“Hullo, Dot,” Charlie said warmly.
Dot turned to the other two. “Don’t you just love that Aussie accent? Don’t it just give you a chubbie? Well, we can stand around in the airport all day, or we can dive into Dublin and drink some goddamn Irish whiskey. Up to you.”
“Don’t we need our briefing?” Lyndsey asked.
“It’s a recon job. What could go wrong?” Dot gave a dismissive flip of her hand as she turned and began waddling toward the exit. “Besides, I remember details better when my brain’s a little lubed. Old synapses. You know.”
Once outside, Lyndsey looked toward the cramped carpark, trying to guess what sort of vehicle would be bringing them into the capital city. Then she heard Charlie exclaim,
“Oh, crikey. You’re kidding.”
Lyndsey followed her point and saw a hulking, pea-green Chevy Impala that was not only parked in a redzone, but actually had a tire on the sidewalk.
“That’s my baby!” Dot exclaimed proudly. “Ain’t she a beaut?”
“How did you get it here from Sydney?” Charlie asked, referring to the Australian assignment during which she’d first met Burke and Dot.
“What are you talking about?”
“Why, that’s the same car you were driving when you picked up Burke and me, and we drove to the coast to stop the North Korean spy.”
“Oh, I hated that bitch. But you must have started drinking without me, Newbie. How could I get a classic like this from Australia to Ireland? The cost would be prohibitive.”
“Prohibitive? You drink ten-thousand-dollar-a-bottle bourbon!”
Dot stopped and faced the curly-haired trainee, casting a stern look her way. Then her face softened, and with a wink, she continued toward the car. She opened the cavernous trunk, inserting a key that was distinct from the ignition key, a phenomenon that belonged as much in the distant past as the woman herself. “There’s enough room for your suitcases full of frilly panties with space left over for Liam Neeson, if we can find him.”
The ride into Dublin was brief, but not without several memorable incidents, all of which had the agents clutching at any available handgrip.
“Dot, it won’t do to get us all arrested before we can even start the assignment,” Lyndsey said after a particularly felonious maneuver.
“Whoever arrested a hot babe for creative driving?” the old woman responded. “And having you three along won’t hurt, I suppose.”
“Where are we headed?” Lyndsey asked, holding simultaneously to the old-style hand-loop above the door and the back of the driver’s seat.
“I told you. I need a drink. Don’t you?”
“I didn’t think so before, but it now seems appropriate.”
“Can we go to the Guinness Storehouse?” asked Charlie.
Dot turned and looked over her shoulder so she could cast her glare of disapproval more effectively. “The only people who go to St. James Gate are bloody tourists. You’re international espionage operatives, dammit! You’ll drink in a dreary pub like a decent spy should.”
To drive the point home, Dot made two more incredibly dangerous turns: a left from Oliver Bond Street onto Sraid San Agaistin, driving the wrong way on the one-way thoroughfare, followed by a right onto Usher’s Quay, also against the flow—and cursing several drivers for driving on the wrong side of the street—before making a somewhat less life-threatening bend onto Upper Bridge. There she capped off the exercise with a screeching U-turn and pulled to a stop near an ancient-looking building bearing a sign with gilt lettering over two barred windows declaring it to be The Brazen Head.
Dot was already out of the car as the three younger women attempted to catch their breath and checked to make sure they hadn’t soiled themselves. “This, bitches, is the oldest pub in Ireland. Let’s get started!”
Charlie moved close to Adabelle and whispered, “Can working for SpyCo be any more dangerous than this?”
“Well, surviving the ride wasn’t an item on your training manifest, but I’ll add it to your credit ledger.”
Dot pulled open the primordial pub door and, with a dramatic sweep of her other hand, ushered the women inside. Lyndsey smiled as soon as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The interior was as authentic and charming as the façade had been.
“Dot, it’s wonderful!” she exclaimed.
The old woman didn’t hear or at least didn’t respond, as she was already standing at the bar, slapping her open palm repeatedly on its surface to draw the barkeep’s attention. By the time the others caught up, he was pouring four healthy whiskeys. He set them all in front of Dot, to whom he slid a slip of paper, which she quickly signed and pushed back.
“Thanks, Seamus,” Dot said.
The barkeep looked confused. “My name’s Daniel.”
“It’s Seamus. You’re all Seamus.” Then Dot turned and handed each of the women a glass. Lifting her own, she said, “Beimid ag ól! That’s how these crazy bastards say ‘We will drink!’ As if there was any doubt.”
The women repeated the toast with varying degrees of success, and they tasted the whiskey, which was delightful.
“It’s called Redbreast,” Dot said. “And it’s about sixty-five bucks a bottle, which is pretty cheap for my taste, but damn, it’s good.”
Everyone took a second sip, and Dot hoisted herself onto a barstool. As the three younger women circled around, she pointed toward the door. “In a minute or two a dark-haired fellow with bad acne scars and wearing a red long-sleeved tee shirt is going to walk through that door. He’s been following us since the airport, and I’d hoped to lose him by driving against the traffic, but he anticipated the move and was already parked on Bridge Street by the time I turned down.”
“I’m guessing this isn’t part of the recon,” Lyndsey said.
Dot shook her head. “Nope. Either this guy’s up to mischief or he thinks he’s going to land all four of us for the best tumble of his life. And both ideas are going to get him a shot in the ding-dong if he doesn’t back the hell off.”
“Have you seen him before this?”
“Not that I recall, so here’s what we’ll do. We have no reason to think he’s gotten a good look at the three of you, so I want New Girl to go to the bathroom and wait a couple of minutes. When you come out, I want you to approach the target and pick him up. Really lay it on him, sweet thing. Make him think you can’t wait to make his dreams come true. Think you can do that?”
Charlie nodded.
“Good. Now get moving before he comes in here and gets a good look at you.”
2
The sleek black Rolls Royce drifted to a stop, its headlights illuminating the huge, rusting doors of the abandoned factory. The driver’s door opened and a bear of a man stepped out, his peaked chauffeur’s cap looking entirely too small for the shaven head it adorned. The big man walked to the passenger’s door, opened it, and then stepped back.
The man who exited the vehicle could not have won a beauty contest in which he was the only contestant and all the judges were blind. His reddish skin was blotchy and featured several open sores, at which the man periodically dabbed with a soiled handkerchief. His large head tilted slightly to the side, as if too heavy for its body, which in turn seemed to list dangerously, as if ready to collapse under its own weight. The man was of average height but sported a roundish figure that comically resembled a globe. His puffy eyes were two colors: the left one brown, the right a chilling steel-gray.
After examining the sight before him, this unseemly character turned to the driver.
“Are you sure this is the place, Hodges?”
The driver nodded. “Quite. Checked the address twice myself.”
“Not the sort of place I’d expect the Wolf to be hiding out. Would you, Hodges?”
The driver shrugged. “I hear he’s a strange one, Mr. Zmaj. All the jobs he’s done, he’s got to be loaded. But you’d never know. Lives in a shit apartment, doesn’t even own a car. He doesn’t go around with expen
sive women or live the high life in any way.”
“You seem privy to a disturbing amount of information regarding this fellow,” Zmaj said, fixing Hodges with a searching look.
“Just what I’ve heard. Of course, it could all be rumor.”
Zmaj emitted a dismissive pfft sound. “In my experience, one can only believe around ten percent of what you hear about these super agents. Part of their genius lies in public relations. Your exploits don’t have to be true, as long as people believe them to be true. The truth and an accepted lie have the same power, after all. And the lie is often more powerful in the end.”
Hodges was saved from answering by a loud rattling sound as the large metal doors began sliding apart, revealing the black, gaping maw of the factory’s interior.
The two men waited but saw no movement other than the doors, which at last clanked completely open. Then there was just silence and darkness, broken only by the Roll’s headlights.
A moment later, a chirping sound alerted Zmaj to a message on his phone. He took it from his inside jacket pocket and looked at the screen. He stared for several seconds before returning it to the pocket.
“Do you know who just texted me, Hodges?”
Hodges shook his head.
“The Wolf. He has told us to drive into the factory, turn off the car and its headlights, and await further instructions.”
The men stood there for a moment. Then Hodges said,
“Well? What should we do?”
“I don’t like it,” Zmaj muttered. “I don’t like being treated this way and have no desire to drive into that factory. I’m beginning to fear this is all a trap.”
At that moment, Zmaj’s phone rang. He took it back out of his pocket and answered.
“Who is this?”
“Are you going to follow my instructions or not?”
“I take it you are the Wolf?”
“If you do not follow orders, I will shoot you where you stand. Even now I have my sights centered on your chest.”
Zmaj glanced down and, indeed, saw a red dot hovering over his chest. “Are you quite mad!” he roared, his voice carrying in the still night air. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“I have no time for your ego trip,” the Wolf said. “Drive inside the factory, turn off the engine and headlights, then wait for my orders. This is how it will happen. Without it, I cannot be assured of a secure site and will be forced to remove both of you.”
“That isn’t how I work—”
“But it’s how I work. And the fact you are here at all suggests you know—or at least have heard—just how good I am at my work. I repeat. Drive into the factory. Or you will be dead within ten seconds.”
Zmaj swore and disconnected with a violent stab of his middle finger on the phone screen. “Lives in an old apartment downtown, does he?”
Hodges shrugged. “Rumors, like I said. You think he’s serious?”
“Starting to feel that way, Hodges,” Zmaj said with unmasked contempt. “He did, after all, just place a phone call to my private unlisted cell number. Tell me, Hodges. Do you know my phone number?” The driver shook his head.
“No, you do not.” After a nervous pause he added, “We’ll drive in, but keep the doors locked. The car is reinforced against weapons fire, so if he’s planning something we stand a good chance of escaping.”
The two men climbed back into the car and the Rolls eased forward and into the factory. As soon as its backend cleared the entryway, the big doors rattled closed, seemingly much faster than they had opened.
“The car, Hodges. He said to turn it off.”
“But that’ll leave us in pitch black—”
“Turn it off, damn you! We’ve come this far.”
Hodges turned off the Rolls and utter darkness descended. It was the kind of darkness so thick it can be felt on the skin. It was an unpleasant sensation, that Zmaj realized, to his surprise, he rather enjoyed.
Something banged against the rear window. Hodges jumped in his seat and Zmaj’s head jerked to look in the direction of the sound, but there was nothing to be seen in the blackness. Then his phone rang, providing a lovely rectangle of light.
“Wolf? I don’t approve of your little games,” Zmaj said. “I’m here on business and I thought you were a serious agent. I see I was mistaken. Banging on the window in the dark. Really? Cheap horror film tricks do not impress me!”
The Wolf laughed. “Oh, come now. You take yourself much too seriously. But I understand you’re a busy man.”
“Then we can talk?”
“We can talk. You and your minion get out of the car and I’ll be right down.”
The connection went dead.
Zmaj tried his door. “Unlock the door, Hodges.”
“You sure? He could pick us off easy, with the right equipment.”
“He could have also done it while we were standing outside if he’d wanted to. Let’s get out.”
The two men once more exited the car. Zmaj held up one hand in front of his face but could see nothing. It was an odd, disorienting feeling, again causing him a rush of animal pleasure.
All at once, a spotlight flicked on and bathed Zmaj and Hodges in light. They covered their faces with their forearms, and then Zmaj heard the slow, even thud-clank of footsteps on a metal catwalk. Using his hands to shield his eyes, he peered through his fingers, trying to locate the sounds.
And then he did.
A catwalk ran high along the wall and connected the two sides of the massive interior of the factory. Along that catwalk, a man now walked, his steps slow and measured. One could almost hear a dramatic soundtrack thumping in the background, as if watching a movie scene unfold.
The man stopped, looked down, and then spoke, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. “Well, well, well, Mr. Zmaj. We meet at last.”
Zmaj cleared his throat once to make sure his voice didn’t crack. His lips were dry, but he did not dare lick them for fear of showing weakness.
“Indeed we do, Wolf. I have heard many stories of your exploits, some of which I assume to be true.”
The Wolf laughed without humor. “The best stories are neither known nor told.”
“I don’t need your biography. I only wish to know if you have considered my proposal. You received the details, I assume?”
“I did. And I find it intriguing, although the compensation was a bit lackluster.”
“The details can be hammered out.”
“I don’t haggle. I set the price, then you decide whether or not you can afford me.”
Zmaj’s face darkened. “Oh, I can afford you.” He wanted to add, “you arrogant prick,” but prudence prevailed. The Wolf could easily kill them and, besides, Zmaj was developing a grudging admiration for the man’s methods. They were not unlike those he himself used on occasion. In this case, Zmaj found himself the disadvantaged party, a role he was unused to filling. He wanted the Wolf more than the Wolf wanted him—and the Wolf obviously knew it.
There was a sudden clank and then a whirring sound. The figure on the catwalk began slowly descending on a small platform. The lift stopped on the ground floor and the Wolf motioned for his visitors to join him. They did so, although Hodges hesitated for a brief second before being prodded along by Zmaj.
The Wolf’s face was nearly obscured by the shadow of a large black hood. The only feature Zmaj could make out was a square jaw sprinkled with dark stubble. Other than that, the noticeable characteristics were all physique. The Wolf was tall, around six-four, with broad shoulders and narrow hips.
And then the light went out.
Zmaj heard a deep rumble and the whirring of machinery much larger than that which had lowered the lift. And then the platform jerked once before somehow beginning to descend.
It is a terrifying sensation to lower into total darkness. Zmaj did not consider himself easily frightened—a deadly trait in his business—but a distinct sense of unease settled over him as the lift continued downward. He was unused
to being so unprotected, generally surrounded by a squad of his most well-trained guards. But that had been forbidden for this meeting, and Zmaj had very much wanted to meet the Wolf. Tactically, he did not like it at all, but once more, the imbalance gave him a visceral thrill.
After what seemed like minutes, but what could not have been more than a few seconds, the lift jerked again and stopped. Zmaj heard a click and a single red light came on, casting the surroundings in an eerie, blood-like tint. A hand pushed on his back and he understood this to mean he was to step off the lift. He did, followed closely by Hodges. His driver’s hand brushed his own and Zmaj was amused and slightly disgusted to find it was shaking with uncontrolled fear. He didn’t particularly blame the man—this was one of the more disconcerting situations they’d experienced—but one needed to control oneself no matter the circumstances.
No sooner had this thought entered Zmaj’s brain than a huge form burst from the deep red shadows. A powerful, snarling monster threw itself against his chest, forcing him backward. His feet stumbled and he felt himself going down. Hot breath and spittle spewed into his eyes, nose, and mouth. Then he was flat on his back, as the glistening, dripping fangs of an enormous dog clicked eagerly mere inches from his face.
“Down, Ghost! Back!”
The dog, a mere second earlier a beast of mythical ferocity, shrank back and hopped from Zmaj’s heaving chest.
The Wolf chuckled, the sound unexpectedly unnerving. “Mr. Zmaj, meet Ghost, a pure-blooded gray wolf. Found him as a pup in Alaska, abandoned by his pack. Now he knows only one friend and master—me. Anyone else is assumed to be a threat until proven otherwise. Don’t worry; now that I’ve spoken for you, he’ll not bother you again. Unless I tell him to, of course.” The Wolf ended this little speech as it had begun, with a chuckle.
Zmaj’s blubbery lips curled in disgust as Hodges helped him to his feet. “I’ve never cared much for dogs,” he said. “They’ve always seemed so...uncouth.”
The Wolf grunted. “I’m not sure I can work with a cat person.”
Assignment- Danger A SpyCo Collection 4-6 Page 19
