by L. T. Ryan
“Don’t move, Mr. Noble,” the man said. “My name is Dimitri. As long as you cooperate, I’ll treat you like a friend, and we’ll have a nice trip back to Russia.”
Jack didn’t say anything. He remained still. The felt the man’s breath against the back of his head, which meant he was probably as tall as Jack, if not taller.
Roll to the right, elbow up. Follow through with a left, across his nose.
Jack shifted.
“Don’t think about it, Noble,” Dimitri said. He whistled.
Jack heard several more footsteps hit the concrete. He looked side to side, saw three men on each side, all with their guns drawn.
“Nowhere to go, Jack,” Dimitri said. “Even if you can get to me, these men will be on you in two seconds.”
The men stepped forward, slowly and deliberately.
Jack took a deep breath. Ten feet to the edge of the walkway. Ten feet to the water. He didn’t know how deep it was and didn’t care. He squatted slightly, right leg back, left leg planted in front. He started to sprint. He felt Dimitri’s free hand wrap around his shoulder. Jack shrugged it off, but not fast enough. Dimitri’s grip altered Jack’s path. His leg twisted. Pain shot through his knee again. He tried to ignore it, couldn’t this time. He only made it a few steps before one of the men tackled him. Jack twisted and flung his elbows. He caught the man in the neck, twisted some more and put the man in a choke hold.
“Back off,” Jack said. “Back off or I’ll break his damn neck.”
No one said anything. No one backed off.
Jack grunted, squeezed tighter. The man tried to talk but nothing came out of his mouth, then he went limp in Jack’s arms. Jack pushed at the dead weight and struggled to free himself. He caught sight of Dimitri and saw the Russian nod toward one of the other men. Jack looked up in time to see the blackjack swinging toward his face, slamming across his forehead. The pain started above his eyebrows and spread throughout his face and wrapped around the back of his head. The edge of his vision darkened. The blackness swallowed up the night and he slipped into unconsciousness.
17
Pierre stepped out of the agency building and onto the sidewalk. Perfect night. Just like the TV weatherman predicted. Clear and cool. He’d walk home tonight. His apartment was only a few miles away. Perhaps he’d even stop and get some dinner on the way home. Anything to keep his mind off of Jack and the situation Pierre put him in.
He pulled out his phone. No missed calls and no messages. He called Jack’s phone. It rang a half dozen times and then went to a generic voicemail. “C’mon, Jack,” he said. “Answer.” He dialed again, still no answer.
Pierre put his phone in his pocket and started down the street toward home. Quieter than normal tonight, especially for such a lovely evening. It didn’t bother Pierre. Sometimes the crowds of Paris got to him. He longed for the days when he was on assignment. He never partnered with more than one other person, and often he worked alone. He preferred to work alone. Another person meant more opportunities for screw ups. Screw ups he had no control over.
A young couple approached. They walked arm in arm. The man nodded at Pierre. The woman smiled.
Pierre nodded back.
He stopped, leaned up against a building and lit a cigarette. He watched the couple pass. Had they any idea, he wondered, how close they had been to a killer? And if he had orders to kill them he wouldn’t give a shit about their love, their past or their future. Nor would he care about the number of family and friends who would be devastated by the lost lives.
Pierre smiled. Perhaps it was a bit demented how he amused himself, but at least he let his mind go there. He figured most people could have the same thoughts if they allowed themselves.
There’s a bit of psycho in all of us.
He and Jack—and people like them—were the real heroes of the world. They did the dirty laundry of nations, kept the peace. Everyone else was a pussy in Pierre’s eyes.
The couple turned down the street and was out of sight. Pierre flicked his cigarette onto the asphalt and continued on his way. He approached his favorite cafe, aptly named Le Café. He opened the wrought iron gate and took a seat in the corner against the wall.
A young, attractive waitress named Katrina walked up to the table. Her brown hair was pulled back, save for a long strand that framed the right side of her face. She wore dark rimmed glasses that dulled her blue eyes. She parted her red lips and asked him what he wanted to eat. He barely heard her, for his focus was on her exposed cleavage.
“Monsieur,” she said in a sing-song tone.
Pierre looked up.
She smiled at him.
He returned the smile.
“Quiche,” he said. It was his favorite dish.
“Oui, immédiatement,” she said. Yes, right away.
He couldn’t take his eyes off of her as she walked to another table set at the other end of the patio. She faced away from him, placed her hands on an empty chair and leaned over. Her tan pants clung tight to her ass and thighs. She turned and caught him staring. He felt his face burn red. He had no idea why.
She winked and smiled as she passed him on the way to the door that led to the main dining room.
Pierre smiled and took a sip of water.
A moment later the waitress reappeared with a bottle of wine. She set it on the table.
“Oh, no thanks,” Pierre said. “I just want the meal.”
“Please,” she said. “It’s on me.”
Pierre smiled.
“And,” she continued, “if you can wait an hour or so, you can have it with me.”
Pierre cocked his head to the side. “Who put you up to this?”
“Sorry?” she said.
“Come on now,” he said. “I’ve been eating here for years. You’ve waited on me several times and never before now have you asked me anything other than what I’d have.”
She shrugged.
“What’s different? Why tonight?”
She said nothing.
“You sure no one put you up to this?”
She smiled and leaned forward. She put her face next to his, her lips next to his ear. “Does this convince you?” She licked his neck and bit his earlobe lightly.
Pierre grinned. “Suppose so.”
She left the bottle on the table and disappeared inside.
He sat back in the chair, bristling with confidence.
The waitress appeared with his dinner. He dropped his cigarette into the ashtray and crushed it out.
“Can you sit?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not till I’m off.”
Pierre nodded and took a bite of his food.
The waitress gasped and flew across the table.
Pierre pushed back in his chair in an attempt to reach for his holstered weapon.
Two large men, one with a colorful tattoo covering half his head, stood before him. Both wore dark suits with t-shirts under their jackets. Both held Russian-made 9 mm pistols in their hands. Both pointed the pistols at Pierre’s head.
“Don’t move,” the tattooed man said with a Russian accent.
The waitress rolled off the table and scrambled to her feet. “What the hell is going on here?”
“Shut up,” the other Russian said.
“Just back up slowly, Kat,” Pierre said.
“Pierre, what the hell is going on?” she said.
Tattoo Head pointed his gun at her. He kept his eyes on Pierre. “Tell her if she wants to live she needs to shut the fuck up.”
“Shut up, Kat,” Pierre said.
She backed up against the railing that separated the cafe terrace from the property next door. She slid down the railing and wrapped her arms around her knees.
“That’s good, Kat,” Pierre said. “Just keep quiet.”
“Get up,” the bald Russian said.
Pierre smiled, put his hands in the air and rose. The other man leaned in and pulled Pierre’s gun from his holster.
�
��Any more weapons?”
Pierre nodded. He placed his right foot on the table and looked at his ankle. The man lifted Pierre’s pant leg and pulled the knife from its sheath.
“That all?”
Pierre nodded. He didn’t take his eyes off of the Russian. However, he could feel the stares of everyone on the patio.
“Shall we go?” Pierre asked.
The bald Russian stood behind Pierre, keeping his gun pressed tight into Pierre’s back. The other man led him across the patio, through the gate and down the sidewalk. They stopped in front of a black sedan. The man opened the door and motioned Pierre in. He slipped in and the bald man got in next to him. The other man ran around front and started the car. They sped off.
“Where are we going?” Pierre asked.
“Shut your damn mouth,” the man next to him said.
“I came peacefully,” Pierre said. “The least you can do is tell me.”
The Russian sighed. “You are coming with us to Russia.”
“For?”
“To answer for your crimes.”
“What crimes are those?”
“The murder of Dorofeyev and his party.”
Pierre said nothing.
Double crossed. But by who? Jack? Oscar? Someone in the agency?
“Anything else?” the man asked.
“Why me?”
The Russian turned and looked at him. “You trying to tell me you are innocent?”
Pierre shrugged. “Well, I didn’t pull a trig—”
The Russian’s large elbow slammed into Pierre’s head. It caught him under his left eye and on the end of his nose. Pierre’s head snapped back and then forward. He brought his hands to his face and felt blood pool in the bottom of his palms.
“Anything else?” the Russian asked again.
“No,” Pierre said. “I’m good.”
He cleared the tears from his eyes then stared out the window, watching the streetlights as they flickered by. They drove through the city, past the Boulevard Périphérique, and through the suburbs.
The panic didn’t really set in until he realized they were too far from the city to be heading toward the airport. He cleared his throat and parted his lips to speak.
“Don’t say a word,” the Russian next to him said.
Pierre sighed and slumped back in his seat.
Less than half an hour later the car slowed and turned. Now he knew. They turned into a private airport that he himself used from time to time. They were taking him to Russia. First class all the way. He laughed at the thought.
“Something funny, Pierre?”
Pierre shook his head.
The car stopped. The man in front got out, circled around the car and opened the door.
Pierre stuck a foot on the soft ground. The man in the backseat pushed him and the man at the door pulled him by his hair. Pierre stumbled out and fell to his knees. The man at the door kicked him in his ribs. Pain ripped through Pierre’s side. He forced a deep breath and winced.
“Let him get up,” the bald Russian said.
The other man laughed and yanked Pierre to his feet by his hair.
“Thank you,” Pierre said through gritted teeth. “Ever so gracious.”
“Damn French,” the man said. He spit at Pierre.
Pierre looked down at his shirt and frowned at the wet spots. He shook his head.
“That’s enough,” the bald man said. He grabbed Pierre by the elbow and led him to the plane. Three other men greeted them.
“Gentlemen,” Pierre said.
One laughed at him.
Pierre smiled back. They could beat him, but they wouldn’t break him.
“Get on board,” the bald man said. “Try to enjoy the last flight of your life.”
18
Clarissa leaned against the balcony railing. The rolling waves of the Atlantic finally gave way and they were passing through the Gulf Stream. She leaned over and looked forward, but couldn’t make land out yet. She knew they were close, though. She should have several hours before the next ship left. She assumed she could catch a shuttle somewhere, but ditched the idea. Best thing to do would be to get on the next ship as soon as possible.
A knock on the door startled her from her thoughts. Her mind raced. A couple days had passed and not a word had been uttered about Mike in any of conversations she eavesdropped on. She even convinced one of the ship’s security officers to give up the details on the passengers they were watching. According to him, there were two men on board that they suspected of transporting heroin. They planned on taking them down as they left the ship, after they settled their bill, of course.
Mike was nothing but a ghost. Maybe someone would be waiting on shore or in another state. But it would be days before they traced him back to Clarissa, if they traced him back to her at all.
Another knock.
She got up and checked the peephole. A young woman stood on the other side wearing the ship’s uniform.
Been there, done that.
She cracked the door. “Yes?”
“Ma’am, we have a letter for you, from shore.”
Clarissa put her fingers up to the crack in the door and the woman slid the envelope through.
“Thank you,” Clarissa said. She shut the door and returned to the balcony. Opened the envelope and read the letter.
Clarissa,
Skip the next boat. My associate is meeting you at this stop. He’ll drive you to Miami and put you up there. I’ll meet you there and we’ll discuss where to go next.
-Bear
She took a deep breath. She told people she hated when plans changed, but that wasn’t the truth. She didn’t mind at all.
Clarissa stuffed as much as she could into a backpack and threw everything else overboard. She watched as the ocean swept away half her wardrobe.
An hour passed and the ship docked. She pushed her way through the crowds, off the boat. Once on shore, she switched her cell phone on and found a place to sit. The phone rang and she answered.
“Clarissa?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” she said.
“OK, I’m here to get you. Look for a black Lincoln stretched Towncar.”
She stood up and scanned the long line of cars. “I see at least ten.”
“I’m waving.”
“Don’t see you.”
“Wearing a black cap, black suit, have a thick brown beard.”
“Oh, there you are,” she said as she stood up on the bench. “I’m waving back.”
“Got you,” he said. “I’ll be right over to help with your luggage.”
“Don’t bother,” she said. “Just have my backpack.”
She hung up and stuffed the phone in her pocket. She weaved through the line of people waiting for their buses and shuttles then crossed the street.
The bearded man met her at the back of the car. He popped the trunk.
“Go ahead and put your bag in there.”
She clung to the bag. “I prefer to hold it.”
“I insist,” he said. “You’ll be more comfortable.”
She sighed and handed over the bag.
“You’re Bear’s friend?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Don’t know who Bear is. Guessing that guy’s his friend.” He pointed at the tinted rear window.
Clarissa squinted and leaned forward but couldn’t see anything.
“Whatever,” she said.
The driver stepped around her and opened the back door. “Beautiful day, you know. But we’ll hit showers on our way to Tampa.”
She put one foot in the car and turned toward him. “Tampa? I thought we were going to Miami?”
He smiled and pushed her in the car, shut the door. The locks clicked.
Clarissa pulled on the handle but the door wouldn’t move. She slid across the black leather bench seat and pulled on the opposite door handle. The door didn’t move. She screamed and threw her head back, slammed her hands into the leather seat. Finally she looked
up and noticed the man sitting at the other end of the car. He wore a wide brimmed hat and leaned forward. The hat blocked his face.
“Who the hell are you?” she said.
The man looked up and smiled.
Clarissa felt her stomach drop. Her pulse and breath quickened. Her hands tingled. Images of the burning hot ice pick filled her head. “No, not you.”
“Hello, child,” the man said with a smile. “Remember me?”
“Sinclair,” she whispered. “What? Your friends—Bear? I—”
“I’m touched you remember me. I certainly have not forgotten about you.”
Clarissa felt sick. Her face felt flushed, her hands clammy. Her muscles cramped. Panic overcame her and she felt the world closing in on her.
He pulled a needle from his black bag and slid across the back and sat down next to her. “Now relax. This won’t hurt a bit.”
Clarissa wanted to fight back, but the panic hit her hard and fast and she couldn’t move fast enough. She felt the needle plunge into her arm and her senses dulled at once. She slumped in her seat. Half awake, half passed out. She tried to fight the drug, but it was pointless. However, this drug was different from their first meeting. Even in her current state she could tell that.
“Don’t worry, Clarissa,” he said. “I’m going to take real good care of you.”
She shook her head, or at least thought she did. She tried to speak but nothing came out.
He laughed.
She passed out.
19
Bear leaned against the rental car and watched the traffic on I-75 fly by. They’d been at the rural rest stop in southern Georgia for about half an hour now. Mandy didn’t feel well. He wanted to give her a chance to recoup. She’d been sick most of the week. He figured it had to do with the scene she witnessed in Montana. Though she only told him a little, it was enough for him to figure out she saw too much.
He paced along the cracked sidewalk, keeping his eye on the little girl in the car. His pressed his cell phone tight to his ear.
“Answer, Jack,” he said.
No answer.
He ended the call and dialed Clarissa’s number. It rang eight times and then went to her voicemail.
