Assignment- Adventure A SpyCo Collection 1-3

by Craig A. Hart

  “What the hell was that?” Adabelle asked, on the verge of laughter.

  “That’s our childhood truce signal. Being as close as we were there were more than a few occasions when one of us pissed the other one off to the point we’d start throwing shit at each other on sight. The head bang meant the same as a white flag.”

  “Why not just get a white flag?”

  “You must have been a horrible child,” Lyndsey, scoffing as if she’d heard the stupidest question ever asked. “Anyway, if he was looking he’ll know he’s safe.”

  As if on cue, Perry stepped out the front door. “You wouldn’t head bang and then blow me away anyhow, would you? Because that would be waaay against the rules.”

  “No one’s going to shoot you, Perry. Well, none of us anyway.”

  Lyndsey walked forward and met Perry as he continued toward them. After looking into his eyes to determine his state of mind, she held her arms out to him. He accepted the embrace.

  “I thought you were here to kill me.”

  “That’s over now. We don’t know how it happened, but we know it was a mistake.” Lyndsey saw something else in Perry’s eyes. “What is it, Perry?”

  “I had him in my sights again, and for the second time the bastard got away.”

  “Well, to be fair,” Burke said, stepping up and holding his hand out to Perry, “the first time you were handcuffed to a nuke.”

  Perry poked a thumb in Adabelle’s direction and said in a spot-on Bogey voice, “Who’s the dame?”

  “That’s Adabelle,” Burke said quickly, figuring it wasn’t a question he should let Lyndsey answer, given the growing animosity between the two women. “Local operative. She’s sharp.”

  “She’s more than sharp,” Perry said, switching to Groucho.

  Adabelle held a hand to her mouth and laughed, completely against her better judgement. Fifteen minutes ago, she’d been mentally feeling herself squeeze the trigger on her H&K and watching Perry’s head explode. Now she was being disarmed by his lame-ass impressions and noticing he was almost ridiculously handsome.

  “There’s still a situation in there,” Perry went on. “Flick did his…Flick-thing on the couple who lived in the house.”

  “We should probably let the yerel polis worry about that,” Adabelle said, referring to the local police.

  Perry shook his head, unable to take his eyes off her. “That’s not the situation. Their kid is in there too. He’s still alive, but there’s no way to get him out without going past the bodies.”

  “Show,” said Adabelle, walking purposefully toward the door.

  Perry stepped aside and followed her, curious why the single uttered word made him feel butterflies. Get a friggin’ grip, man!

  The scene was as bad as Lyndsey and Burke expected it to be. They’d seen Flick’s handiwork before, as they had been among the initial few on the scene when Trina had been found. For Adabelle it was a first, but she took it in stride, again gaining Perry’s admiration.

  “How old is the kid?” she asked.

  “Four, tops.”

  “There’s too much blood. Even if we cover them he’ll know something horrible is going on.”

  “I saw a pretty elaborate carpet in the entry,” Lyndsey said. “Way nicer than you’d expect. Thick.“

  Adabelle nodded. “Probably a wedding gift. Most likely the most valuable thing they own.” Her eyes turned toward the bodies. “Owned,” she corrected.

  “Might keep the blood from seeping through long enough to carry him past.”

  Adabelle turned to Perry, their eyes locking on one another for the first time. She felt her voice catch for a second, but fought to quickly regain her composure. “Take me to him,” she said.

  Perry moved her through the small loft to the room with the now broken door latch. Erol was where Perry had left him, bravely silent, but shivering. A single tear traced a line down his cheek. His eyes grew wide when he saw the unfamiliar woman.

  “It’s okay, Erol,” Perry said, his voice soft as flowing honey. “This is Adabelle. She’s arkadaş too.”

  Adabelle knelt in front of the boy and wiped the tear away. Perry thought even her fingers were beautiful. She began talking to him in Turkish. Hearing the language spoken fluently, as opposed to Perry’s halting single words, seemed to relax the horrified boy. He gradually stopped trembling, and nodded his head in response to a question.

  They continued to talk for three or four more minutes, enough time for Burke and Lyndsey to move the carpet and cover the bodies.

  Finally, Adabelle stood, and said to Perry, “We need to move him as quickly as we can. He’s a very intelligent boy. He may already know.”

  “Let’s hope not,” said Perry.

  As they prepared to leave, Erol gave Perry’s pant leg three quick tugs. Perry bent down to see what the boy wanted.

  “O çok hoş,” he whispered.

  Perry looked at Adabelle. “What’s that mean?”

  Adabelle smiled. “He said ‘She’s pretty.’”

  Perry scooped the boy into his arms, pulling him close in hopes of keeping him from seeing anything as they whisked by. “You got that right, partner,” he said.

  “John Wayne too?” Adabelle laughed and pushed him playfully from behind. She quickly looked at her own hands as if she couldn’t believe she’d done that.

  Lyndsey’s estimate of the carpet’s stain resistance had been a little overly optimistic. Perry could see a dark red spot already forming where it sat in the couple’s pooled blood. But by keeping Erol close and turning his body so he faced the opposite direction, they managed to get downstairs and outside without the boy’s horror being renewed.

  As they approached the car, a surprised-looking driver held the door open for them. Perry kept the boy on his lap as they got in the back seat, again making Adabelle smile.

  “Where to?” the driver asked.

  “We need ten minutes to get our shit together,” Adabelle said, then laughed as Perry covered Erol’s ears at the profanity. “He doesn’t speak English, Hall!” Then returning her attention to the driver she said, “Go to my place.”

  “You said yourself he’s very smart,” Perry said, taking his hands away and feeling slightly embarrassed at his protective reaction.

  “He is. But I don’t think he’s going to pick up the language that quickly. Shit!”

  Erol smiled for the first time since Perry had found him. “Shit!” he shouted proudly.

  “I hope you’re happy with yourself,” Perry hissed at Adabelle.

  Lyndsey and Burke at first tried to stifle their laughter, but failed miserably. The next moment, they were all laughing heartily.

  The driver emitted a small chuckle himself before resuming his former implacable expression, closing the security panel, and speeding away.

  13

  There were specific and excellent reasons why J. Carlton Moore had left fieldwork for the comfort of his immaculate and well-stocked office at SpyCo HQ in New York City. One was his utter disdain for physical exertion. His doctor kept warning him about diabetes, heart disease, and various other obnoxious topics that did little but make Moore decide to limit his exposure to the medical field. A most depressing lot, they were. A second reason was he felt, with no sense of embarrassment, that field work was somewhat beneath him. His mind was better suited to big picture concepts and long-term planning. And, third, he disliked gunplay. Moore considered himself a gentleman and firearms were in the purview of those with a decided brutal side. Fencing, boxing with Queensberry Rules…these were contests in which Moore could personally indulge. Other methods, especially performed in some of the most ill-reputed areas on earth, were decidedly not for him. He approved their use as a means to an end, but would rather not dirty his own hands. Not anymore.

  Moore had been a smart agent, but a reluctant one, always having an eye on a supervisory role. Fortunately for his own self-image, the top brass at the agency had seen potential in the arrogant, often pret
entious young man, and Moore had quickly risen in the ranks. Soon he’d gone as far as he could go and left his home agency at a vulnerable time to found SpyCo, a venture that quickly outpaced and eventually absorbed his former employer. He’d now been at the top, the undisputed grandmaster of espionage, for years and loved almost every minute of it. His past faded into an obscuring mist, and his future was bright and boundless. And that was why, when he realized he was on the verge of losing it all, he did not hesitate to re-enter the field to protect what was his.

  It was also why he now stood on the busy Galata Bridge in Istanbul wearing a pair of dark glasses and a hat pulled low on his brow. If these sons of bitches thought they could swoop in and destroy what he’d built simply by turning the organization against itself, they had another thing coming. Yet his natural bent to realism dragged him back from mere chest-thumping and forced him to admit it had been a good plan: cut off SpyCo’s head, disrupt communication, use a falsified Code Grey to make SpyCo’s top agents turn on one another, create chaos and an authority vacuum, then move in and grab power. Similar strategies had worked throughout history, with dictators rising whenever the chaos was great enough that people searched for leadership. If it could happen in countries, it could happen in an organization like SpyCo. In fact, SpyCo might be more vulnerable than most, given its insular and secretive nature. It wasn’t like the company’s board members could simply send out requests for resumes. SpyCo didn’t even have a governing board. Well, it did…but it only had one member.

  Moore grunted. There would have to be some reorganizing and changes to procedure once this all got resolved. He was angry at himself for overlooking what now seemed an obvious weakness, and was man enough to admit it had been his own arrogance that made it all possible. There had to be contingency plans. Hell, what if he dropped dead one day? Who would take over?

  Moore brought a phone out of his pocket and checked the notifications on his Twitter account. Nothing. No acknowledgment of the cryptic tweet he’d sent out. He’d tagged Adabelle Fox, his top Istanbul operative, knowing she followed his account and found his tweets humorous, and hoped the message would be received. Normally, he would have blown a valve if someone had used Twitter to pass top secret messages, but there was, at present, no other way to contact his agents. All his regular avenues of communication had either been shut down or were being closely monitored. He couldn’t use them without running the risk of blowing the cover off any agent he contacted, and thereby endangering their lives. He had even ditched his own phone and purchased a new one, even though the only thing he dared log into was his Twitter account, which did not seem to have yet been tampered with.

  He knew his own life was in danger. The bullet hole in his jacket sleeve was proof enough of that, and later he’d narrowly avoided being captured on his way to JFK. In fact, if he hadn’t chanced to spot the black SUV parked behind the hangar housing his private jet, he would have walked right into a trap. As it was, he shouted for his driver to “step on it” and “don’t spare the horses,” two phrases he still regretted. But they had proved effective and the driver had successfully evaded capture, even when the SUV had realized their quarry was on the run and came after them. Moore had the car drop him off at a bus stop, but not before donning a minor disguise. Then he took public transportation to the airport and ended up traveling, God help him, commercial.

  Now he was in Istanbul and had seen no sign of a tail, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before his tormentors would figure out where he was. In the meantime, he had to find Burke before he killed Perry. Or before they killed each other.

  Moore checked his notifications again. Nothing. Wait, no—someone had “liked” the tweet. He tapped on the icon to see who had liked it, hoping to see Adabelle’s profile. But it wasn’t Adabelle. It was some other account he didn’t recognize. A random tweeter, one of those idiots who went around liking everything on their timeline? Or was it a message, letting him know he’d been found out? That was it—the cellphone had to go. He couldn’t risk being tracked. Sending up a prayer Adabelle would see the tweet and understand its meaning, leading her to find Burke or Hall before it was too late, Moore walked to the side of the Galata and chucked his phone into the Golden Horn. Several fisherman called to him in Turkish, presumably telling him the obvious—that his phone had fallen into the water. Moore ignored them and kept on walking.

  14

  Adabelle’s residence was not only much nicer than the house of horrors they’d just left, but was in a neighborhood that did not promise nightly muggings. Erol’s eye’s widened as they entered and stood in the foyer.

  “Nice digs,” Perry said. “Looks like Erol thinks so too.”

  Adabelle smiled. “And who are you supposed to be this time?”

  “Oh, that was just me.”

  “I’m relieved. I was beginning to think you were only other people.”

  Perry wasn’t sure how to take that. A jab? Friendly sarcasm? He wanted to think she was flirting, but he also wanted to remain realistic. Or did he?

  Burke pushed past them all in his all-too-familiar Burke-ish way and took in the main room. The cathedral ceilings soared and crown molding provided an impressive classic feel. “So I guess I know where I’ll be staying whenever I visit Istanbul,” he said.

  Damn, Perry thought. Why didn’t I think of that? Nice digs, durrrr. Stupid!

  “You’ll have to pay rent,” Adabelle said. “This place isn’t cheap and I could use the influx of cash.”

  “If you need cash, then you should hook up with this guy.” Burke jerked a thumb at Perry. “I’m not hurting—and neither are you, I suspect—but Perry’s loaded.”

  Perry wondered what the penalty would be for shooting Burke in the knee. It couldn’t be too severe, considering not too long ago, his friend had been tasked with killing him. Speaking of that, it was a subject that would have to be addressed. Perry knew how things worked in this world, but he still took offense to the idea Burke had even entertained such a directive. Then again, he had no idea what he would do in a similar situation.

  Adabelle looked at Perry, her lips turning upward in an alluring smile. She spoke, turning her voice husky. “Oh really, Mr. Hall? You know, I have a thing for men who have money.”

  Perry almost choked and any reasonable, witty response immediately vacated his head. He heard Lyndsey mutter, “You just have a thing for men.”

  Burke wasn’t done yet. “How much do you have now, Perry? One zillion? Two? I can’t keep track anymore.”

  Perry shrugged. “I can’t either. A zillion point five, maybe? I have a financial guy for that.” An accurate statement, but it sounded douchey and he cursed himself for not sounding more relatable. Truthfully, though, none of them were poor—SpyCo paid well. It just so happened Perry was more well-heeled than most.

  Burke decided to push things with his friend a little further. “In fact, I often wonder why you settled for being a secret agent. With your kind of money, you could have gone straight to superhero. You’ve got Tony Stark money. You’ve got Bruce Wayne money!”

  Perry gave a half smirk. “I’m not a very good welder, so Stark’s getup is out, and I don’t care for caves. So…”

  Adabelle was obviously enjoying the banter. She reached over to a countertop and pressed a button on a tiny black remote. Soft music instantly filled the room. She turned to her guests with a wide hostess-style smile. “Drinks, anyone?”

  Burke’s hand shot up. “Pick me, pick me!”

  Lyndsey shrugged, trying to appear indecisive, but Perry could tell she was dying for a swig of something. “I’ll take a drink. Nothing big.”

  Adabelle nodded knowingly, as if she had Lyndsey’s number already dialed. Perry watched the exchange between the two women. The barely disguised hostility made him uncomfortable—he hoped it wasn’t about him.

  “Perry?”

  He looked up to see Adabelle staring at him, her eyebrows raised in query. “Huh?”

  “A drink. D
o you want one?”

  “Oh...no, thank you.”

  Both Burke and Lyndsey turned and stared at him.

  “What’s this?” Burke said. “The last time I saw you turn down booze you thought they said ‘snooze’ and you said ‘no, thanks, I’m not tired.’”

  “I’m not feeling it tonight.”

  Burke pressed his friend. “We’re celebrating, man. We don’t have to kill you!”

  “Yeah, about that—”

  “I’ll tell you the whole story over drinks,” Burke interrupted. “Wait, unless you’re going sober. If so, congrats and pardon my pushiness.”

  “No, I’m not going sober. Not forever, anyway.”

  “So what’s up?”

  “It’s Flick. I’ve decided not to drink until I get him. I almost had him today. He was right there.” Perry indicated the area directly in front of himself. “We fought in the house and he almost killed me.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “No. I dumped a pot of boiling water on his head.”

  Lyndsey snorted. “That should make him easier to recognize at least.”

  Adabelle appeared with drinks and passed them out. “I couldn’t help overhearing. You’ve mentioned Flick twice. What’s the connection?”

  Perry realized his sad story was widely known, but obviously not universally so.

  Lyndsey looked at Perry and he gave a curt nod. Thus given permission, she gave Adabelle an abridged version of Perry’s history with the killer.

  Adabelle’s face was a pale mask of horror. Perry braced himself for the tired old lines he always heard when people first learned of the tragedy. First there were the looks of pity and then infuriating platitudes like, “She’s in a better place now” or “only time can heal” or his personal favorite, “I know what you’re going through.”

  But Adabelle said none of those things. She was horrified, yes, but there was no trace of pity. Compassion, yes—not pity. Then her face hardened and she drained her drink. She looked around at the others and then said, “You know what we should do? We should track down that son of a bitch, butcher his ass, and toss his guts in the Bosphorus.”