-haired kid, “the bakery wasn’t cutting it? Who punched you?”

  Fernand Martel, with some spots of flour still on his clothes, blinked rapidly as he held the gun on Dane.

  Gordov said, “Put the guns down!”

  “You’re slipping, Leo. What’s with hiring kids? Wait, let me guess. The Duchess put a bunch of angry kids on the payroll. The welfare state ain’t working, so now they’re giving gangster life a try.”

  Dane’s finger tightened on the trigger. There was no reason he shouldn’t put a bullet in the Russian’s head, for revenge if nothing else, but Gordov had other crimes to answer for, too.

  The Russian said, “Dane, don’t—”

  Dane let go of the trigger and bashed Gordov on the head once, twice. The Russian slumped forward and his head thumped on the desk. Dane raised the pistol and shot the blonde kid in the shoulder. The kid yelled, dropping his gun, and fell against the door, tumbling to the floor. Dane moved before Fernand fired, the bullet slamming into the wall. Dane stepped close and shot Fernand in the right leg, snatching the pistol from the younger man’s hands as he fell. Dane kicked the bl
onde’s gun away and regarded the two, one who withered and moaned and the other who curled up and mashed his teeth against the fire in his body.

  “Best way to learn is to just dive in,” Dane said, and hauled Fernand up against the wall. The dark-haired boy stared at Dane with watery eyes.

  “Feel like talking?” Dane said.

  Something vibrated in the pocket of Fernand’s jeans. Dane tore the pocket off and let a cell phone clatter on the floor. The screen read Solange.

  Fernand blinked.

  “Let it go to voicemail and we’ll see what she says, huh?”

  12

  Perfect Disaster

  “When were you planning to tell me you moved?” Dane said.

  “Don’t start with me, Steve. You vanished on me.”

  “I’m almost there.”

  “You don’t—”

  “Yes I do. See you in a minute. Oh, a friend is coming by. Inspector Ambard. Make sure you let him in.”

  “Is he bringing wine?”

  “No, just more cops.”

  “Oh, fun.”

  Dane let the tubby valet at the Hotel Brittany find a place to park the Porsche. A couple of police cars sat in the loading zone. A short elevator ride brought him to the tenth floor, where he didn’t knock on the door to Suite 1006. He turned the knob and smiled at the first person he saw.

  Inspector Jean-Louis Ambard.

  “Good evening, Inspector.”

  “Hello,” Ambard said. He had two uniformed officers with him. “Now maybe you can explain this…whatever.”

  Daudet, Alexis, Nina and Solange sat in the middle of the room. Nina and Solange sat close together. Dane surveyed his audience and, hands clasped behind his back, began a slow stroll around the room. “I suppose you’re wondering why I gathered you here today.”

  Nina said, “Oh get on with it.”

  “It started a few months ago when a young woman met a young man who worked at a bakery. He seemed nice enough, but he ran with some rough characters, and when he learned more about the young woman’s father, he started getting ideas. The girl’s father ran a cosmetics company that shipped all over the world and was so well known that his products breezed through customs. The baker decided that sort of thing could help some guys he knew, so they started talking about his ideas and pretty soon more ideas started happening.”

  Alexis jumped in. “The point is what, Dane?”

  “And ruin the suspense? Patience, Alexis. This is too much fun. So these guys had the idea to use Daudet’s shipments to mask a gun-running side operation. They worked for somebody who calls herself the Duchess; problem was, they needed an inside man. That’s where you, Alexis, entered the picture.”

  “That’s crazy!” Alexis said, rising.

  “Sit down,” Inspector Ambard told him.

  “Almost done,” Dane said. “They put things in motion, but Gerard got in the way. He went to the cops but was too afraid to talk. Y’all are fixin’ to move crates of guns out of a certain warehouse; enter an assassin hired by the Duchess. But not to kill Gerard. The plan was to put him in the hospital and keep everybody else on edge and under cover and not paying attention, hence the death threats—”

  “And the stuff at the house,” Nina said.

  “—while the guns were shipped. Eventually, though, Gerard and Mr. Daudet would have to be taken out.”

  Ambard said, “How can you prove this, Dane?”

  “I’ll take you to the warehouse and show you the guns and a bunch of goons who are currently tied up and unconscious. Including a Russian named Gordov. You’ll like that catch, Inspector. I’ll tell you where to send the reward. Both amounts, by the way. Don’t skimp on me.”

  Inspector Ambard said to Alexis, “Stand up.” He took out a pair of handcuffs.

  Alexis Daudet stood up. And took out a pistol.

  Solange screamed as Alexis raised the gun. The uniformed officers tackled him, one knocking the gun away. They kept Alexis pinned and turned him over so Ambard could lock the cuffs on him.

  Nicolas Daudet, standing, watched the policemen lift his son from the carpet. Alexis did not look at his father as Ambard steered him for the door.

  Dane said, “I’ll see you in thirty minutes, Inspector.”

  Ambard answered with a wave and went out with his suspect.

  Solange sobbed into Nina’s shoulder. Dane watched Daudet. The older man stared at the open door the policemen had taken his son through; when he turned to face Dane, he said, “Now what, Mr. Dane?”

  The pain etched on Daudet’s face made Dane pause. A quick comeback wasn’t appropriate, and Dane had to admit that was the first thing to come to mind. Instead he gave the man the truth.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Daudet. Aftermaths aren’t really my area of expertise.”

  The server brought Dane’s tea and Nina’s coffee. Nina stirred in cream and sugar, while Dane took a sip right away.

  “I was afraid,” she said, “you were going to accuse Solange, too.”

  “The only thing she’s guilty of is picking the wrong boyfriend. Won’t be the last time, I bet.”

  “I like that kid.”

  “Remind you of anybody?”

  “Maybe a little. So what’s next?”

  “We’re going to Mexico.”

  “Really? What’s in Mexico besides a lot of wonderful tequila for me and Te-Amo cigars for you?”

  “That’s where the guns were being shipped. We’re going to find out who’s on the receiving end.”

  “I have no doubt that we will learn the answer quite quickly,” Nina said. “But do me a favor. Promise me we will have more gunfights, car chases and general mayhem. We need to make up for the dullness of this section of the adventure.”

  “Dullness?”

  “You were only in two gunfights! All I did was sit around and play dress-up with a little kid! We didn’t have a car chase or a big explosion.”

  “But we will get the reward for capturing Gordov. That’s nothing to sneeze at. It’ll keep you in vitamins for ten years.”

  “I like explosions,” she said.

  “I can blow up this restaurant if you want.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’d certainly hate to bore you,” Dane said.

  “That’s why I love you, honey.”

  “I thought it was because of my fabulous ass.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen better,” Nina said.

  Dane and Nina remained in Paris, planning for Mexico, when one of Dane’s contacts called. After a few minutes of small talk the other man said:

  “I know of a connection the Duchess has in Greece.”

  “Who?” Dane said.

  “Nick Logos. He’s a player in the European anarchist movement, but he dabbles in gun running on the side. He’s making inquiries on her behalf.”

  “Using her name?”

  “I didn’t say he was smart,” the informant said. “She’s trying to make good with al-Qaeda by finding them another weapon.”

  “A nuke?”

  “Not this time. Have you heard of the M5205?”

  “Of course.”

  The M5205, weighing in at 18 pounds, was a portable grenade launcher designed for use at the squad level, chambering 20-millimeter and 25-millimeter smart shells. Computer-controlled fuses in each projectile enabled the user to fire with varying degrees of blast strength. Highly accurate, the shells could reach where standard small arms could not, enabling Army soldiers and Marines to target and kill clusters of enemy troops before engaging them at close range.

  “But that weapon is still in the testing stages.”

  “You don’t get out enough. The program went live last week. DOD’s keeping it quiet. A shipment will be arriving at Fort Bragg next week. Special Ops get ‘em first.”

  “And Logos wants to steal one.”

  “Or two.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “At his place in Athens, and he’s throwing a party in three days.”


  “What’s the catch?”

  “Invitation only. But I’m sure that won’t stop you, right?”

  “Any idea where he hangs out?”

  “He’s a bit of a barfly…”

  When Dane told Nina, she wasn’t very happy to learn they weren’t going straight to Mexico.

  “I don’t like detours,” Nina said.

  “Detour? This could be a shortcut,” Dane said.

  “You promised me Mexico.”

  “You just want a lot of tequila.”

  “And that’s a problem?”

  They reached Athens without incident and spent two days trailing Logos. The first thing they learned was that he was only secretly an anarchist. During the day he was a corporate lawyer.

  “So he’s an anarchist,” Nina said, speaking loudly over the thumping music of the Athens Hard Rock Café, where Logos spent most nights, “who works for The Man?” The air conditioner could not defeat the fusion of sweaty bodies stuffing the club to near maximum; beads of sweat trickled down her back. They occupied a wall-side table, sitting side by side, under an overhang that displayed ceramic letters on the front reading Love All, Serve All.

  The alcohol-fueled carefree atmosphere contrasted with what they had seen earlier that afternoon, one of the many protests taking place throughout the city as young people screamed in outrage over the nation’s budget cuts that meant they would actually have to go out and work for a living.

  “Gotta eat,” Dane said. “Maybe working for The Man made him an anarchist, and now he’s destroying the system from the inside.”

  “No, he’s in it because anarchist women are a bunch of whores.”

  “How would you know?”

  Nina kicked him under the table. He winced.

  The Hard Rock, an American import, displayed the same amount of Hollywood memorabilia that its stateside counterparts contained, along with dark-paneled walls, tables, and flooring. Pretty bland, Dane thought. You’d think they would try to include some color.

  The menu featured only a few authentic Greek “specialties,” so Dane ordered The Rock Chop, a pork chop grilled and basted with a mustard glaze; Nina munched on Mediterranean Pasta, one of the aforementioned specialties, because she hadn’t come all the way to Greece to eat a pork chop.