The Ethan Galaal Series: Books 1 - 3

by Isaac Hooke

  "So what is this message?" Bretta translated.

  Suddenly leery about listening neighbors, Ethan lowered his voice. "Andrei says he wants to meet you. He has something urgent he needs to give you. He says you would know where to find him."

  Mrs. Funar firmly shook her head. "No. He never told me where to find him. Didn't he give you an address for me?"

  "We have no idea where he is. Andrei isn't even telling his close friends. I'm sure you can understand why. But he called me and said you would know how to reach him. Think for a moment. Is there some favorite place you took him as a child? Some spot that would be special to him? A house in the woods. A cottage by the lake. A skate park?" Ethan tried to think of all the spots where he would hide out if he lived in such a small city.

  Mrs. Funar hesitated. Finally, through Bretta, she said: "Yes. I think I know of a place. But what about the police? They watch my every move."

  "The white sedan?" Ethan asked.

  Mrs. Funar nodded. "The very same."

  "They won't be a problem soon," Ethan said. "Look down at them from your window after we're gone and you'll see."

  Mrs. Funar hesitated a moment longer. "You say you are one of his friends? Why don't you speak Romanian?"

  Ethan smiled. "I met him in prison."

  Her face momentarily darkened, then she nodded. "I understand." She reached for the doorknob behind her.

  In that moment Ethan realized it wasn't enough. She was merely playing along and had no intention of leaving to find her son. She needed proof that Ethan was who he said he was, that he, this stranger who had come knocking at her door claiming to be a messenger from her son, was truly his friend. She knew the police were outside her building, watching. Of course she would be on the lookout for undercover officers. She'd probably fielded a few already.

  How could he get to her?

  Recalling the soccer—or football, as it was called in Europe—photos and trophies he'd seen when her apartment was open, on a whim he said: "In prison your son told me he once dreamed of playing football in the big leagues. He wanted to join the Romanian national football team and play for his country. He was a big nationalist. Loved Romania. He regretted, deeply, the choices he made and wished, with all his heart, that he could go back and take a different path. But the divorce changed everything."

  It was pure conjecture, of course, but Ethan was betting those soccer trophies were from grades one to seven, with the last one coinciding with the divorce of his parents at thirteen. That was about the right age for a boy in seventh grade. Besides, in all the soccer pictures, the boy hadn't appeared any older than thirteen.

  Ethan stared at the woman expectantly. When Bretta finished translating, for a long moment Mrs. Funar didn't speak. When she did, her words were almost a whisper.

  "Yes," Bretta translated. "She says that's exactly right. The divorce was the year he chose the bad path that led him to where he is today."

  "Go to him," Ethan implored. "Now, when he needs you most."

  The woman nodded and stepped inside her apartment. Before she shut the door, Ethan reminded her: "Look to the street below and watch for your cue."

  Bretta translated and with that the two operatives left.

  In the stairwell, Ethan inserted his earbuds again. When he reached the first floor, he stayed behind the bend at the far side of the lobby, out of sight of the sedan that he knew waited across the street.

  "Eight-Blue," Ethan said into the mic. "Can we get that sedan disabled?"

  "On it," Jerry returned.

  Bretta edged past the bend, peering toward the entrance; she abruptly ducked back. "Not yet," she told Ethan.

  He heard a crash outside. He glanced at Bretta, then around the corner: the garbage truck had plowed right into the sedan.

  "Nice," Ethan said over the comm. To Bretta: "Let's go!"

  The pair burst from the apartment and hurried along the sidewalk, making their way toward the Audi. Ethan resisted the urge to look at the sedan.

  "Do you think they snapped our faces?" Bretta said from the driver's seat when they were inside.

  Ethan took a moment to study the accident. The two passengers of the sedan were arguing on the street with the driver of the garbage truck, who appeared to be a skinny Romanian with a thick mustache. A member of Eight-Blue, obviously.

  "Doubt it." Ethan fastened his seatbelt. "Be ready. She could come out anytime. Think you can handle this?"

  Bretta laughed aloud. "Please. I think I can tail one little old lady."

  Ethan opened the glove compartment.

  "What are you looking for?" she said.

  "These." He produced the pair of Zeiss binoculars he'd spotted in the glovebox earlier. With it he kept watch on the entrance to the apartment.

  "You must have really bad eyes," Bretta said.

  Ethan ignored the comment and kept the binoculars pointed at the lobby door.

  In a few moments Mrs. Funar emerged from the apartment. She had taken the time to change into a flower skirt and black blouse. Probably expensive, but a little unfashionable.

  The woman descended a ramp that led to the building's underground parking garage. A minute later a silver Mercedes-Benz CLS ascended the ramp. The luxury vehicle was driven by Mrs. Funar.

  "Tail her," he told Bretta.

  8

  Ethan sat back as Bretta pulled onto the road in pursuit. Into his concealed mic he said: "Eight-Blue, you with us?"

  "Two car-lengths behind," Jerry returned.

  Ethan glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the white van. "Where the hell did you come from?"

  "Tradecraft secret."

  The Audi passed the accident—the operative in play appeared to be doing his best to occupy the Romanian surveillance team. One of the officers was talking on a cellphone, likely with headquarters.

  On cue Jerry's voice came over the line: "My comm guy tells me the police just issued an alert for a silver Mercedes-Benz CLS."

  "Got it," Ethan said. "Watch for police cruisers."

  Always keeping at least three cars between her and the target, Bretta followed Mrs. Funar westward from the city. After about twenty minutes, the Mercedes-Benz turned into the parking lot of a large forested nature reserve. Bretta waited curbside a few moments, then navigated into the lot and parked near the entrance, using a nearby Dacia subcompact to shield her from view of the Mercedes-Benz on the far side of the lot.

  Mrs. Funar was already out there, walking onto one of the trails. She glanced over her shoulder once and then hurried onward.

  Eight-Blue's Ford Transit pulled into the lot behind them.

  Ethan and Bretta proceeded on foot after Mrs. Funar. The path wended between Swiss stone pines and junipers. Using the trees for cover, the pair kept well back, giving the woman lots of room.

  "Status," Jerry's voice came over the comm.

  "Still in pursuit of subject," Ethan returned.

  Mrs. Funar took a side trail. Ethan halted behind a thick trunk at the edge of said path and peered past: he spotted a decrepit-looking shack through the pines. The woman approached it.

  A strongman stood guard at the entrance. Mrs. Funar seemed undeterred by him: in fact, she walked right up to the individual and, judging from his subdued body language, she must have been scolding him. With his head down, he let her inside the shack. A moment later another man emerged; he clasped his palms together in front of him, doing a bad job of hiding the pistol he held.

  Ethan pressed the transmit button. "The subject has entered a shack in the woods. There are two guards, one armed. Maelstrom and I are going in."

  "Roger that," Jerry returned. "We got your back."

  He glanced over his shoulder and spotted various members of Eight-Blue taking up support positions in the trees around them.

  He was about to approach the shack when up ahead a man walking a Romanian shepherd dog on a leash came into view.

  "I have an idea," Ethan told Bretta.

  He let the man pass a
nd then followed him, allowing the thick pines to shield him and Bretta from the shack. He knew that members of Eight-Blue would alert him if anything important transpired behind him.

  Ethan closed the distance as they neared the parking lot.

  "Salut," he told the man.

  "Salut," the man answered cautiously.

  "Tell him I'll pay him five hundred euros to borrow his dog," Ethan instructed Bretta.

  When she finished saying the words, Ethan handed him five crisp bills.

  The man tossed Ethan the leash and spoke something in rapid-fire Romanian.

  "Borrow?" Bretta translated. "You can have the dog, man!"

  The guy pocketed the money and ran off, perhaps worried Ethan would change his mind.

  Ethan exchanged an astonished look with Bretta, then made his way back down the trail with the Romanian shepherd in the lead.

  "There's always something disarming about a couple walking a dog," Ethan explained.

  "Sure, but who walks a dog in a business suit?" Bretta commented.

  "Lots of people."

  He saw a member of the support team standing on the trail far ahead. The operative was waiting there to direct people away from the shack, Ethan knew. He glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, another operative watched the tail end of the path behind them.

  Bretta retrieved her cellphone and started texting. No, she wasn't actually texting, but merely pretending.

  At the side path, Ethan swerved off the main trail and headed toward the shack, trying to pretend the black and white dog led him. Once the Romanian shepherd had the scent of the two men, Ethan no longer had to pretend, as curiosity led the animal forward. Bretta followed beside him, texting away, eyes glued to her screen.

  As Ethan approached, the Romanian strongman with the gun gave Ethan a defiant look and purposely switched the order of his folded palms so that the pistol was more readily visible.

  Ethan halted, tugging on the leash. The dog stopped but didn't turn away. It barked at the two men.

  Bretta continued forward, texting on her phone, seemingly oblivious.

  "Gabriela," Ethan said in his best mimicry of the Romanian accent that he could manage. "Gabriela!"

  The armed strongman shifted uncomfortably, and Ethan was worried he might try to shoot Bretta.

  "Gabriela!" he tried again.

  When she was four meters from the shack she abruptly looked up and pretended to notice the man with the pistol for the first time.

  "Vă rog!" Bretta said. "Nu ne omoare!" From her body language, and the pleading in her voice, Ethan presumed she was asking the man not to kill her.

  She dropped to her knees and clasped her hands. "Vă rog!" Please.

  She was a great actor. Ethan could almost believe she was terrified.

  The strongman said something in Romanian to Ethan, beckoning anxiously toward Bretta with his pistol. Ethan thought he was asking him to get her out of there.

  Ethan raised a pacifying palm and approached very slowly, keeping his gaze on the strongmen. His body language was saying: "It's okay. I'm only going to get my girlfriend and then we're going. Please don't shoot."

  When he was beside her, he gave her a gentle kick with one foot, not letting his gaze leave the strongmen. "Gabriela."

  He slowly turned his body toward her, placing his back to the strongmen. He switched the leash to his left hand and surreptitiously reached inside his jacket, wrapping his fingers around the Px4.

  "Gabriela," he said. She looked up at him, the tears streaming down her face.

  Then she winked. He realized her hand was at her ankle.

  Ethan nodded very slightly. He abruptly released the dog and turned around, drawing his weapon in the same motion. Bretta likewise unholstered her Px4. Together they trained their handguns on the guards.

  The armed strongman raised his own pistol but he couldn't decide whether to target Bretta or Ethan, and his aim constantly switched between the two.

  Bretta calmly addressed the man in Romanian. She was holding a badge in her left hand. Probably a Romanian police replica.

  The armed man's eyes darted uncertainly between Ethan and her. Ethan was about to call in the rest of the team when Bretta spoke again, her voice harder this time.

  The strongman slowly lowered the pistol to the ground, then raised his hands.

  "Cover me." Ethan holstered his Px4 and retrieved the abandoned pistol, a Glock 17. He slid the Glock toward Bretta and then forced the two men to the ground. He flexicuffed them in turn.

  The dog had run off by then. Probably back to its owner's residence.

  Two other members of Eight-Blue approached, pistols at arm's length, ready to fire at the dilapidated structure. He spotted more operatives coming from the trees on either side of the building.

  "We've formed a perimeter around the shack," Jerry said over the line. "Looks like the front door is the only access point."

  Ethan retrieved the Px4 from his shoulder holster. "Going in."

  One of the operatives took Ethan's place above the prostrate strongmen.

  Ethan and Bretta assumed positions on either side of the door. Ethan indicated that she was to go low. Bretta nodded.

  He counted down on three fingers and then kicked the door in. He went high, Bretta low. There was no one in his Px4 sights.

  A table with three laptops running third-person shooters was set against the wall, along with folding chairs. Bags of chips and pop cans lay open beside the laptops. A fridge resided against the opposite wall. Near the far side of the room squatted a wide desk, its drawers obscuring any potential tangos on the other side. On the desk was a large, sealed gym bag.

  Ethan motioned for Bretta to take the left side of the shack. Ethan, meanwhile, took the right. A third operative joined them, moving down the middle. Pistols held at eye level, together the three of them advanced, slowly making their way toward the desk.

  Ethan passed the gaming laptops, ignoring the distracting sounds of gunfire coming from the headphones.

  Bretta and the support operative closed in on the left side of the desk while Ethan took the right. Staying a meter from the edges, they slowly increased their angles of exposure until the back of the desk was revealed. Three individuals huddled behind it.

  "Up!" Ethan said. "Hands in the air!"

  The individuals complied.

  The first was Mrs. Funar. The second, a hot blonde number dressed in a midriff-revealing top and short skirt. Couldn't have been more than nineteen. The last was Andrei aka The Yellowjacket. Ethan recognized him from his booking photos. He was a lanky thirty-six-year-old whose boyish features made him appear little more than a geeky high school student. He had acne scars, with a few fresh pimples. Thick-rimmed glasses. A touch of rosacea on his cheeks and nose. His T-shirt depicted a sword-wielding knight defending against a huge black dragon with a maw that dripped slime.

  Andrei held a closed laptop under his arm; keeping his Px4 trained on the man, Ethan snatched the computer and tossed it onto the desk.

  Ethan glanced at Bretta. "Care to do the honors?"

  She proceeded to flexicuff the wrists of all three prisoners behind their backs.

  Ethan glanced at the support operative. "Get the women out of here. They don't need to see what happens next."

  The mother began to protest in Romanian.

  "Now!" Ethan said, shoving the woman away.

  The support operative took over and directed the bound women toward the door. The young girl looked like she was going to cry.

  The mother glanced his way and spoke again before the operative forced her outside.

  "What did she say?" Ethan asked Bretta.

  "You don't want to know."

  Ethan spoke into his mic. "Eight-Blue, we have the suspect. I'm going to need you to hold the fort while we engage in a little one-on-one."

  "Got it," Jerry returned. "Switching to covert mode and maintaining defensive perimeter. Please advise when you're ready to relocate the subject."r />
  "Will do."

  Ethan holstered the Px4 in his shoulder harness and grabbed two wooden chairs from the gaming area. He positioned them in the middle of the room, facing each other.

  "Put him here," he told Bretta.

  She forced Andrei into the chair. His bound knuckles thumped loudly on the hard seat.

  Ethan sat down in front of him.

  "Translate," he told Bretta.

  9

  Before Ethan could speak further, Andrei interrupted him.

  "I know English." Andrei spat the latter word as if he hated the language. "So you won't be needing your little girlfriend." His accent was thick but understandable.

  "First thing you're going to learn is some respect." Ethan got up, grabbed Andrei by the hair and led him to the desk. He proceeded to slam Andrei's head onto the hard surface.

  Andrei looked up. He appeared stunned. "Hey, you can't—"

  Ethan slammed his head down again.

  When Andrei raised his chin again, his face was all red and he blinked rapidly. Blood trickled from a small gash in his cheek.

  "Ready to show some respect now?" Ethan asked him.

  Andrei nodded quickly.

  Ethan led him back to the chair and sat down in front of him once more.

  Bretta opened the gym bag on the desk and produced several bundles of purple and red euro bills. She retrieved a black sack, too, and from it scooped out a handful of diamonds.

  "I don't know where those came from," Andrei said.

  "Bye-bye money stash," Ethan said. "Bye-bye hot girlfriend. You're going back to jail."

  "Can I talk to my lawyer now?"

  "There will be no lawyers here. I'm not with the police, nor government."

  "Then who are you?"

  "Call me a vigilante."

  Andrei laughed. "I'm the vigilante. Romanians have been beaten down for decades. Our country was given to the Soviets after World War II because of our stupid leaders, who backed Hitler. Like we had any choice. Finally we broke free of the dictatorship in 1989 to join NATO, and eventually the European Union. And yet we're still treated like a bunch of gypsies, no matter which countries we visit. Like we're worth little more than dogs. Twisted teeth and dirty skin, they say we have. And they give us the worst jobs. Well to hell with you foreigners. We'll scam you all. You'll make us rich. It's our way of fighting back. You can call us whatever names you want. Spit on us. Shit on us. Do your worst. Meanwhile, we have a hand in your back pockets, whisking away your money right out from under your insulting noses."