Savage Recruit (Ryan Savage Thriller Series Book 8)

by Jack Hardin

  “Torture,” she offered.

  “I prefer the phrase, ‘physical inducement.’”

  “Clever. And I prefer the phrase, ‘torture.’ What’s behind door number two?”

  “That, I think I will let you know soon enough.” He stood up and moved toward the door, stopped, and turned on his heel. “You must be curious how the search is going for you outside these walls?” She didn’t reply. “Your government has partnered with the highest of Greece’s security and intelligence forces and commissioned a highly capable team to locate you. Your ambassador and your boss, Mr. Watts, are being briefed at the top of each hour. And your favorite agent, Ryan Savage, recently arrived in Athens as well. So, yes. They have their nose to the ground. But rest assured, I am ten steps ahead of them. They will not find you.” His last words came with a proud smirk, and then he was gone, the key turning in the lock once again.

  Kathleen released a breath and rubbed her face with the flats of her hands. She knew that her captor’s informing her of the investigation’s progress was intended to deflate her. And it worked, at least for several seconds. He had clearly planned well for this. There was a very real chance that things were about to turn ugly for her. She was prepared for that. She had meant what she said. Honor mattered. Simon was a good man, and there was nothing anyone could do to her that would make her give him up.

  Still, she couldn’t fight back the unease that sat heavily on her shoulders. She smiled weakly to herself as she whispered her next words. “Right here, Ryan. I’m right here.”

  Chapter Eleven

  One hundred thousand crazed fans threw up a collective cheer that reached far into the heavens as the ball cruised over the bright white line and punched into the net behind the goalie. Emmanuel Samaras observed from the comfort of his living room couch as the seventy-inch flat screen conveyed the enthusiasm. The goal had brought his brother and his cousin to their feet, and now they were high-fiving each other and yelling excitedly at the screen.

  Emmanuel didn’t get up, only took another pull on his beer.

  “What’s the matter with you?” his cousin asked him. “We’re going to win!” Not waiting for an answer, he turned his attention back to the screen.

  There were less than three minutes left in the soccer match between Greece and Italy. With this goal, Greece had just taken the lead. Emmanuel knew why his cousin was so excited; it was more than his love for the game. He had bet over a thousand dollars on the outcome, and he was about to get a sizable payout.

  Emmanuel had bet on it too. Three times as much as his cousin. The money would be good. Very good, in fact. But he had more important things on his mind.

  He jiggled his beer bottle to see how much was left and drained it. The players had returned to their positions on the field and were preparing for the kick-off that would restart the match. Emmanuel set his empty bottle near his feet and stood up without much enthusiasm. “I’ll be back,” he said.

  His brother spread his hands and looked at him incredulously. “You’re leaving? Now? The game isn’t over yet. We’re about to win big.”

  Emmanuel waved him off and went through the kitchen, exited out the side door, and stepped into the courtyard. Crossing it, he unlatched the wooden gate that opened onto the sidewalk. The door clattered shut behind him as he stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked in the shade of the poplars that lined the walls of the adjoining courtyards.

  Automobiles shot by him, busses roaring and mopeds squealing as the fresh scent of the Mediterranean Ocean mingled with billowing exhaust and the smoky drift of grilled lamb rising from a restaurant’s roof vent across the street. He reached the corner and crossed when a red light brought the flow of traffic to a temporary halt. Passing a line of storefronts, he slipped down a cobblestone alley that took him past the side entrances belonging to a network of villas.

  Five minutes later, he turned down another street lined with more small shops and storefronts. It was quieter here, with only the occasional car or bicycle rolling by. The street disappeared on his right, curving around a stone wall and descending the side of the hill in a series of switchbacks before finding its terminus at a busy marina perched on the edge of the azure waters belonging to the most iconic ocean in the world.

  The air was pleasant—warm but not hot. In the distance, a speedboat carved a white line across the water as it headed out of the bay to the open ocean.

  Emmanuel crossed the street and passed up a florist and a bakery before pulling on the handle to a glass door. A bell jingled above his head as he stepped in. The walls were painted a light blue, and the ceiling tiles were stained a light brown from decades of cigar smoke. A man in a white barber’s coat was sitting in a folding chair watching the post soccer match coverage on a television the size of a toaster oven. The barber was as stocky as Emmanuel but had a good forty years on him. His hair and mustache were bright white.

  “Emmanuel,” he said. “You did not watch the match? We won.” He grunted as he came to his feet.

  Emmanuel shrugged. “I saw it.” He approached the large barber’s chair and sat down. The barber stood up and snatched a cape from the back of a chair. He flapped it out, slung it around Emmanuel’s neck, and looked at the younger man in the mirror.

  “You look tired, Emmanuel.”

  “Yes, I am, Dimitrius. It has been a long week.”

  “Ah. I understand.” Dimitrius rubbed his fingertips across his own face as he examined Emmanuel’s. “You have a lot of stubble. I will shave you. A good shave always makes a man feel better.”

  Dimitrius leaned the chair back and bent before a steel box. Opening it, he withdrew two wet, warm washcloths and set them over his client’s neck and cheeks. While they warmed his skin, he prepared the shaving cream, bringing it to a thick lather with a horsehair brush. He removed the washcloths, placed one over Emmanuel’s eyes, and rubbed the shaving cream into his skin with quick circular strokes. Once all the stubble was covered, he switched out the brush for his straight-edged razor. It opened with a quick flick of his wrist.

  “Just relax. In ten minutes, I will have you feeling like a new man.”

  Emmanuel sighed deeply, and his shoulders sagged back into the chair as he accepted his barber’s advice. He felt the blade run down the side of his cheek, come away as Dimitrius wiped it clean, and then heard a sound like metal dragging over sandpaper as Dimitrius cut away his stubble.

  “Did you put down any money on the match?” Dimitrius asked.

  Emmanuel waited for the blade to come off his skin before answering. “Yes. A little.”

  “As did I. I was getting a little worried until Tasos scored that final goal.” He snickered. “I don’t like to lose money.”

  Emmanuel fell silent for several minutes as his skin was scraped smooth and the heat from the washcloth warmed his eyes and forehead. He hadn’t realized how tense his body was until he began to relax. He needed a vacation. A very long vacation. Millions came to his native country every year for just that. But he needed the opposite—to get very, very far from here and leave the stress behind for a while. A barren desert or a humid rainforest would do just fine. It wouldn’t be here, and that was all that mattered.

  The front door opened, and the bell jingled. “Hello, I will be right with you,” Dimitrius said.

  Moments later, Emmanuel felt the blade leave his face. Dimitrius’s shoes squeaked softly on the tile and moved toward the front of the shop. The bell sounded again as the door opened, and everything fell silent. Emmanuel frowned underneath the washcloth still sitting over his eyes.

  “Dimitrius? Is everything okay?”

  The razor returned to his skin. But not to his cheeks. Now it was on his throat. He winced against the pain and grabbed onto the chair’s armrests. The menacing voice that answered was not that of his barber.

  “No, Emmanuel. Everything is not good. Not good at all.”

  The blade pressed hard into the flesh as I held it steady against Emmanuel Samaras’s
throat. He swallowed nervously, and as his Adam’s apple bobbed against the blade, he stifled a painful yell and trembled in his seat.

  “What do you want?” he said cautiously.

  “I heard you’re the guy who can tell me where I can find The Recruit.”

  “Who?”

  A minor twist of the blade prompted a muffled squeal. “Unless you want to spend the final minute of your life watching me play Hacky Sack with your Adam’s apple, I’m going to need you to start talking.”

  “The—The Recruit, you said?”

  Beside me, Boomer was smirking. “That’s the one,” he said. “You did a job for him a while back and so we figure you know how to find him.”

  “No—it does not work like that.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “He gets in touch with you. No one knows how to find him.”

  That wasn’t the answer I was hoping for. “Then how did you end up doing a job for him? And how did you get paid? Let’s start there.”

  “Please… I will tell you. Just… The blade. Please.”

  I pulled the blade off his skin, and the washcloth fell onto his lap as Emmanuel returned to a sitting position. He blinked into the light and swallowed hard as he examined Boomer and me in the mirror. “Who are you?”

  Boomer nodded toward me. “He’s asking the questions. Not you.” He went over to a side table in the waiting area, picked up a magazine that looked like Greece’s version of People, and plopped into the chair next to Emmanuel. He set his boots on the footrest, opened up the magazine, and started to read.

  “I’m waiting,” I said firmly. “Lie to me and see what happens.”

  “There was an envelope on my kitchen counter one morning. It had an offer and five thousand Euros.”

  “What did the note say?”

  “It said that a lady needed to be taken—kidnapped—and that if I was willing to do it, then to keep the money and I would get further instructions within forty-eight hours. If I did not want to do the job, then to leave the money in my mailbox that evening. If I went through with the job, then I would be given another twenty thousand.”

  “How did this person know you would be willing to do something like that?”

  “I… I had done something like it before. Just not for him.”

  “So he knew you wouldn't flinch at the offer. How did you know it wasn’t bogus? That the local police weren't framing you?”

  “The police here do not worry themselves with things like that. And besides, the money, it was very good. The risk was worth it.”

  “How did you communicate with him after you accepted the job?”

  Boomer muttered to himself from the other chair, his face still buried in the magazine. “I can’t believe they got divorced.”

  “I didn’t,” Emmanuel said. “I kept the money, and so he left another note with very detailed instructions: who the girl was, where she would be, and where to leave her. I completed the job, and his final note that came with the last payment said to destroy all the notes and to speak of it with no one. It was signed, ‘The Recruit.’”

  “And yet here you are, jabbering away to us. I didn’t even have to buy you a drink first.”

  “How did you know I did the job? I only told two…” His words trailed off as understanding dawned. “Saul told you?”

  “Is that his name?” Boomer said. “I thought he looked a little like a Grito myself.”

  “Where is Dimitrius?” Emmanuel asked cautiously.

  “I think your barber has a gun allergy,” I said. “What did you do with the lady you kidnapped?”

  “I left her in the trunk of my car and parked it on the top floor of a parking garage. I was instructed not to return to get it for twenty-four hours. That was all. I did the job as instructed and got paid as agreed.”

  “Have you heard from him again?”

  “I have not.”

  “Do you know anyone else who did a job for him?”

  Emmanuel hesitated. “Yes. I do. Just one other person.” His eyes brightened momentarily. “The Recruit communicated with him differently. A website, I think.”

  “Go on.”

  “It is a forum. For guns. A place where people can discuss them. I do not know the details personally. My friend does.”

  Boomer looked over. “Why would The Recruit communicate with you via a simple note, but do it online with your friend?”

  “Because my friend, Basilios… He murdered someone. Perhaps for a job like that, The Recruit needed to give him a way to communicate if anything changed.”

  “Athens is a nice city,” I said. “But as that goes, I’ve seen plenty. I’m getting pretty tired of running all over the place. So here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to call your friend. You’re going to tell him you want to do another job for The Recruit, and you’re going to get the details about that website or get me another way to get in touch with him.”

  Emmanuel stared into his lap. He sighed and shook his head. “It won’t work. But okay.”

  “Slowly, take your phone out and call him. Does he know English?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put him on speaker and talk in English. My Greek is nonexistent.”

  “What good will this do? The Recruit will just ignore your message. And then possibly get rid of my friend for violating the rules.”

  “You let us worry about The Recruit ignoring the message. As for your friend, I don’t give a rat’s ass. Call him. And you’d better be convincing.”

  Emmanuel sighed again. Reluctantly, he dialed a number and then put it on speaker. A deep voice answered.

  “Basilios…. I need to ask you something.”

  Ten minutes later, we had what we wanted. It took some convincing on Emmanuel’s part to get his friend to provide the information. Emmanuel finally won him over by offering to pay him a portion of his earnings if The Recruit gave him another job.

  Emmanuel was right. The website was a gun forum where interested parties could discuss favorite weapons, cleaning techniques, and accessories. The Recruit communicated via a sub thread dedicated to night optics for hunting rifles.

  After Emmanuel hung up, Boomer called Granger and relayed the website details and the login credentials. He told Granger to post a message on the forum in Emmanuel’s name and to include my phone number.

  “How will this help?” Emmanuel said again. “He will not respond.”

  “You’re probably right,” Boomer said. “But right now, it’s all we’ve got. And we have ways to track viewers and users of that sub thread. So you let us worry about all that. If nothing else, we can use it all, and you, as bait. Maybe he’ll get upset at you reaching out and respond so that he can set up a meeting to eliminate you.” Boomer threw him a wink. “That latter part would be ideal.”

  Emmanuel groaned.

  “Stand up,” I ordered.

  A set of hair clippers rested on the counter mounted beneath a mirror. I grabbed them up and jerked the cord out of the wall. Swiping the razor across the base of the cord, I severed it from the clippers.

  “Turn around.” I tossed the razor onto the counter, grabbed his meaty hands, and used the cord to bind them behind his back. Taking out my gun, I jammed the barrel into his ribs. “Let’s go.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “I’m not sure you’re completely useless to us yet. Since we’re short on time, you’re coming with us until we have what we want.”

  I pushed him forward and a dollop of shaving cream flew off his chin and smacked the floor. Grabbing his upper arm, I led him out of the barbershop and down the street with the barrel of my gun pressed into his lower back. We turned down the first alley and stopped at the rear of an old car. Boomer opened the truck, and as the lid rose, I motioned for him to get in.

  Emmanuel stared blankly into the empty space. “I gave you what you wanted. Please.”

  “If I have to help you get in there, I promise it’s going to hurt.”
<
br />   He sighed anxiously, sat on the rear bumper, and ducked his head as he leaned over and wiggled his broad shoulders into the small space. Pulling up his knees, he brought his feet inside and shuffled around as he tried to find a comfortable position. After he settled, he looked up at me with concern writ large across his features.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  I snapped off an answer just before slamming down the trunk lid. “Two very pissed off Americans.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The sandwich sat untouched in front of her, water sweating off the full glass of Coke onto the square napkin beneath it.

  Zoe Cross sat on a stool at the end of the bar. The lunch crowd at The Wayward Reef had cleared out a couple of hours earlier. The place was empty except for a man sitting alone in a corner booth and a couple on the back deck. Zoe’s elbow was resting on the bar, her cheek resting in her hand as she stared at the lettuce poking out from the bun. Behind her, the jukebox was playing The Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun.”

  The kitchen door swung open behind the bar, and Roscoe emerged with a large cardboard box in his arms. He set the box on the counter and peeked inside. His white beard had gone untrimmed for the last few weeks, and Zoe thought he looked more like Santa now than ever. “Way too many straws,” he said. “I ordered 3,000. They sent me 10,000.”

  Zoe offered a polite but absent smile.

  “You haven’t touched your lunch,” he said, eyeing her plate. “I hate to be the one to say it, but you need to eat something. You’re already thin as a string bean. I’m not the only one around here who’s worried about you blowing away in a gale one of these days.” His attempt at a little humor went unnoticed. He frowned and set his palms on the counter, leaned in. “Zoe, she’s going to be okay.”

  “Kathleen wouldn’t just drop off like that. She would have said something first.”

  Roscoe’s wide chest expanded just before he released a heavy sigh. “Ryan’s out there. And he’s not the only one looking for her. Whatever happened, they’ll get to the bottom of it—look.” He leaned in a little more. “In a couple of days, Kathleen will be on that stool right next to you, enjoying a cold one while she recounts what happened.”