Assignment- Danger A SpyCo Collection 4-6

by Craig A. Hart

  Lyndsey stepped toward her. “Adabelle? Are you okay? You look like you’re having a stroke.”

  Adabelle shook her head. “No, I’m fine. It’s just...Charlie, are you sure the buyer’s name was Dragon?”

  “Very sure. Is there something wrong? I agree it’s an unusual name, but—”

  “I’m guessing none of you speak Bosnian,” Adabelle said.

  Lyndsey laughed. “You’d guess right. At least, I certainly don’t.”

  “Then you don’t know what ‘dragon’ means in that language.”

  “Another correct guess. What are you getting at?”

  Adabelle drew in a deep breath. “Charlie...Lyndsey...Dot...in Bosnian, the word ‘dragon’ is ‘zmaj.’”

  PERRY FROWNED. “How do you know it wasn’t Charlie?”

  “The mention of the paygrade increase. Charlie didn’t actually request one. She can’t, in fact, because she’s brand new. Whoever the caller was never faltered when I mentioned it. What she did say was that she’s sending a chopper to get us to Dublin.”

  “Dublin?”

  “Looks like someone else wants us there as much as we’d like to get there.”

  “Any guesses who that might be?”

  “Zmaj,” Moore said. “It has to be. Now come on. Let’s go out for a little fresh air.”

  They reopened the cabin hatch and found the crewman still standing there, leaning at an odd angle that suggested he’d been listening at the door and was trying to look nonchalant.

  “Guarding our cabin?” Moore said. “How very thoughtful. One never knows what might happen at sea, eh?”

  The man stuttered an embarrassed, inaudible response and hurried away.

  The agents made their way to the main deck, which in seeming mockery of their traumatic experience, was bathed in warm sunlight. One of the ship’s officers saw them and walked over.

  “We were hoping to take in some air before the copter gets here for us. Still feeling a bit of the rum we shared,” Moore said.

  “Very well, just be careful. The deck’s still slick in places from the storm. Bridge reports the chopper is about ten minutes out.”

  Moore nodded and the officer moved on, leaving them alone.

  “What makes you think any of this has to do with Zmaj?” Perry asked.

  “The caller mentioned him by name, no doubt to make me more willing to go along with the chopper ride to Ireland. I think you both realize the name is not yet on most people’s radar. For the caller to mention him, they either had to be involved in the Istanbul misadventure or be high up on our ladder. Charlie’s an exception, given her closeness with Adabelle and Lyndsey. The only other people who know about Zmaj are his people.”

  Almost exactly ten minutes later, the chopper arrived and lowered a rope ladder down to the freighter’s deck. One by one, the agents climbed aboard. Moore sat in the seat directly behind the pilot, who handed him a headset. Burke was next in and took the seat beside the pilot, who looked like he might take issue with him sitting there for a moment, but eventually just handed him a headset as well. Perry climbed in behind him and slid into the seat next to Moore. Expecting the pilot to retract the rope ladder at that point, Perry was surprised to see the pilot shake his head.

  “There’s a crew member who needs to get back to shore as well. Family emergency.”

  Perry saw the rope ladder moving again, indicating another climber and was not surprised to see it was the same crewman who had brought them the phone. The man had a small satchel strapped across his shoulder and took a seat behind Moore. Perry made sure his boss was looking at his hands, then tapped his chest to indicate the man’s bag, followed by the universal symbol for a gun: straight forefinger for the barrel, thumb moving like the hammer. The two agents and their chief did not miss the fact that the pilot had not handed him a headset to wear. With the noise of the airship’s twin engines, there was no other way to communicate, and the fact that he didn’t get one meant the sailor would be unable to hear anything being said, likely because he wouldn’t need to. The pilot, on the other hand, could, and that meant the agents would not be able to verbalize anything that might tip him off to the fact that they were aware something was not right.

  Perry sat with every muscle tensed and ready to spring into action. He had the only weapon between the three of them, his small knife, which had come into play a couple of times during their efforts to save themselves. He kept his right hand in his pocket, ready to call it to action.

  “How long to Ireland?” Burke asked into his headset mic.

  “Good skies today. Maybe an hour and a half. Two tops.”

  For about forty minutes, the ride was fairly uneventful, which made Perry increasingly nervous. Like any good field agent, he was not above relying on the prompting of his gut. It had saved his ass more times than he could count. He turned his head to find Moore and Burke doing an excellent job of looking bored, even though he knew their senses were on high alert. He also saw the crewman staring straight ahead, looking the most unsettled of any of them. This guy might work for Zmaj, Perry thought, but he’s not a seasoned pro. Perry took a moment to notice the seating configuration of the helicopter: three rows of two seats, followed by a single where the fuselage tapered at the rear. He and Moore were in the first set of seats. The twitchy crewman was behind them. That left an empty set of two and the singleton, giving Perry an idea.

  “I’m going to move back so I can stretch out a little,” he said. Before anyone could object, he unplugged his headset and switched seats. He plugged the coiled headset cord into a jack in the wall and sat on the left-hand seat, stretching his legs across the other.

  Having Perry behind him seemed to make the young crewman even more nervous. He scratched the wispy blonde attempt at a beard and glanced behind him. Perry pinched his nose and pointed to Moore, indicating he’d moved because the man’s BO was offensive. The crewman actually smiled a little and nodded.

  Perry, in spite of appearing to look around randomly, had actually been watching the pilot almost nonstop since they’d climbed in. So he saw when the man gave the yoke a little twist, causing the chopper to rock back and forth. It was an odd, intentional move, perfect for a signal. Perry opened his knife with a flick of his thumb.

  The sailor sitting just ahead had broken into an obvious sweat and, as Perry watched covertly over one shoulder, began unfastening the latch on the satchel.

  The instant Perry saw the sailor’s gun begin to appear, he sprang into action. In a single, graceful movement, he pulled the knife from his pocket, reached up, and slashed the blade across the young man’s throat. The blood barely had time to start gushing all over the back of Moore’s seat before Perry covered the length of the cabin and pressed the knifepoint into the pilot’s right temple.

  “Boss, you any good at flying these things?”

  “In a pinch,” Moore responded grimly.

  “That’s all I needed to know,” Perry said, violently jamming the blade into the side of the pilot’s head. The man died instantly, and the chopper pitched toward the ocean and began increasing speed.

  “Get the pilot out of the seat!” Moore bellowed.

  Unfortunately, the pilot was securely belted to his chair. His limp hands, which had spasmodically pushed the chopper’s yoke forward in the instant of the man’s demise, lay now over the buckle of the seatbelt. Perry pushed the release button and grabbed the pilot’s jumpsuit by the shoulder, yanking him to the right, even as Moore climbed over the corpse into the now empty seat. As Perry continued to wrestle the dead man out of the way, he stole a glance out of the window and saw that the water was much closer than it had been a moment before.

  “Might want to pull this bitch up,” he said to Moore.

  “Might want to make the pilot get out of his seat before you kill him next time, imbecile.”

  “I was riffing,” Perry said.

  Moore wrapped his hands around the yoke’s two grips and pulled back evenly. At first, the choppe
r did not respond and Perry swallowed as the water grew closer. But just before it appeared they would once again be plunged into the Atlantic, the chopper eased out of its dive and leveled, a mere twenty feet above the waves.

  Moore turned to face Perry. “Riffing? Riffing?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes I riff.”

  Moore declined to answer, possibly because no quip sprang to mind, but more likely because flying the helicopter was consuming his entire attention. He examined the controls, moving his finger lightly over the switches and knobs as if trying to jumpstart his memory.

  Perry leaned over Moore’s shoulder. “Do we have the fuel to reach Dublin?”

  “I’m not sure.” Moore located the fuel gauge and tapped on it. “I haven’t kept up on the mileage of modern choppers. There should be a manual around here somewhere that may give us a clue as to the range of this machine.”

  Perry rifled through the cabin and finally came up with the manual. He held it aloft like the head of a vanquished foe. Then he turned to the appendix, following the line of text with a finger. “Ah, here’s something.” He passed the book to Moore, who studied it briefly, then glanced back at the fuel gauge.

  “Yeah, we’re not going to make it all the way to Dublin. If that’s where they were planning to take us, they must have a fueling station somewhere on the southwestern coast of Ireland. But we don’t know where that is, and I don’t want to attract the attention necessary to find out.”

  “We could try to contact Dot and have them meet us,” Perry said. “I’m guessing we’ll want to join forces sooner rather than later anyway.”

  Moore nodded. “Correct. I suggest you use the radio to contact SpyCo Communications and have them patch Dot through on the special frequency. You’ll still have to be discreet but should be able to set up some sort of rendezvous.”

  15

  Lyndsey looked around at her fellow agents. “Well, I guess that puts an end to any doubt concerning this guy’s allegiance. Why doesn’t it surprise me that a minion for Zmaj would collect severed heads?”

  Dot snorted. “It would surprise me more if any minion for that fat bastard didn’t have a weird fetish. And I’m not talking about the fun kind in bed either.”

  “Anyway,” Adabelle said, “as much as I’d like to stand around and find out what Dot prefers in the bedroom, we should be moving along. The last thing we need is for Zmaj to somehow find out his sick little toady has been taken out. The longer he doesn’t hear from him, the more suspicious he’ll get.”

  “I have some great bedroom stories,” Dot said, sounding miffed.

  As one unit, the three younger women moved toward the bedroom door.

  “I fucked Cary Grant!” Dot shouted after them.

  Charlie paused. “Really?”

  Lyndsey and Adabelle pushed her through the door.

  “He liked a lot of butt play!”

  Dissolving into laughter, the three women stumbled into the living room, nearly tripping over Connor’s lifeless body.

  “Call me twisted,” Charlie said between spasms of mirth, “but I’m really curious about that Cary Grant story.”

  “Oh, you’ll hear it eventually,” Adabelle assured her. “Now that it’s on Dot’s mind, she won’t rest until we’ve digested every detail.”

  Charlie grinned. “I’ll look forward to it. I do love me some Cary.”

  “As do I, young lady.”

  The man’s voice brought them all up short, including Dot, who had just entered from the bedroom.

  Lyndsey’s gun appeared in her hand as if by magic. “Hands up, asshole! Now!”

  The man smiled and raised his hands. He was middle-aged, with a full head of hair that greyed at the temples. He wore a thin moustache that, against all odds, appeared both classic and chic at the same time. His long, camelhair coat was immaculate and set off by a black silk scarf around the neck.

  “What a reaction,” the man said. “A Gable fan, are you?”

  From the back of the room, Dot snorted. “Gable? That lop-eared drunk couldn’t hold a candle to Cary in the bedroom. And I ought to know, because I tried them both. But enough about that. Who the hell are you, Mr. Pretty Boy?”

  The man was still smiling. “Boy? I haven’t been called that in quite some time.”

  “Dot thinks everyone is a child,” Adabelle said. “And, compared to her, I suppose they are.”

  Dot scowled. “So much for reclaiming your spot as my favorite, Foxy. You’re on probation until further notice.”

  Lyndsey waggled the gun at the newcomer. “Answer the question, please. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  “I believe that’s two questions,” the man said, “but I’m not stingy. I shall answer two questions for the price of one. You may call me the Velvet Glove and I am here because I own this apartment.”

  “You live here?” Lyndsey frowned. “I thought Connor lived here.”

  “You’re speaking of the dead fellow on the floor?”

  “Yes. Connor.”

  “Ah, well, you never know what people are calling themselves these days. And you are correct. He did live here, but I own the apartment. In fact, that’s why I’m here—to collect the rent.” The Velvet Glove nudged the body with the toe of a shoe so well-shined one could almost see their reflection. “I’m guessing that’s no longer an option.”

  “You could always pick his pockets,” Dot said, shoving her way to the front. “Or better yet, sell his collection of human heads and take the proceeds.”

  The Glove frowned. “His what?”

  “Oh, didn’t you know? Your renter was keeping an array of severed heads underneath his bed.”

  “Good heavens.”

  Dot crossed her arms and stood before the man, who towered over her. The sight of the two facing off reminded Lyndsey of the biblical tale of David and Goliath.

  “Now,” Dot said, all business, “what the hell kind of name is the Velvet Glove?”

  “It’s descriptive, although more metaphorical than literal. In my circles, I am known as one who carries out his business with precision, aplomb, and with as much gentility as is possible.”

  “And just what is your business?”

  The Glove’s smile returned. “Why, I kill people.”

  ZMAJ SAT BEHIND HIS DESK, doing an excellent impression of a man about to explode with anger. “Why the hell isn’t anyone checking in,” he raged. “First that little shit Connor goes quiet and now the crew aboard the chopper. Constant communication is what I require. Constant communication!”

  The Wolf, who was leaning against the wall, having been booted from the desk when Zmaj grew weary of supporting his considerable bulk, sighed. “This is probably a bad time to mention my disappointment at how all this is going down. I have a lot of tough men and women on the way, all answering a call I personally put out. If they arrive and find this one big shit show, neither one of us will make it out of here alive.”

  “You can’t possibly blame me for this,” Zmaj said. “I’m as furious as are you. I’m practically beside myself.”

  “That would make for a pretty crowded room,” the Wolf mumbled.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” the Wolf said. “But I do think it fair to warn you that if this ship doesn’t right itself before the day is out, I’m canceling the troops. I owe it to my reputation and my own goddamn neck.”

  MOORE RISKED a glance over to Perry. “Any word from Dot?”

  “Not yet,” Perry said. “I haven’t been able to raise her on the radio, so she must not be in her car or at the Dublin safehouse.”

  “Do we have a sat phone?”

  “Not unless one came with the chopper. And even when we come into cell range, it won’t help, because our phones are full of sea water.”

  “Keep trying the radio, then. This will all be a lot easier if we’re able to communicate.”

  Perry gave a sharp salute. “I’ve always admired your keen insight into the obvious, sir.”
>
  “Glad to hear it. Then you’ll appreciate my next one.”

  “And what might that be?”

  Moore pointed out the starboard side of the chopper. “We’re in a shitload of trouble.”

  Perry followed the point and let out a sincere groan. “I’m guessing you’re talking about that other chopper approaching at a rather unsafe speed for such close quarters?”

  “Indeed.”

  “The one that appears to be armed with several nasty looking air-to-air missiles?”

  “The very same.”

  Perry rose from the co-pilot’s seat. “I’ll look for something that might keep us from being blown to pieces.”

  “Good idea. Failing that, get out the life vests.”

  Perry groaned again. “I don’t think I can take another dunk in the drink.”

  “Then you’d better hope this bird has some defensive tricks up its sleeve!”

  16

  Lyndsey glared over her gunsight at the man who called himself the Velvet Glove. He seemed completely sane and in control of his faculties, but the calm manner in which he had divulged his vocation suggested otherwise. Lyndsey waited for him to burst into laughter and chide them for so easily falling for his joke. But it never happened. No laughter, no confession of harmless subterfuge...just that calm, unnerving smile. At last, Lyndsey took the initiative.

  “You expect us to believe a murderer would simply announce his wrongdoing?”

  This question did elicit a chuckle from the Glove. “Oh, come now. You’ve broken into an apartment, killed the tenant, and searched his belongings. I hardly think you are in a position to cast aspersions.”

  “We didn’t break into the apartment.”

  The Glove chuckled once more. “Ah, well, as long as you didn’t break in. Of course, there is the matter of the corpses out in the street as well. They’re beginning to draw a crowd.”

  Adabelle turned to Dot. “You just left the bodies there?”