by L. T. Ryan
“This is bad, Jack. Very bad.”
“No kidding, Frank. Alik’s been injured. What are you going—”
“Hold on. I’m thinking.”
Jack turned around and looked past the old woman in the doorway. Two men held Alik down while the doctor worked on his chest. It looked like he had forceps inserted into the wound in an effort to retrieve the bullet. Jack lowered his eyes toward the white haired woman. She held up a cigarette. He shook his head, shrugged and then held out his hand. The old woman lit the cigarette and handed it to him. The first drag tasted like the street after Mardi Gras and the smoke burned his lungs. He nearly coughed. But he took a second drag, and then a third. The rush of nicotine excited and then calmed him all within a period of twenty seconds.
“Christ,” Jack muttered under his breath, disappointed in himself for accepting the cigarette.
“What?” Frank asked.
“Nothing,” Jack said.
“Jack, call me back in five minutes. I need to wake someone up.”
Jack looked around, through the trees, toward the dirt road leading in. Five minutes wouldn’t be long enough to get someone else here to finish the job the three Russians failed to complete.
“OK. I’ll call back in five.”
He hung up the phone, took a final drag off the cigarette and dropped it to the ground where he crushed it with his heel. He walked past the woman in the doorway, nodding with a smile as he did so.
“How is he?”
The doctor looked over his shoulder. His hands continued to work, sewing shut the hole in Alik’s chest.
“He’ll live. The bullet lodged in his rib. The rib is broken. Shattered. But had it not stopped the bullet, your friend would be dead.”
Jack stood next to the table. Looked down at Alik. The man’s eyes fluttered as he passed between states of consciousness and unconsciousness. The doctor had given him some type of anesthetic, but Jack questioned its effectiveness.
“He’ll be OK,” the doctor said. “He should be in the hospital, though.”
“Can’t. You saw what happened at the cafe. He checks into a hospital, he won’t check out.”
“Then he can stay here,” the old woman said.
The doctor nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on him over the next few days. Administer pain meds so he isn’t suffering. In a few days he should be in much better shape.”
Jack looked at his watch and pulled the phone back out. He dialed the number as he walked toward the front door.
Frank answered after the first ring.
“Jack, OK. We’re getting you out. I’m sending one of my guys.”
“Just me,” Jack said.
“What do you mean? Is Alik dead?”
“No, but he’s in no condition to travel.”
“Dammit. OK, I’m sending an extra man to stay with him then.”
Jack looked back at the three Greek men and the old woman. “Probably a good idea.”
“Where are you?”
“About ten miles outside of town. Get your men here and call me. I’ll send a car.”
“They’ll be there by nightfall.”
3
A cloud of smoke lingered just below the ceiling of the small apartment. Pierre sat in a stiff wooden chair, a cigarette pressed between two fingers and hovering an inch or so from his lips. He rested his elbows on a small square wooden table. The only furniture in the apartment. His cell phone next to him on his left. His Glock 17 with a fully loaded magazine opposite him, just out of reach. A large round glass ashtray sat in the middle of the table with a few dozen stubbed out cigarette butts strewn about the crushed black and gray ashes. The smell of stale cigarette smoke filled the air.
The apartment was dark. It wasn’t that Pierre didn’t want to turn the lights on. He couldn’t turn them on. The power had been cut off earlier in the week. He had run out of belongings to pawn and that meant he had run out of money to pay his bills. Soon he’d be evicted from the apartment. His eyes glanced at the gun. Pawn it or use it, he thought.
He stubbed out his cigarette and walked to the fridge. He pulled the door open and a wave of foul odor from spoiled milk filled the surrounding air. He quickly slammed the door shut. How stupid, he thought. He’d done the same thing at least half a dozen times the past few days. He sidestepped along the counter and grabbed a tumbler from the cabinet. A nearby bottle of whiskey promised to erase his pain for one more night. The bottle had at least a few pours left, and there was one more unopened bottle in the apartment. He filled the glass three-quarters of the way and stopped himself from opening the freezer for a cube of ice. There was no ice in there, only rank meat.
He returned to the table, sat down and lit another cigarette. Two more in the pack. Two more packs until he ran out. Quit smoking or steal more, he thought. He blew a thin line of smoke toward the ceiling and sighed as he watched the smoke billow out into a cloud. He took a sip from his glass. Placed the glass down. Dragged his thumb along his stubble covered jaw line.
It had been over three months since he left his job at the agency. The pain he faced had become unbearable. His lack of focus had caused problems for him and for his team. He knew that it was no longer prudent for him to work there. Not only was his life on the line, but the lives of the men and women who worked on his team, as well as the innocent civilians they protected. It would only take one misread communication to lead to Pierre doing something very stupid. Or nothing at all. Either of which could result in consequences he didn’t want to face. Consequences he could be forced to face in a court of law. Or in a funeral parlor. So he left. Told his boss that he was done. Left his gun and badge on his desk and walked out the door.
In most cases, that would be enough for an order to terminate. But Pierre had given everything he had to the agency. His boss hesitated to let him go, but stepped aside. Even walked him out the door. Told Pierre he could call if he ever needed a hand. Needed help. Pierre thanked his boss, never imagining that he’d need to take him up on the offer. He knew that he could never return to the agency, but his boss could put in a good word for him wherever Pierre decided to go next.
He had figured that he had enough money in the bank to last until he got through his bout of depression. He just never imagined that the depression would last this long. Three months since leaving his job. Now, with the money gone he had nowhere to turn. Well, almost nowhere. His eyes moved about the room and settled on his Glock 17. He leaned over and reached out for the gun. Stopped and grabbed his cell phone instead.
Pierre pushed a button and slid his finger across the screen of his cell phone. He scrolled through a contact list and stopped on the name Alonso, Charles’s right hand man. Six months ago Pierre had told Charles that he would work with him. Charles hadn’t called, though, and Pierre had forgotten all about the offer. But now he’d reached the end of his rope and working for a crime boss didn’t have the same sting it once held.
Surely Charles would have work available. A man as highly trained as Pierre could be in demand among the right crowd.
His finger lingered over the green send button. He nearly pressed it when a single old fashioned chime rang through the apartment. His doorbell. He pushed back in his chair, took a quick drink and stood up. Walked across the apartment to the door and flipped back a small square panel, revealing a peephole. He looked through and saw the back of a head full of dark hair. He reached down and opened the door.
The young woman spun around and greeted him with a smile.
“Kat.”
“Hello, Pierre.” She reached out and took his hand in hers. “Can I come in?”
He stepped back and gestured her through. She coughed as she entered. He caught her face shift to a look of disgust, but she quickly masked it with a forced smile.
“What’s happened here?”
He hiked his shoulders a few inches and frowned.
She turned to him. Reached out and brushed strands of his unkempt hair away from his forehead.
<
br /> “Pierre, you have to get over this.”
He shook his head and turned away. Walked to the kitchen, past the table. He stopped in front of the large window that overlooked an empty city street. He stared at a collection of trash cans on the curb. He inhaled deeply as the pain of confronting his feelings welled up inside.
“I tried. I can’t. A man died, a friend of mine died. It was my fault.”
He felt slight vibrations in the floor as she walked toward him. Her hand pressed against his shoulder, the touch warm against his clammy skin.
“It’s not your fault. It is what it is. You knew the risks of your job. He knew the risks of his.”
Pierre shrugged his shoulder and her hand fell to the side. They’d had this conversation several times during the three months they dated. He wasn’t sure why she would even bring it up again. The last time they spoke, the night before he quit the agency, this exact conversation had led to him pulling his gun. First he aimed it at her. Then at his own head. He had almost pulled the trigger. Kat left that night but not before shouting several hurtful parting words. Pierre didn’t blame her.
She squeezed against him from the side and wrapped her arm around his waist. She rested her head on his shoulder. Her hair brushed against his ear and the side of his face, getting caught up in the stubble.
“I’m here, Pierre. We’ll get through this together.”
Pierre closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Maybe we can get away. Go somewhere. Italy or Greece. Hell, the U.S., maybe.”
“That would be nice, Pierre.” She let go of his waist and took a step back. Reached up and turned his face by his chin. “Why don’t we start with my apartment? Wouldn’t you like to get out of here?”
He smiled. “I think that would be—”
His cell phone rang.
Pierre glanced at the cell phone and held up a single finger to Kat.
He looked at the display. It read “restricted.” He answered.
“Hello, Pierre. My name is Alonso. I am a business associate of—”
“I remember who you are. What do you want?”
“We’d like to offer you a job.”
“I’m listening.”
“Good. I’ll call you in a few days. Be ready to meet us at a moment’s notice.”
Pierre hung up the phone. A twinge of excitement passed through his body. It started in his stomach and spread through his chest. Traveled down his arms and legs. He felt the heavy skin on his face relax and loosen. For the first time in months he felt alive.
He looked back at Kat and said, “Let’s go.”
4
Feng leaned back in the oversized leather seat. Leg room wasn’t a problem on his private jet. One of the benefits of buying new and being able to select a custom seating arrangement. The rest of the seats were empty. He liked to imagine the ghosts of those who had fallen victim to him traveled with him. Ready to welcome him to Hell should his plane crash.
This was a business trip, and by the definition of his business, not the type of trip he should take alone. Technically he would not be alone, though. He had a team in place in Chicago and four of his best Chi-town men were meeting him at the small commuter airport west of the city.
One of the flight crew had just come back to inform the old man that they would be landing on time. He should expect the approach to begin in twenty minutes.
He shrunk into his seat and continued reviewing the documents in his lap. The documents that had caused so much trouble and put the final strain on his relationship with Charles. Perhaps he would have been better off taking out Jack Noble to appease his right hand man. Things had been smoothed over, though. Jack had died in that Russian prison, and Charles had been sent to France to oversee European operations.
And Charles had done quite a good job so far.
Feng didn’t find much of interest in the documents. It told of weaknesses that could be exploited. A foreign country might be interested in the information. Feng had no intent to try to overthrow the U.S. government, and didn’t think any terrorist organization really had a chance. Therefore he didn’t have any interest in using the information for any gain other than monetary. It didn’t take long to find a buyer, either. A small terror cell hidden in the heartland of America had a keen interest. A seven figure interest. They offered one million dollars. Feng countered at seven million. They settled on five million. A tidy sum for very little work. In the end he didn’t even have to pay Jack for the job.
The sudden drop in altitude signaled to Feng that it was time to lock the documents in his briefcase. He then turned his attention to the window. The setting sun turned the sky shades of pink and purple. The ground was littered with browns and greens, signaling the end of winter and the beginning of spring. Small patches of snow lingered on the northern side of houses in areas where shadows remained throughout the day, waiting to rejoin the night.
The plane landed and Feng remained seated until one of the flight crew emerged from the cockpit and told him it was time to depart.
* * *
The co-pilot opened the plane’s door and dropped a set of stairs. Feng nodded at him as he passed and then stepped through the opening into the blustery cold evening. The high in New York that day had been sixty. He figured it was in the low thirties in Chicago. He pulled his coat tight with one hand and held the briefcase in the other. He scanned the area and spotted one of his men. The old man took the steps one at a time until he reached the bottom.
Feng crossed an asphalt parking lot to meet Reynolds, the most trusted member of his Chicago team. Halfway across the lot he saw a group of men appear. He did not recognize them.
“Who are these men?” he asked.
Reynolds shook his head.
“Reynolds, who are they?”
“Sir,” Reynolds said.
One of the other men reached out and placed a hand on Reynolds. Pulled him back. The man stepped forward. He had blond hair and blue eyes. Pale, prematurely aged skin. He spoke with a slight accent that Feng couldn’t quite place.
“Mr. Feng, please come with us.” He extended an arm and gestured toward a parked limousine.
The old man narrowed his eyes and looked at each man individually.
“I don’t know if you are aware of who you are dealing with. I can buy and sell each of you fifty times over. I can kill your families in their sleep and force you to watch.”
The blond haired man smiled and nodded. “We know. Let’s go.” He grabbed Feng by the elbow and led him to the limo. Another man opened the door. Reynolds stepped in first, then Feng, followed by the blond haired man. The other three men got in and blocked the exits. All four men unbuttoned their coats, revealing pistols in holsters.
Feng studied each man individually and then turned to Reynolds.
“What happened, Reynolds? Where is your team?”
Reynolds looked from Feng to the blond haired man. “I think you should—”
“That’s enough,” the blond haired man said. “Mr. Feng, all your questions will be answered by my boss.”
“This is not how we arranged this, young man. I don’t do business in this manner.” He held up the briefcase. “You can tell your boss he can forget all about the contents of this briefcase if I don’t get answers now.”
The blond haired man smiled.
“My name is Jeremy. Jeremy Fletcher. I am your liaison for the next forty-eight hours. Everything will go as planned. Our plan, that is. You just sit back and relax and nothing will happen to you or your associate here.”
The old man turned his head and looked at the man at his side. Reynolds cast his eyes down to the floor and shook his head.
“Where is the rest of your team?”
“They…I…” Reynolds couldn’t finish.
Fletcher said, “Neutralized.”
“Any damages suffered to my organization will be paid back threefold. Understand? You can tell your boss that, too.”
Fletcher smiled. “Understood.
”
No one said another word for the next half hour. Finally, when the limo pulled into a parking lot, Fletcher spoke.
“We’re here.”
“Where is here?” Feng asked.
“The hotel. We are going to stay here until my boss is ready for you.”
Feng resisted at first, but then decided he had no choice. He was cut off from everyone in his organization at the moment. For now, he would remain in survival mode.
“I know what you are thinking, sir,” Fletcher said. “Don’t worry. We’re working together here. No harm will come to you or your men as long as you cooperate.”
Feng stepped out of the car. Walked up to Fletcher. He opened his mouth to speak, stopped and waved the man off.
“Show me to my room,” he said as he turned toward the hotel entrance.
5
Jack’s plane departed Athens, Greece at 12:55 am. The flight took just over eleven hours, landing in New York’s JFK Airport at five in the morning. He passed through customs without any problems, thanks to the fake passport Frank had arranged for him. The name on the passport said John J. Martin. He wondered if that was his new alias. For the past six months he had been known simply as Jack. The Greeks he had befriended needed no last name.
He made the trans-Atlantic journey with two men. Both early thirties, close cut hair, dark suits. Anyone with an eye for such things would have labeled them as Feds without giving it as much as a second thought. The men didn’t talk much other than to introduce themselves as Coppa and Shipley. They sat in front of and behind him on the commuter flight from Crete to Athens. On either side of him in the middle row on the flight from Athens to New York. Jack tried to make small talk. They said nothing. Typical of the agents in the SIS.
Jack had spent two years as an agent in the SIS after his stint with the Marines. Frank had been his partner for the majority of those two years. He never got to know many of the other agents on a personal level, despite it being a relatively small group. They spent little time in the office.
Jack and the two agents stood next to the taxi line. Coppa scanned the artificially lit road and pointed toward a black sedan.
