Assignment- Danger A SpyCo Collection 4-6

by Craig A. Hart

  As the gurney was wheeled out of the room, Burke turned to Lyndsey. “Even if he lives, I feel this mission was a bust. If only we knew where Fitzmeyer was headed.”

  “You already notified the ferry and airport to be on the lookout for him. What else can you do? At least Karazmovsky is dead. I’d call that a win any day.”

  Burke dismissed the idea. “Killed by his own partner. I don’t even get that satisfaction.”

  “You do realize you sound really bloodthirsty right now, don’t you?”

  “I don’t care. I really wanted to take that guy down.”

  “Check your ego, Superman. As long as the governor pulls through, I think we can put this one in the win column.”

  Burke’s cellphone rang and he answered.

  “Rance?”

  “Yeah, it’s me,” the private investigator said, sounding more alert. “I just got a call from Lorelei. She’s alive!”

  “That’s great news, Rance. I—”

  “But listen, there’s more. Karazmovsky had her hidden in his room and guess who just set her loose.”

  “Fitzmeyer?”

  “Shit, how did you know?”

  “Because we just tangled with them and he was the only one who got away.”

  “So Karazmovsky’s dead, then?”

  “Very.”

  “And the governor?”

  “Hurt, but sounds like he’ll make it.”

  “Well, we still have a chance to get that traitor Fitzmeyer.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Lorelei overheard him put in a call to the airport. Used another name and asked if his plane was ready.”

  “A private plane?”

  “He wasn’t making a damn reservation.”

  “Thanks, Rance! We’re on our way.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  Burke was about to argue, but decided the man’s well-being was once again his own business. He disconnected the call.

  “Sounds like Fitzmeyer has an escape plan ready to go—a private plane under another name.”

  “Then he’s on his way to the airport.”

  “Yes. And he won’t go through the regular waypoints, which means our lookouts won’t see him.”

  “Then let’s get the hell to the airport!”

  They ran out of the house and into the street. Burke was looking around for the best car to hotwire when a horn sounded behind them. He looked around and saw Rance’s CRV, with Rance himself leaning out of the driver’s window.

  “Come on, let’s go!” Rance yelled, revving the engine.

  Burke and Lyndsey jumped into the car and Rance stomped on the gas.

  “See, I told you I could handle my habits,” Rance said as he tore down the main drag, ignoring traffic lights and swerving around cars. “Although it’s a good thing I took that little driving course you set up.”

  Burke gripped the side of the seat and tried to remain calm. “How did Lorelei get in touch with you?”

  “Karazmovsky had her tied to the bed, planning to do God knows what after he got back to the room. Fitzmeyer cut one hand free so she could work on the knots, figuring it would take a good twenty minutes to get the other knots undone.”

  “Sounds like he overestimated Karazmovsky’s skills as a knotter.”

  “No, he definitely earned his merit badge in that area. It’s just that he didn’t check Lorelei for thigh blades.”

  “She had it with her?”

  “I told you, she carries it everywhere. Has to, in her line of work. Some john gets too fresh or doesn’t want to pay? A quick poke with that sets things straight in a hurry.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Burke said. “Maybe we’ll get an actual win out of this after all.”

  “We will if I have anything to do with it,” Rance said, giving the accelerator another good stomp.

  FITZMEYER DROVE onto the airport grounds and circled around to the hangars that housed the private planes. His double life had been lucrative, and counting the windfall he’d just taken, he was set for life. There was still a hurdle or two that needed jumping, but once he got into the plane, he would begin feeling more comfortable. And once he entered Russian airspace, he’d feel better still.

  He parked his car next to the hangar’s side door, grabbed the case of cash from the passenger seat, and entered the hangar. There it was: his Cessna Citation. Fully fueled, it boasted a range more than enough to reach his first destination, Ugolny Airport in Siberia. From there, it was a series of shorter flights until he felt the warm, tropical sun on his face.

  He pressed a switch on the wall and the enormous hangar doors eased open with a rattling, screeching sound that nearly pierced his eardrums. This place was a dump. He wouldn’t miss it for a second.

  Climbing into the cockpit, he placed the case on the empty co-pilot’s seat and hurriedly ran through his preliminary takeoff checklist. Everything seemed set and ready to go. His mechanic, hired from the airport to check and maintain the plane, had refueled it as requested. Fitzmeyer was ready for takeoff.

  The Cessna rolled slowly out of the hangar and onto the strip of tarmac leading to the closest runway. He was about to check in with the tower when he saw a pair of headlights weaving and bobbing in the distance. A vehicle was approaching at a high rate of speed and with little to no regard for safety. Fitzmeyer didn’t even have to guess; he knew the driver was coming for him.

  Abandoning his plan to clear takeoff with the tower, he powered the Cessna forward and turned onto the runway.

  “THERE HE IS!” Lyndsey shouted, pointing ahead. “On the runway! Rance, block his way with the car!”

  “Are you nuts?” Rance said. “He’ll run us over with that thing!”

  “Just do it!”

  Rance cranked the wheel. The CRV bounded its way over a low embankment and fishtailed toward the runway. The tires spun and Rance gripped the wheel as if trying to wring juice out of it.

  “Don’t you dare get stuck, you piece of shit!” he roared.

  The CRV bucked and whirred, crawling forward. Then the tires found purchase and the vehicle surged onto the runway.

  FITZMEYER HELD THE YOKE LIGHTLY, trying to remain calm. But that was becoming more and more difficult to do, especially when the vehicle—a Honda CRV—charged over an embankment, taking out a few shrubs along the way, and headed for the runway. It became even more difficult when the CRV, obviously driven by someone who had taken complete leave of their senses, power slid across the runway, blocking the Cessna’s takeoff path.

  They’re trying to take away enough of the acceleration lane that I won’t be able to take off, he thought. Well, I’ll show them what this baby can do.

  THE CRV WAS STOPPED lengthwise across the runway, effectively blocking the plane from using half the takeoff space.

  “He’s not slowing down,” Burke said, watching the airplane as it approached. “In fact, I think he’s speeding up. He’s going to try to make it, the fool. There’s no way he’s going to—”

  The airplane rushed toward them, a fiery crash all but inevitable. Lyndsey crouched in a defensive posture, her hands clasping the back of her head. Rance gripped the steering wheel, his face dripping with perspiration, his eyes wide and unblinking. Burke couldn’t take his eyes from the rapidly closing jet, its nose cone looking like a javelin ready to pierce the car and turn it into a twisted hunk of metal.

  As he watched, the front landing gear lifted off the runway, fell back, and then bounced before lifting off again. This time, they stayed up and the plane slowly lifted from the runway.

  “It’s not going to make it!” Rance shouted. “It’s going to take the top of the car off!”

  The jet roared overhead. The CRV rocked back and forth. The sound was incredible, even given the relative modesty of the plane’s size.

  Then the noise gradually faded away and all three of the CRV’s passengers watched as their quarry was carried into the cold skies of Alaska. The Cessna banked and then flew back ov
erhead. Burke could have sworn it waggled its wings just a little as it passed by.

  “Shit!” He punched the dashboard. “Shit shit shit!”

  FITZMEYER GRINNED, scarcely able to believe what had transpired. He had made it. He had rolled the dice by leaking information concerning the mission. His intention had been to let SpyCo kill Karazmovsky, thereby making his own escape easier. But the Russian had been even craftier than he anticipated and almost turned the tables. Never mind. All was well that ended well, and this mission was on the verge of ending very well indeed.

  He glanced at the case of money sitting on the co-pilot’s seat. He’d taken a look in the hotel room, but he wanted to open it again—it was such a beautiful sight.

  After setting the autopilot, Fitzmeyer leaned over and flipped up the latches. Then he raised the lid—and there it was. His future printed on paper.

  He reached in and pulled out a bundle of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. He felt a laugh bubbling up inside and he let it burst forth in great waves of mirth. Those idiots below, thinking they could stop him. Almost overcome with joy and relief, Fitzmeyer pulled out another bundle and then another and another, dropping them onto the floor of the cockpit like scrap paper.

  Suddenly he stopped. The bundle he’d just pulled out was different, about half the size of the others. He shrugged, assuming that was to be expected in an amount this large. Some packets would be thicker and some would be—

  Then he noticed something else. In the cavity left by the smaller bundle was a device of some sort. There was a block of something, a clay-like substance. And wires. And a digital readout that was running quickly, counting down.

  A bomb. The removal of the concealing packet must have released a trigger mechanism. Karazmovsky.

  “No loose ends,” he’d said.

  Fitzmeyer grabbed the device out of the case. It was already at ten seconds. He charged from his seat and tumbled into the main section of the airplane. Just catching his balance, he set the package down and gripped the handle of the side door, casting a quick glance at the timer. Five seconds. He pulled at the door, at the same time bracing himself—he had no desire to be sucked into the darkness below.

  The door opened.

  Three seconds.

  He grabbed the package with one hand, his other hand and both feet braced against the door frame.

  One second.

  Fitzmeyer drew back his arm and threw the package as hard as he could. As it left his hand, the timer ticked off the final second and a ball of fire erupted in Fitzmeyer’s face.

  It was over before he realized he’d been too late.

  BURKE, Lyndsey, and Rance stood on the runway and watched the plane disappear into the darkness.

  “I can’t believe it,” Burke said. “Just a few more seconds and we would have been able to stop him. I’ll be in the car.”

  “Keep your eye on the prize, Burke,” Lyndsey said. “Our mission was to keep the governor from being killed. We did that.”

  “Barely.”

  “But we did. Sometimes it’s easy to get caught up in the moment with this job, but it’s important to stay focused, like you did in Sydney.”

  “Sydney?”

  “Yes. You were presented with a major decision. Why did you make the choice you did?”

  “Because I don’t believe spies have any business calling those kinds of shots.”

  “And why is that?”

  Burke sighed. “I get your point. It’s about maintaining the status quo.”

  “And Williams remaining alive is the status quo. Our mission wasn’t to catch Fitzmeyer, although that would have been nice.”

  Burke turned away and began walking back to the car. “Your logic makes sense, Lynds, but I can’t shake the feeling of failure. I’m going to have a hard time getting over this one. If only there—”

  Burke was interrupted by a sudden exclamation from Lyndsey.

  “Oh my god! Is that—?”

  Burke turned back just in time to see a blazing fireball light up the sky. Pieces of flaming debris rained down in arcs, looking like a deadly fireworks display.

  Burke stood there in the frigid Alaskan night and for the first time forgot about the cold. He supposed it was immoral to feel pleasure over the death of any human being, but he couldn’t help but watch the torrent of falling wreckage with some measure of satisfaction. Justice had been served after all, even if he hadn’t personally served it out. And, while they might never know what had really happened aboard Fitzmeyer’s plane, it would be enough to know a guilty man wasn’t living a clandestine life of leisure somewhere far away.

  At last, the final shooting star of wreckage fell to the ground and disappeared.

  “Didn’t see that coming,” Rance said, breaking the silence. “I thought he’d managed to fly the coop.”

  Burke smiled. “This job never fails to surprise me. Come on, let’s go get a drink.”

  ASSIGNMENT: DUBLIN

  A SPYCO NOVELLA #6

  1

  Would it be bad form to admit I’m a little nervous?”

  These words had come from a woman sitting in the aisle seat of a private jet. She was attractive, but beautiful in a girl-next-door kind of way; the kind who, as a kid, would have worn overalls and climbed trees. Her strawberry-blonde hair, curly and sun-kissed, was pulled back by a simple clip at the back of her head.

  Another woman, this one also blonde but radiating chic New York, laughed and shook her head. “Charlie, I’d be more concerned if you weren’t nervous on your first mission.”

  Charlie Perkins smiled sheepishly. “Not even a real mission, though, is it? Just a recon.”

  Lyndsey Archer shrugged. “It will feel like the real thing. And you’ll do fine.”

  “You’ll probably do better than fine,” said a third woman, a scorching, dark-haired beauty with melting brown eyes and flawless olive skin. “I’ve seen some real knock-ups in my day. There’s no way you’ll top those.”

  “Adabelle would never admit it,” Lyndsey said, “but she was one of those knock-ups when she first started.”

  Adabelle Fox frowned. “We didn’t know each other then. Have you been checking up on me?”

  “Oh, I might have done a little research in the case files,” Lyndsey said. “Very interesting reading. I especially liked your first mission, the one where you got lost on the way to a drop point and ended up in an entirely different country.”

  Charlie smothered a laugh.

  “That’s not as bad as it sounds,” Adabelle interjected. “There are some really tiny countries in Central Europe.”

  “And the border crossing meant nothing to you?”

  “I was naive and assumed the commies were checking random drivers. This was a long time ago, okay? Besides, I’m sure you’ve had a few ‘memorable’ incidents yourself, Ms. Superspy.”

  Lyndsey rolled her eyes. “Oh, let me tell you. I was the worst. I have no idea why Moore kept me on the team after my first six months at SpyCo.”

  “You wouldn’t care to regale us with a few of those stories, would you?” Adabelle said. “After all, you were quite happy to relate some of my history.”

  “I will, I will. After I get a couple of drinks inside me. Right now I think we’re getting close to our destination.”

  IT WAS dark by the time the jet landed at the Dublin Airport and the three women made their way into the ultra-modern Terminal 2, scanning the milling crowd for a sign with the word “Venus,” Lyndsey Archer’s codename, written on it. The bearer of that sign would be their handler.

  As is the case with many major metropolitan areas, especially those whose city limits were formed long before the advent of commercial flight, the Dublin Airport was not actually in Dublin, but rather situated 6.2 miles to the north in Collinstown. Collinstown would have been a lovely and picturesque Irish hamlet in County Finegal, if not for the huge airport plunked in the middle of it, an airport through which nearly 30 million people passed each year.
/>   “Do any of you know who our contact is?” Adabelle asked.

  Lyndsey shook her head. “I don’t, but I’m putting my money on a strapping young Irishman with a heavy brogue and a shirt two sizes small.”

  Charlie grinned. “I knew I made the right decision to join you all.”

  They continued walking until Lyndsey came to a sudden halt.

  “Ladies, I think we’re out of luck in the beefcake department.”

  They all looked where Lyndsey was pointing. There, holding a sign reading “Venus,” was an old woman with white hair that was actually in curlers under a gauzy, bright green head scarf.

  Both Charlie and Lyndsey began laughing.

  “I should have known it would be you, Dot,” Lyndsey said, walking forward to give the old woman a hug.

  Dot peered irritably through thick cat’s-eye glasses and wiggled out of Lyndsey’s embrace. “You were expecting maybe Liam Neeson?”

  “Expecting is a little too strong a word. Hoping?”

  “Well, tough tits, Blondie. You got me and know damn well you should be thankful for it.”

  Dot looked next at Adabelle. She extended a wizened hand that ended in short fingernails painted a brilliant crimson. “You must be Fox. They told me you were a looker. Va-va-voom! They weren’t kidding. If anyone could have brought Perry Hall’s sad little pecker back from the dead, you’d be the one.”

  “Hello, Dot,” Adabelle said. She’d never worked with the legendary handler before, but no SpyCo agent could hope to avoid hearing the many stories about her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. And you’ll be pleased to know that Perry’s pecker is neither sad nor little...at least not anymore.”

  “Good to know. Maybe one of these days, I’ll figure out an excuse to get him in the buff so I can find out for myself. Maybe have him infiltrate a nudist colony or something.” Dot turned to Charlie. “And you. New Girl. So you decided to go through with it and sign on with our little playgroup, eh?”