by Josie Brown
Dr. Zoran’s anguished squeals had no effect on Jack. He was willing to bide his time. After all, he’d already elicited the only thing Acme’s client, the Yugoslavian government, had asked for—the name of the Swiss bank, which had handled the funds embezzled during Slobodan Miloševićs reign. At this point, any other knowledge the man, known throughout the country as “the Sadistic Serbian Surgeon,” was willing to part with was icing atop a pair of black and blue balls.
He was just about to prod Dr. Zoran again when a text came through on his cell phone:
KD down. ID. Sofia B.
The news was depressing. Apparently, an Acme agent, Kiril Dragonov, had been murdered in the neighboring country of Bulgaria. And because Jack was the closest operative, he was in charge of identifying the remains.
For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Kiril—full of life, quick with a joke, and insightful on the matters of human character—was lying on some cold steel slab. On the other hand, Ratko—who had murdered tens of thousands and profited handsomely off the sale of their body parts—might walk away a eunuch, but he’d walk away nonetheless.
Life just wasn’t fair.
The cattle prod next landed on Zoran’s right cheek. Jack held it there until even he was sick from the stench of searing flesh.
It was in just the right place to nudge a vain man into spilling his guts. The contact’s name poured out of him.
So did the promise to reveal other contacts—those in Russia who had provided aid and arms. “But—but please! Not my face again—please! I’m a plastic surgeon, and I’ve got to look my best!”
“Don’t worry about the fucking scar, Doc. Now that you’ve given up this guy, he’ll come looking for you so that he can skin you alive.” Jack slid a pad and pen in front of Zoran. “If you come through with the intel, you’ll get a new face and a ticket to the United States, courtesy of the State Department’s Witness Protection program.”
The doctor hesitated before writing. “How do I know you’ll honor this promise?”
Jack smacked Zoran’s cheek with the cattle prod. “Doctor, one way or another, I’ll get the information.”
The man pursed his lips. Finally, he nodded.
Jack untied Zoran’s restraints and watched as he scribbled furiously on the pad in front of him. What the man didn’t know, but Jack did, was that he’d been given authority to make the offer without the use of torture.
In other words, the cattle prod was Jack’s idea.
When Zoran was done, Jack took the pad and nodded to the Yugoslavian guards to take the prisoner away. He’d be held until the intel was verified.
As he headed out the door, Jack turned back to Zoran. “Remember one thing, doctor—they may not find you in your new life, but I’ll always know where you are.”
The doctor grimaced—not from the pain, but from a problem that would last him a lifetime—Jack.
The man sent by Bulgaria’s intelligence agency, HPC, to meet Jack’s flight was a bearded hulking giant of a man named Nikolay Krastevich. In broken but serviceable English, he informed Jack that HPC had its own morgue, where Kiril Dragonov’s body was being held for identification. Nikolay also assured him that before the webcam footage was deleted, it was downloaded onto a thumb drive, as per Ryan’s request.
He tossed it to Jack, who caught it with one hand.
Through the years, Jack had shared missions and beers with Kiril. He would sorely miss his friend, personally and professionally. Like Jack, Kiril had been an excellent sharpshooter. Over the past few months, he had been assigned to follow up on their Eastern European leads related to the Quorum.
Should he meet Kiril’s fate one day, he wondered who’d be sent to retrieve his body, and where it would be sent, since there was no place he called home, let alone anyone to mourn him.
Having arrived in the middle of Sofia’s rush hour, Jack and Nikolay fought the traffic all the way between the airport and HPC. Jack didn’t understand Nikolay’s curses, but the hand gestures that went with them were understood in any language.
“You live now in Paris?” Nikolay asked between honks.
So that Nikolay could keep his eyes on the road, Jack resisted the urge to nod instead of talk. “Yes—for now.” As if he had anywhere else to go.
Nikolay nodded sagely. “My kind of town. Land of lovers, eh?”
Jack wanted to tell him, I wouldn’t know.
But that would be a lie. He’d been in love in Paris, once.
He didn’t have to answer because Nikolay pulled into the parking lot of the morgue.
Considering Kiril’s face had been blown away, there wasn’t much to ID, so the process took all of five minutes. It was more of a formality, really, since they’d already identified him from his fingerprints.
Jack asked Nikolay to cremate Kiril’s body and have the ashes interred in a local cemetery.
“No family, eh?” Nikolay shook his head as he genuflected.
Jack was silent all the way back to his hotel room.
Someday, the operative sent to ID Jack’s body would say the same about him.
The webcam footage showed that the shooter was a woman.
Jack turned white when he realized who he was looking at.
But...how could that be? She was presumed dead.
He zoomed in to make sure.
But of course, he’d know her anywhere.
When she was done, she strolled away from the car, toward another parked across the street.
He also recognized the man in the driver’s seat.
Somehow, they had survived—
Both of them.
Anger surged through him. He slammed his computer shut.
He wondered how Ryan would react when he heard the news. He’d never seen his boss lose his cool, but there was a first time for everything.
Jack thought it would be best to deliver the news to Ryan in person, but he suggested they meet somewhere outside of Acme headquarters. He didn’t want anyone else to know he was in town.
They met in a private hotel suite at one of the large, faceless hotels ringing LAX. When Jack answered Ryan’s knock, he shook his hand, but he didn’t say anything. So that it was easier for Ryan to see their dilemma with his own eyes, he played the Bulgaria webcam for him.
When it was over, Ryan’s face had lost all its color. His hand shook as he clicked the button to play the recording again. And again.
Both men sat quietly for ten minutes. Finally, Ryan said, “Now we know for sure.”
“But…how?” Jack could barely speak through his rage.
“Does it matter? No. What’s more, we’re going to let them to think they got away with it,” Ryan explained.
Jack shook his head, confused.
“That way, they’ll get cocky. They’ll make stupid mistakes. They’ll come into the light.” Ryan paced the room as he tried to think it through.
“I go solo on this one.” Jack was adamant.
“You’ll get no argument from me on that,” Ryan assured him. “You’re naked on this mission for as long as you see fit. In fact, you report only to me on your progress, and in person. We can’t take the chance that there’s a leak within Acme. When you feel you need back-up, you let me know. We’ll put together an airtight support team.”
They shook on it.
It would have to be a crackerjack team—focused, with no hidden agendas. Considering the damage done to Acme—and personally, to Donna and her family—the mission deserved nothing less.
All the more reason Donna would have to sit this one out. Revenge was not the issue.
This was about redemption.
Thank goodness Ryan saw it this way, too.
Now, it was time for Jack to set the trap.
RIGHT NOW
Chapter 22
Unavoidably Detained
Tally of This Year’s “Undercover Lover” Award:
3rd Runner Up, with 6% of the Vote:
Aleksandr Loris-Meli
kov
Moscow Bureau. Cover Occupation: Caviar Exporter
What Makes Him Memorable:
Aleksandr claims that the Siberian gulag prisoner number, tattooed on his bulging right bicep (259.08), equals the size of his cock, in millimeters.
(Yes, this has been confirmed.)
2nd Runner Up, with 12% of the Vote:
Alberto Francisco Sanchez Rubio
Barcelona Bureau. Cover Occupation: Toreador
What Makes Him Memorable:
Most Audacious Pick-Up Line:
If I show you where I’ve been gored, will you kiss it and make it better?”
1st Runner Up, with 39% of the Vote:
Dominic Fleming, 12th Baron of Wellesington
London Bureau. Cover Occupation: “I dabble.”
What Makes Him Memorable:
His “physical stamina”—and the fact that afterwards he serves a perfect British tea with the most heavenly scones!
Winner, with 41% of the Vote:
Jack Craig
Paris Bureau. Cover Occupation: International Banker
What Makes Him Memorable:
Everything! You’re drawn to him because of the sadness in his eyes.
Should he take you as a lover, you’ll discover he’s both fierce and gentle.
But don’t fall in love with him, because he makes no promises.
There were no direct flights from Sofia to any airport in the United States, Acme’s in-house travel coordinator explained to Jack. She’d have to route him through Frankfurt or London’s Heathrow.
“Fine, no problem,” he assured her. “Listen, do me a favor, sweetheart. So that I won’t be disturbed on either flight, put me up in a first-class seat—oh, and get the seat adjacent so I can avoid prying eyes while I work.”
“Sure, anything for this year’s Undie winner,” she gushed.
“Um…thanks.”
“You know, I voted for you.”
“You didn’t really have to.”
“Oh, but I did! You’re the only one I haven’t slept with.” Her voice was filled with the promise to make it worth his while, should he want to rectify the matter.
“You’re out of Acme Manhattan, am I right?”
“You’ve got that right,” she purred. “Maybe that’s where I should schedule your stopover.”
“No, don’t bother. I’ve reached my quota with that office.”
He meant it as a joke, but by the clipped, frigid tone of her voice, he realized she didn’t find it funny as she told him, “You can pick up your ticket upon check-in.”
“Which airline?”
“Which is your favorite?”
“Lufthansa, if it can be arranged. If not, I’ll take British Air.”
He heard the tap, tap, tap of her fingers on a keyboard. “So sorry, but it seems the only seats available are on Bulgaria Air, you can transfer at Heathrow to British Air.”
Ah, he thought, payback time. “Then I guess that will have to do.”
Her goodbye was a dial tone.
When he got to the gate, he learned his ticket was a middle seat in coach, on a full flight.
The ticket sleeve held a digital photo of his travel coordinator. She could have easily made Maxim’s Top Ten list of Hottest Women.
Maybe I need to loosen up, he chided himself.
One thing was for sure—she’d vote for someone else next time.
Good. It was one title he’d happily surrender.
Jack wondered if the travel coordinator routed him through London because she knew a snowstorm was about to hit the British Isles.
The plane rocked and rolled during landing. When he asked the coordinator to book him a hotel accommodation near Heathrow, she clicked her tongue in mock sympathy. “Sorry, Mr. Craig, but there’s nothing available. I’m sure there’s a spare bench there at Heathrow to accommodate your big, strapping frame…Oh, there isn’t? Let me check the rest of the city. There may not be any taxis running, but you can catch the Underground’s Piccadilly Line, which takes you right into the heart of the city.”
“May I speak to Ryan, please?” Jack tried to keep his tone nice and easy.
A moment later, Ryan’s voice came on the line. “Dominic is expecting your call.”
Jack groaned, then hung up.
The last thing he wanted to do was rendezvous with Acme’s London bureau agent, Dominic Fleming.
In previous dealings with the British agent, he’d come to two conclusions—the first being that the man was a blowhard, and the second, that it was wise to take everything he said with a grain of salt large enough to choke a racehorse.
The only thing that mitigated Ryan’s mandate was that the Brit was a charter member of several of London’s top private clubs, including Annabel’s, the Groucho, and Soho House. Invariably, he arranged for a few comely ladies to accompany them.
“Let’s meet at the Groucho, old boy.” Dominic’s lilting baritone promised fun and games. “In fact, I bequeath you first dibs on my other guests! I met them while perusing the latest shipment of bondage accouterments in 50 & Dean. Buttercup and Delilah are fetish models, and all that it implies: lush figures, nimble bodies, and compliant enough to prove it in the two boudoir suites I’ve reserved for us at the club.”
Jack laughed. “You’re on—but only if you promise not to interrogate my playmate afterward, as to the highlights of my bedside manner. This obsession you have with the Undies is ruining our bromance.”
For the past five years, Jack had edged out the handsomely square-jawed blond aristocrat for the “Undercover Lover” award, an unofficial poll run by Spooklandia’s worldwide network of female desk operatives. Dominic had made it no secret that he was pulling out all stops to best Jack in the next Undies, as it was euphemistically called.
“Not to worry,” Dominic assured him. “I can easily access the Groucho’s security feed and analyze your technique for myself. This gives me the added advantage of being spared your conquest’s rapturous recital—which, by what confessions I’ve heard thus far, have more to do with your dark, brooding demeanor than any super-human prowess.”
Since Donna’s transformation, he’d done everything—make that, everyone—he could, to forget her. He’d lost count of the number of women he’d bedded. On purpose, there was no pattern to the partners he chose. They came in all shapes and sizes. One day, she may be a blonde, the next day a brunette, perhaps followed by a redhead even later the same night. Their temperament varied, too. A flirt might presume she’d said all the right things to get him up to her flat. In truth, a shy woman who was awed by his attention was just as likely to attract him. And he’d just as soon fuck a nurse or a waitress as a lawyer—or a prostitute, for that matter.
If they were ready, willing and able, married women weren’t a problem for him—unless were stay-at-home mothers, for obvious reasons.
“Perhaps if I tamped down my naturally sunny disposition,” Dominic suddenly added after Jack’s long pause.
“That would be a start. You may also want to cut back on all the in-the-act selfies. Most women prefer you to share the moment of ecstasy with them alone, as opposed to your growing legion of Facebook fans.”
It was a shot in the dark, but Jack knew he’d hit a bull’s eye when Dominic muttered dryly, “Let me point out that anyone can claim, ‘Washington slept here.’ I’m providing them historical proof, the ungrateful trollops! Yes, well, to that end, here’s to burnishing our reputations—and theirs, later tonight. Nine sharp.”
Jack would have been on time, too, had he not recognized the man walking out of the Groucho Club’s double front door, just as he was walking into it:
The man with the pinky ring.
Their eyes met only for a split second, but that was enough time for Pinky Ring to realize that Jack had no intention of losing him this time.
Pinky Ring slammed the door on Jack’s knee and ran down the street. Jack hobbled after him, down Dean Street. But when the man turned left on Bouch
ier, Jack realized there was no way to catch him on foot.
The hack, which had just let Pinky Ring out, had been stopped at the light at the other end of the block, while turning onto Old Compton street. Jack opened the driver-side door and tossed the cabbie out of the cab.
But instead of following Pinky Ring, Jack headed in the opposite direction—toward Old Compton, then right onto Wardour. Bouchier dead-ended on Wardour Street, and he guessed—rightly so—that Pinky Ring would turn left, back toward Old Compton, where it would be easier for him to catch another cab.
When Pinky Ring waved him down, Jack pulled over, skidding in front of another cab to do so. The competing cabbie rewarded him with a two-finger salute before screeching off.
Pinky Ring opened the door and was about to hop in when he saw Jack’s face in the review mirror. Jack grabbed at his coat sleeve, but the man jerked away and fell back—
Right into the path of a double-decker bus.
The driver tried to swerve to miss Pinky Ring, but he still winged him. The Mercedes finished the job the bus started. It smacked into him, then dragged him half a block down the street before swerving away.
Jack pushed his way through the crowd until he could kneel over him. The front of Pinky Ring’s shirt was already soaked in the crimson blood.
No matter how hard Jack begged the dying man to explain his connection to Carl, Pinky Ring’s whispers were lost in the din of the shocked throng as his life flickered out.
Cradling him gave Jack the opportunity to pick the dying man’s coat pocket. As he’d hoped, the man’s wallet was there, as was a door key.
He also twisted off the man’s ring and slipped it onto his own finger before lurching off into the thickening crowd.
By the time he made it back to the Groucho, Dominic had, as the concierge so delicately put it, “retired with his other guests.” The man eyed Jack knowingly. He turned in order to pull a brass door key, embossed with the number 13.
