by Brian Drake
Show No Mercy: A Steve Dane Thriller
Brian Drake
Show No Mercy: A Steve Dane Thriller
Kindle Edition
Copyright © 2020 (as revised) Brian Drake
Wolfpack Publishing
6032 Wheat Penny Avenue
Las Vegas, NV 89122
www.wolfpackpublishing.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
eBook ISBN 978-1-64734-231-9
Paperback ISBN 978-1-64734-233-3
Contents
Get your FREE copy of The Target H
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
A Look at: Skills to Kill: The Steve Dane Thrillers
Get your FREE copy of The Target H
About the Author
Get your FREE copy of The Target H
Join the Wolfpack Publishing mailing list for information on new releases, updates, discount offers and your FREE eBook copy of The Target H.
Show No Mercy: A Steve Dane Thriller
1
Steve Dane wasn’t afraid of heights but being on the thirtieth floor of the high rise over downtown San Francisco made him wonder. The wind rattled the window pane and the quiver in his stomach could not be denied. Despite the glass, he felt like the wind could sweep him into space at any second.
When the double-doors opened behind him, Dane gratefully turned from the window.
Ray Lucas, Dane’s potential client, entered. He wore a dark suit not unlike Dane’s, an obvious custom fit, his tie a little askew and worry-lines on his 60-plus-year-old face. Lucas closed the door behind him and joined Dane at the window. “Incredible view, isn’t it? During Fleet Week you get a perfect look at the aircraft carriers. The Blue Angels fly right by.”
The people on the street below might as well have been ants. Vehicles looked like toys, but the view beyond impressed Dane indeed.
The Bay Bridge stretched across the water, connecting to the flat Treasure Island and rocky Yerba Buena Island in the distance. Under the bridge, huge tankers and smaller boats moved along the water, the boats with high full-blooming sails taking the most advantage of the windy day and going faster than their motorized counterparts.
“Let’s have a seat,” Lucas said.
Lucas led Dane across to the solid oak conference table on the other side of the room. The seat cushion let out a hiss of air as Dane sat. Lucas removed a smart phone from inside his jacket.
“You come highly recommended,” Lucas said.
“I was told,” Dane said, “that your issue was a personal matter. That’s a little out of my area of expertise.”
“No, this is definitely your kind of job. I need somebody who can shoot his way out, if necessary, because I think it will be necessary.”
Steve Dane certainly fit the bill if a job required shooting. Former CIA, former Marine, former mercenary commander. He’d seen the world at its best and worst; from the most affluent areas of Europe and the US, to the sun-soaked sands of the African desert to, sometimes, even harsher environments. Always with a weapon, always with the goal of fighting for the underdog who had no champion.
And he did it all with the help of the love of his life, Nina Talikova, herself a former Russian agent who had joined his crusade.
“Tell me about it,” Dane said. He was dressed similarly to Lucas, though his suit had come from Savile Row and the silver cuff-links were real. The mix of laugh lines and frown lines on his face hinted at a wide variety of experience. If Lucas saw Dane tug on the right cuff of his jacket, he made no mention. It was an absent-minded habit for Dane, but he had a reason.
With nervous fingers, Lucas tapped the screen of his phone and showed the display to Dane. A picture of a girl. Red hair, flower-print sundress, bright smile. “My daughter, Brenda.”
Lucas leaned forward. “Brenda’s twenty-two years old. Bit of a wild child. I suppose that’s what I get for working as much as I have with a wife who wasn’t necessarily up for the job of raising children. Brenda’s been on her own a lot, but she’s never been in any serious trouble until now. A few weeks ago, she received pictures in the mail. They show her in some rather, um, compromising positions.”
“Blackmail?”
“My family is not unknown in this city. It may be a small pond, but we’re some of the larger fish. The release of those pictures would cause a scandal, hurt my family and my business.”
Dane waited for more and watched a worried look flash across Lucas’s face. He kept up an unflappable front, but Dane could see the pain behind his eyes.
“I hired a private investigator to track down the man responsible.” A swipe on the screen revealed another face, an older man with a touch of gray in his dark hair. “This is Terry Park. Man-about-town with no visible means of support, as the police might say. My detective says he’s a professional blackmailer. He’s put the bite on thousands of people, all around the country. Used to work out of Los Angeles, mostly. But now he’s here.”
“Your man can’t do anything?”
“My man won’t do anything. Nothing illegal.”
“Have you negotiated to buy the pictures?”
“I won’t pay extortion money, Mr. Dane. I want the pictures. I want you to steal them.”
“Fair enough.”
“Can you do that?”
“You’ve left out a few details. Like where I can find him. Where is he hiding the photographs?”
Lucas nodded and put away the phone. “Forgive me, I’m. . .”
“It’s okay.”
“He has a house in Marin County, near the Golden Gate Bridge. Top of a hill. I have the address. It’s a rental, one of the hundreds of McMansions you can get around here. He’s throwing a party tomorrow night. My detective has determined the pictures are on a computer in his office. I have the passwords for the computer.”
“You have everything except somebody willing to do the job.”
“Yes.”
“How do you know your detective is correct?”
“Well. . .”
“He has somebody on the inside?”
Lucas swallowed. “Park has a girlfriend who wants out. I paid her for the information.”
“And if she’s lying?”
> “Mr. Dane. . .”
“Why can’t she get the pictures?”
“I asked. He’ll want her beside him during the party. The best she can do is keep him occupied. And provide a key to his office.”
“Why should I expect shooting?”
Lucas regained his composure. “Park has armed guards all over the house. He always travels with at least one in public.”
“How many?”
Lucas blanched. “I don’t know.”
“You’re aware of my fee?” Dane said.
“A million bucks to me is like fifty cents to somebody else, Mr. Dane. I’m willing to pay more.”
“That’s all right. But I have to tell you I may be walking into a complete mess. You don’t know the number of guards and Park’s girlfriend may be a fink. I’ve turned down jobs for less.”
“Please--”
Dane held up a hand. “I’ll do it. If I fail, you won’t owe me anything.”
“Fail?”
“With what you’ve told me about this place, it’s a reasonable possibility.”
Lucas put his phone away. His hands were shaking. “I could use a drink,” he said. “Would you like one?”
“Here at the office?”
“Good heavens, no, there’s a very nice bar across the street. We have to go out the back way otherwise my secretary will tell my wife I went there.”
Dane smiled and rose with Lucas. “I never say no to a drink.”
Lucas smiled as well. His smile showed a change in his demeanor. He was now a man encouraged everything was going to be okay. But Dane wasn’t so sure. He wouldn’t be sure until he had the pictures.
2
The rain had stopped hours ago and the streets were slick with condensation resembling sweat. Not even Hans Mueller’s long coat blocked the four a.m. chill off Berlin’s Spree River.
The German bomb expert stood over five feet high. The long black coat stopped around his ankles and a knit cap rode atop his head. His pale lips and lack of eyebrows were his most distinguishing features, and his eyes picked out almost every detail around him.
He leaned against the wall of an alcove at the corner of Poststrabe and Rathaustrabe, among darkened cafe fronts. The ghost-like buildings were eerily silent. Across from him, a construction zone, half-walls and silent cranes and other equipment waiting for daylight. A few stray cars lined the curbs on either end of the street, but no others traveled the roadway at this hour. The river whispered nearby.
Hans Mueller stood with his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his coat, the right pocket bulging a little more because of the pistol he held in his hand. He had arranged the meeting at this location but he also knew the rendezvous might be a trap. If they were coming to get him, he’d go down fighting. Such a day had to come eventually.
A long black car turned the corner up ahead. Its bright headlights flashed across the construction site and caused a glare on the wet pavement. When the lights hit Mueller with the ferocity of a stage spotlight, he couldn’t help but raise his left hand to block the light and pull his Glock with the other. There was a round in the chamber. His finger rested on the trigger.
The black car stopped a few feet away, a Mercedes-Benz S600 limousine, black with silver trim. The headlamps burned brightly. Those same lights flashed twice, stayed off, turned on again and flashed twice more. Mueller put the Glock away. The rear door opened when he approached the car. The figure inside, briefly visible as the interior light spilled onto the sidewalk, slid back as Mueller ducked to enter.
“You are the last person I expected to see in this car,” Mueller said as he sat. The man across from him cracked a polished smile.
“Yet here I am,” said Mason Graypoole.
The bench seats faced each other. On Graypoole’s side, he had a rotating flat screen connected to a laptop.
Track lighting in the roof lit the cabin brightly. There was almost no sense of movement with the lighting and tinted windows. The soundproofing muted the engine noise to dull throb. The warmth of the cabin and its soft leather seats might have been a womb.
Mueller regarded Mason Graypoole curiously. He looked better than the last time Mueller had seem him. The man had always been tubby, a testament to his lifestyle of all-party-no-work, but now he was lean and trim, with a sharp line to his jaw and the obvious custom suit fitted him well. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re going to finish my father’s work,” Graypoole said.
“I don’t believe you. Your father always spoke of you as a secret weapon, but all we saw was a drunken leech who partied away his money.”
“Not all of it.” Graypoole grinned.
A hot flush crept up Mueller’s neck. “If this is supposed to be some sort of. . .whatever you call it, all you’re doing is pissing me off.”
Graypoole held up a hand. “You’re right. I was everything you accuse me of. Since my mother died, I’ve been doing some soul-searching. Read my father’s papers, his manifesto. I used a phony name and joined a mercenary group. Fought in Africa, Eastern Europe, learned the tricks of the trade and how to face down an enemy, all in preparation for my plans. I even became an expert at hapkido. In other words, I’ve had a change of heart. Now the least I can do to pay my father back is to carry on the fight, and we’ll start by avenging his murder.”
“I’m still not convinced, but try and impress me.”
“Here’s what we’re doing.” Graypoole turned the flat screen toward Mueller and started pressing buttons on the keyboard. “I need a man to blow up a part of San Francisco.” An image of the city, the Bay Bridge specifically, appeared on the screen. “Go there and pick a target.”
Mueller nodded. “Budget?”
“No expense spared. Bring some friends, if you’d like. I want mass casualties. Total chaos.”
“Why San Francisco?”
“Why not? The city is the growing home to many tech companies, many big shot CEOs, many others who are working on new inventions in their garage in order to join those ranks. It’s the kind of target my father could not have overlooked. And, besides, we need to give New York and Los Angeles a break. Somebody is always blowing up those cities. We need to be original.”
Graypoole grinned at his joke but Mueller didn’t laugh. The assassination of Mason’s father had driven their organization so far underground Mueller didn’t think they’d ever recover. Each and every one of them had a target on their back. Mason may have had the primary reason for wanting revenge, but it was something they all craved, too. And here was an opportunity Mueller couldn’t resist.
“When should I start?” the German said.
“Right now.”
Graypoole lifted a handset from door panel on his right and spoke to the driver. The car made a long turn and straightened out. After the turn, there was once again only a small sense of forward movement when the engine surged.
Presently the Mercedes slowed and swung curbside. Graypoole pulled a small notebook from inside his coat, along with a pen, and scribbled briefly. He tore the page out and handed it to Mueller, who examined the words, and handed it back. Graypoole crumpled the paper and extended his hand. “Much success. You’re the first salvo.”
“Who’s the second?”
“Ramos.”
Mueller let a smile pull at the corners of his mouth. He exited back into the cold of the early Berlin morning. The Mercedes drove away as his shoes tapped a rhythm on the concrete and he felt warm all over. If the car had been a womb, he was now reborn.
He’d entered the limo a hermit and emerged a warrior.
3
Steve Dane surveyed the party. He leaned against the bar, holding a martini in his right hand. He wore a tux like the rest of the men and the women decked out in a variety of gowns and party dresses. Their jewelry was no match for the gems in the four chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, but not many noticed. The party had been in full swing for two hours. Dane’s invitation had been provided by Park’s girlfriend and
nobody had second-guessed his presence. So far, she was the perfect insider.
Dane’s tux had been specially tailored for the event. Instead of his usual shoulder harness with .45 auto, he wore a harness containing rappelling spikes. Cummerbund concealed a nylon rope. A few other goodies rode in pockets. His exit strategy did not include the front door.
The dark-haired host, Terry Park, his tux accentuated with a red bow tie, approached the bar, his red-haired girlfriend on his arm. In her heels, she was two inches taller. She wore a tight blue party dress with a plunging neckline. Dane wondered where she’d put the key.
Park ordered a Maker’s Mark on the rocks. Another man at the bar said hello. As Park turned to engage, Dane and the redhead exchanged nods. While Park and the bartender exchanged a little sports talk, she slipped a thumb and finger between her breasts and retrieved a small item which she placed underneath a stray napkin. Park took his Maker’s Mark and he departed with the redhead in tow. They continued to mingle as guests either danced or conversed at tables.
Dane downed his martini and asked for a refill. The bartender turned his back, and Dane swept the napkin over. The key dropped into a pocket.
