The Red Pearl Effect (Sam Quick Adventure Book 1)

by Scott Corlett

  “Great, I thought you just might.” Then Sam Quick added, “Drink up, gentlemen—the next round of caffeine is on me.”

  – 26 –

  Thursday, 12 July

  Calatayud, Spain

  Angry red streaks sliced across the darkness ahead as overtaking cars cut back into the lane ahead.

  “Can’t we go any faster?” Amanda said, as she ground her dreadlocks into the headrest and reached for the joint. Outside, a road sign seemed to crawl by the BMW, while on the center console, the digital clock seemed as if it had been frozen at 9:15 for the past twenty minutes.

  Like her companions, since arriving this morning from New York, she had shed the expensive look designed to smooth entry past border control. Now the metal piercings again lined her ears, and she wore a T-shirt and jeans.

  From the driver’s seat, Gabriel laid a hand on the tight denim encasing her thigh. “What’s the rush? You want the police to stop us for speeding and then expel us from the country for carrying pot, all on the eve of the twenty-first century’s defining event?”

  Then his gaze went to the rearview mirror, landing on Jacob, who lay sprawled along the rear bench, pressed against a door. “Just sit back and enjoy the ride, kids—we’re right on schedule.”

  Amanda sighed and passed the joint over her shoulder to Jacob. Then she peeled Gabriel’s hand off her leg, shoved it away, and rubbed her hands before the dash vents as if trying to wash them clean in the outrushing air.

  “I tell you: I still think this is a setup,” she started. “We wire the money and then, bam, some pervy counterterrorism agents throw black hoods over our heads and then ship us to Romania for torture and interrogation in a secret prison.” These were the doubts that she dared articulate. But what she really wondered was whether her family would even recognize her after all was said and done. And my so-called boyfriend is really starting to piss—

  “Just maybe she’s got a point. Because, yeah, why’d some Russians want to help us, anyway?” Jacob said. “What’s in it for them?”

  “Now you’re starting to sound like her. It’s rather simple: what’s in it for them, like we’ve said, is a hell of a lot of my family’s money.” Gabriel laughed. “The pot is making you two paranoid.”

  He held up his hand and snapped his fingers. Jacob handed him the joint, as another passing horn droned. Gabriel inhaled deeply, pulling the superheated air and its infusion of soothing chemical into his lungs. The corners of his mouth curved upward, while the joint hung at the bottom of his smile. “Yes, my friends, soon the world will understand how false and empty our leaders and their materialistic greed really are.”

  Then another car cut off the BMW. And the red slash of its taillights pointed to a sign reading, “Zaragoza 80 km.”

  – 27 –

  Friday, 13 July

  Madrid

  They waited. At three A.M., the narrow street angling off the Puerta del Sol was just as hot and dusty and, until an hour ago, as crowded as at midday. Now the steady crush of pedestrians had thinned to irregularly spaced clumps.

  Sam Quick held up her hand, surveying the street, which was finally empty for a block in either direction. “OK, everyone remember the plan?”

  Zach Davies swore softly, while Eric Hunt nodded.

  “All right, let’s move then.”

  They crossed the street to the midrise. At the building entrance, Quick opened a large purse bought from a street vendor and started pawing through it as if looking for her keys. As she did this, Hunt discreetly held his smartphone alongside a gray plastic rectangle affixed beside the entryway.

  Churning numbers filled the phone’s screen, and Quick and Davies shared a brief glance, both impressed by Hunt’s delivery. Practically before she had finished outlining the plan back in the plaza, Hunt had downloaded a decryption hack for unlocking doors secured by radio-signal swipe-card readers. Exactly like the card reader that he had earlier seen when visiting the building. The hack would not work for military-grade security systems, but for the customary installations found at commercial or governmental buildings, his phone was now a master key.

  After twenty seconds, a green light flashed on the card reader, and a buzzer sounded. Hunt pulled open the door and looked from Quick to Davies. “After you.”

  Inside the lobby, they crossed the entry hall as quietly as possible, ignoring the tiny, noisy elevator as planned, and instead filed onto the staircase spiraling up around the lift.

  Halfway up the first flight, Hunt whispered, “I hope the Spanish authorities accept cards for bail because I’m fresh out of euros.” His whisper deepened and roughened, “American Express, don’t break in without it.”

  “I thought that was why we let the embassy guy tag along—his diplomatic immunity is our get-out-of-jail-free card,” Quick replied in a deadpan voice.

  “Hilarious.” Davies momentarily locked eyes with Quick.

  They continued climbing and finally stepped off at the fourth-floor landing. At the office door, Quick knelt. She slipped a small portfolio from the purse and removed a long, slender tool that looked like it was used to clean teeth in dental offices. A second instrument joined it, and the tools slid into the keyhole.

  “So this is how scientists unlock life’s mysteries,” Davies said, looking back and forth down the hall.

  “Tools for collecting samples,” Quick replied, as the rods jagged and tacked as if a knitter were weaving his hundredth afghan. “In high school, I ran a little business opening student vehicles in which keys were locked.”

  A clicking sound came from within the door; the metal rods withdrew.

  “Not for the money. But mainly to hear blockheaded jocks stammer while asking for a girl’s help, particularly with errors involving the rolling extensions of their peripubescent manhoods.” She flashed Davies a smile. “Presumably you’ve crested sexual maturity, but if you ever happen to lock your keys in your car, Zach, I’d be most glad to assist.”

  “I bet,” Davies grunted.

  The instruments returned to their case. “Eric, you’re up.”

  “Check.”

  Quick opened the door. A beep greeted them. Then another. And another, with the interval of intervening silence shortening with each new sounding. The Americans slipped inside, and the door clicked shut behind them.

  Scanning the reception area, Hunt caught the wolf’s glowering eyes and the falcon’s beady orbs staring directly at him from the massive oil painting, the predators seemingly weighing his potential as their next meal.

  “Eric,” Davies whispered, “the alarm.”

  The grad student crossed to the opposite wall, where red lights flashed on a display, in unison with the beeping. He held his smartphone alongside the panel and tapped a button. A series of six whirring numbers appeared on the phone’s interface. From the left, the digits began stopping one by one, like a digital slot-machine’s readout.

  As each number locked, Hunt immediately punched the alarm pad’s corresponding button. The first three numbers resolved almost immediately, but the last three digits were still spinning away, as the flashing red light and beeping pulsed ever closer together.

  “Time’s running out, Eric,” Davies said, while Quick studied one of the paintings.

  The fourth number locked, and the fifth and sixth digits remained in play. The beeps nearly merged into the continuous squawk of a flat-lining cardiac patient. Then the fifth number nailed, and Hunt hit the button on the alarm panel. His index finger continued roaming over the keypad, ready to stab the sixth digit when it came up on his phone.

  “Eric, hurry—,” Davies started as the last beep gave way to a continuous tone. The grad student punched a button, and a steady green light flashed on.

  “Hey, your phone.” Davies pointed at the smartphone and the still-spinning sixth digit.

  Hunt shrugged. “Sometimes you gotta go with your gut.”

  Quick’s flashlight beam pegged the inner-office door. “Zach, you’re on lookout d
uty. Eric, bring your phone and your … um, gut.”

  Hunt followed Quick, while Davies moved for the reception desk, muttering, “Great. I’ll just keep the wolf and the falcon company.”

  Inside the office, pale light spilled from a huge window overlooking Madrid. Quick went behind the desk and started pulling drawers.

  Hunt gave a low whistle. “The inner sanctum makes the reception area look like a thrift store.” Hunt pointed at a flag stretched across most of one wall. “And what’s with the mutant bird?”

  Quick glanced up. The panel’s background was butterscotch colored. And a black, double-headed eagle filled its center, with each head topped by a crown. “Well, vexillology was never my strong suit,” the scientist paused, “but I’d say that’s the Russian royal standard.”

  She nodded at the desktop computer. “I’m more interested in what’s on this baby.”

  Hunt squinted at the bizarre bird one more time. Then he circled the desk, pulling a cord from his pocket. He tethered his phone to the computer and then grabbed the desktop keyboard. A few moments later, he shook his head. “The files are encrypted”—another barrage of keystrokes—“I can copy them. But opening them will require some help … Sam … Sam?”

  Hunt’s gaze rose from the monitor and followed Quick to the wall opposite the flag, to a large portrait. In the painting, a man was seated with a woman standing behind him, her hand on his shoulder. The figures were dressed in regal vestments and adorned with glittering jewels. Both wore crowns. And they were situated in front of the Russian royal flag.

  “The Falcon,” Eric Hunt said.

  Sam Quick pointed at the other figure, at the beauty mark high on its right cheek. “And the woman from the lobby earlier today.”

  ∞

  The cold metal and whalebone slid along her inner thigh, and the downy hair on her forearms stood at attention. The Beretta Bobcat—with its owner’s name, “Nin,” obliquely scrimshawed in cursive script across the gun’s whalebone grip—entered the leather holster strapped high on her leg, under her short, red skirt.

  Nin Zanin smoothed the fabric and smiled at her sister, who was performing the same maneuver with a Bobcat identical except for the name “Solta” carved on its grip.

  Then Nin barked some orders at the driver, who was holding open the rear door of the big sedan. Nin and Solta climbed into the car, while the driver’s eyes snapped to the muscular thighs and calves now jackknifing below the tiny skirts as they slid in the vehicle’s rear compartment. The door slammed shut with more force than necessary for such a well-crafted vehicle; the driver hurried for his seat.

  The engine’s twelve cylinders roared. In unison, the sisters tilted imperceptibly to the side, as the car whipped around a corner.

  “You should not worry so much.” Solta patted her sister’s leg. “In less than a week, everything will be over.”

  Nin pursed her lips and said nothing.

  Several minutes later, the sedan glided into an alley and rolled to a stop. The driver jumped out and opened the rear door. The twins exited. Solta fished a buzzing cellphone from a skirt pocket. She spoke for a moment, then ended the call. “That was the technician in Moscow. The intruders just signed off the office computer.”

  “Good,” Nin said. “If we hurry, driver and I will catch them on the fourth floor, and the cleanup team can haul them down the service elevator. And in case Dr. Quick runs, Solta, you watch the front entrance.”

  Solta nodded and headed down the alley.

  Nin swiped her ID card against the reader for the building’s service entrance. The door buzzed.

  “Well, don’t just stand there drooling,” Nin Zanin growled at the driver. “Get moving.”

  ∞

  “Are you two almost finished?” Davies called from the outer office.

  Hunt nodded at Quick and untethered his phone from the computer. The scientists retreated, and Quick waved at the fantasy portrait of Sokolóv and his tsarina. “See you soon.”

  “What did you find?” Davies asked, as the pair emerged.

  “We won’t know until we decrypt the files.” Quick nodded at the alarm panel. “Eric, the honors, please.”

  The grad student punched in the deciphered code; the beeping and flashing returned. The trio hurried from the office. Quick pulled the portfolio from her bag, and the metal rods relocked the door.

  They neared the stairs, when the sounds of rapid footsteps came the hallway’s far end. A couple came into view, walking rapidly toward them.

  “Company, a man and woman.” Quick pointed at the stairs. “Go. I’m right behind.”

  She watched for a moment longer. The approaching figures’ trots turned to all-out gallops. She jumped onto the stairs, a half flight behind Hunt and Davies. The wooden risers shook beneath their hammering feet. Quick caught up to the men as they rounded down onto the second floor, and as the sound of shoes hitting the staircase crashed above.

  Quick edged past Davies. “I suggest picking up the pace.”

  Two flights up, with the driver at her heels, Nin Zanin whipped down the stairs. One hand glided along the railing, while the other dove up her skirt, its red nails finding the Beretta’s grip.

  Outside, from across the street, Solta Zanin watched the building. She had heard no shots yet. Then the entrance door flew open. And the Americans, led by Quick, burst out and started running up the street. She pulled her Bobcat and immediately aimed for the middle runner’s torso, stroking the trigger, as she lined up the shot. Put down the boy, and the other Americans will surely stop to help him—.

  Shrill laughter broke her concentration. Solta glanced sideways and narrowed her eyes at an approaching cluster of scantily dressed young women in animated conversation. The Bobcat plunged under her skirt, as Nin and the driver surged from the building. Solta pointed at the fleeing threesome and began chasing after her sister.

  Quick, Hunt, and Davies jagged down the middle of the street, cutting around the strolling Madrileños who had replaced the street’s automotive traffic, and who ignored the trio as if runners were common during Madrid’s predawn hours. Quick checked over her shoulder and saw the two women and their male companion crash through a slow-moving clump of pedestrians, eliciting drunken shouts.

  “Now three in pursuit. And those aren’t cellphones they’re holding,” Quick yelled, pointing at a side street.

  The passage was hardly more than an alley. Halfway down the block, the first low pounding of a disco beat reached them. The street cut hard right, revealing a small square; the thumping beat sharply intensified.

  The Americans rapidly scanned the little plaza. People smoking and chatting packed the stone pavement. Rope stands and steroidal guards marked the source of the music. And Sam Quick, Eric Hunt, and Zach Davies immediately realized why the beat reverberated so loudly here—buildings enclosed the square on all sides, except for the narrow passage that would soon deliver their hunters.

  – 28 –

  Friday, 13 July

  Madrid

  Quick scanned the crowd for a police presence. Finding none, she grabbed Hunt and Davies, charging the men past the nightclub’s doorman before the giant Spaniard could raise himself from his stool. Inside, the music was deafening. The Americans ran the only way forward, down a flight of steps and then along a red-lit hall lined by glossy black walls. At the corridor’s end, they spilled through a neon-framed archway.

  A vast, writhing subterranean cave lay before them. Darting amoebas of colored light washed over sweaty, jostling dancers, many shirtless and almost all well muscled. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke and aerosolized perspiration, with the glinting particulates pulsating at the music’s 110 beats per minute.

  “I feel a bit out of place,” Quick shouted, seeing no signs of other female life.

  “What now?” Davies yelled over the noise.

  “There must be a second exit,” she shouted back.

  Hunt pointed at an unmarked doorway located on the opposi
te wall. “Let’s try that way.”

  They cut through the crowd, their arms slicked by brushes with the dripping dancers. As they burst through the doorway, the odor of ammonia and a phalanx of muscular backs fronting a wall of urinals met them.

  “Dead end,” Hunt yelled.

  “Where now?” Davies shouted.

  Quick one-eightyed to the dance floor, followed by the men. They searched the black walls for an exit but saw none. Then Quick pointed toward the street entrance: their pursuers stood on the top step, with heads jerking side to side like fast-moving security cameras. Quick did not see the guns, but she knew they had undoubtedly also arrived. One of the women pointed in various directions; the new arrivals split up, with the man stalking directly toward the Americans.

  Still finding no other exit, Quick shouted, “Back into the restroom.”

  Inside, Quick led the men past the urinals to an inner room with four, tightly closed stalls lining each long wall. Quick began pushing on the closed panels, with Hunt and Davies joining in. Each door held fast. Until finally one tried by Davies swung inward twenty degrees, and Spanish shouting erupted from within.

  A young, sweaty face appeared in the space created by the door’s movement. “¡¿Que hace usted?!”

  Davies rapidly asked the man in Spanish to vacate the stall.

  The man inspected each of the three Americans, his gaze lingering on Hunt. Finally he said in heavily accented English, “Just hold on, now I am done anyhow.” The door closed. The Americans looked at each other, and at the restroom entrance where at least one of the armed pursuers would arrive at any moment. Then the door reopened, and the man stepped out, carrying a beer bottle and shaking his head.

  Quick shoved Hunt and Davies into the empty stall. She pointed at the toilet. “Eric, you and I crouch on the seat; Zach, you sit, so anyone looking under the stall door will see only your legs.”

  “And what if that doesn’t deter them?” Davies shouted over the music, which the restroom’s tiled walls amplified like an echo chamber.