by Logan Ryles
Kevin’s voice was curt. “In position.”
“Great. Eyes sharp, now,” Edric said. “Any sign of Spider?”
All three of them radioed back in the negative, and for a while, the coms went silent. Wolfgang stood next to the curb amid the throng of pedestrians and surveyed the block, doing his best to look like just another tourist, starstruck by the Parisian fairytale around him.
Raven sat next to the window. Seeing him in person did little to alter Wolfgang’s impressions of him based on the photograph. He was tall, with hair as black as night—hence the call sign, perhaps. Late forties, maybe early fifties, depending on how his genetic dice had fallen. Raven ordered a drink in a white china cup and sipped it while pretending to read a book. Wolfgang could tell by the angle of the man’s face that he was reading the crowd outside the café rather than anything on the page.
Wolfgang switched his attention to the faces that passed along the sidewalk, searching for a Russian assassin. What did Russian assassins look like, anyway? Not like the movies, surely. Not dressed in black, with pale eyes and silenced pistols. No, these people would be professionals, trained to blend in, just like he was. And in this environment, crowded with noisy people and honking cars, it would be as easy for an assassin to vanish as it was for Wolfgang or for Spider.
Which means I’ll never find them in this crowd.
Not only would he not find them, it would also be impossible to protect Spider if he took a seat with Raven directly in front of a window, fully exposed. Wolfgang needed to put himself in the shoes of an assassin. If he were here to kill Spider, and Spider was going to meet with Raven next to that window, where would he be?
Wolfgang’s attention switched from the thronging crowds to the buildings that surrounded the café. The block was wide, with five streets intersecting together in a sort of knot, right in front of the building. On every corner were other buildings, apartments, and offices, with little shops and bakeries on the ground floors, all full of windows and facing the street. People churned in and out of those buildings, hailing cabs and shoving past each other as cars and buses whirred past.
The windows.
There were so many windows, but not all of them had an unobstructed view of Raven’s position. Wolfgang squinted into the sun and scanned first one building, then the next, running his eyes along each floor, searching for irregularities.
Kevin’s voice broke across the radio. “I have a target moving south along Saint-Germain! Matches Spider’s description. Charlie Eye, do you have him?”
“Hold, Charlie Three . . .” Lyle’s said.
Wolfgang ignored the exchange and continued to scan the windows. His stomach tightened with an increasing unease—a practiced instinct he’d learned to follow over years of mishaps and near-death mistakes.
Their position was far too exposed. Raven’s position was far too exposed. A lone sniper, nestled in an elevated position less than fifty yards from Raven’s seat next to the window, wouldn’t need a high-powered rifle. He could take both Raven and Spider out with two quick shots from a silenced .17 HMR, or even a high-powered air gun. There would be no sound—just two men crashing forward over a coffee table, with blood spraying from their skulls.
“I can’t confirm identity. The satellite is lagging,” Lyle said. “Charlie Two, can you confirm physical attributes?”
“He’s short,” Kevin said. “Five-seven, five-eight. Round glasses. European complexion. I can’t determine any more without closing in. Should I proceed?”
“Negative, Charlie Two,” Edric said. “Do not approach. Maintain cover.”
Wolfgang shot a glance back up Saint-Germain. He saw the man immediately, working his way toward the café with a briefcase in one hand, the other hand jammed in his pocket. Was it Spider, or was it an assassin armed with a silenced pistol?
What would I do if I were the assassin?
Wolfgang chewed his lip, then turned back to the surrounding buildings. He wouldn’t use a pistol. He wouldn’t get that close.
“Working the satellite now. I think I have an image,” Lyle whispered over the headset.
Wolfgang saw movement from the fourth floor of an apartment building across the street from the café. A Juliet balcony was mounted to the wall, directly in front of an open window. He could have sworn that window was closed only five seconds before. Now it was open, and while darkness shrouded the apartment’s interior, he knew he’d seen something move.
“Charlie Lead,” Wolfgang said, keeping his eyes fixed on the window. “I have movement. Fourth floor apartment building, across from the café.”
“Monitor, Charlie Three. Hold position.”
Wolfgang squinted into the sun. He would have held his hand up, shielding his eyes, but the gesture would draw attention. Instead, he ignored the discomfort and focused on the window.
There it was. Another movement. A shadow in the apartment.
“I have the image!” Lyle said. “Running facial recognition now. I think this is Spider.”
“Where is he?” Megan asked from inside the café.
“One hundred yards from the café and closing,” Kevin said.
“Stay on him, Charlie Two,” Edric said.
Wolfgang pressed his finger against his ear, adjusting the earpiece. “Charlie Lead, I have movement in this apartment. Open window with clear line of sight to Spider’s route.”
“Hold your position until we confirm identity,” Edric said.
Then Wolfgang saw it—a hard outline running perpendicular to the spindles of the Juliet balcony, pointed toward the café.
“Gun!” Wolfgang snapped. “I’m moving in!”
6
Wolfgang broke into a run, launching himself off the sidewalk and into the street as horns blared and Edric barked over the radio.
“Negative, Charlie Three! Hold your position. Do not engage!”
Wolfgang ignored the order, keeping one eye on the window as he ran. He could still see the outline of the rifle muzzle pointed at the café.
Tires shrieked, and Wolfgang twisted, his hip glancing off the front corner of a car as an irate motorist screamed at him in French. He jumped back onto the sidewalk and crashed toward the first door he saw, his breath whistling through his teeth as he smacked his elbow against the gun beneath his jacket. All his second thoughts about carrying the weapon were gone now. He was about to take down a Russian sniper, right in the heart of a European city, and he was likely to need all the firepower he could get.
A glass door with a reception desk guarded the side entrance to the apartment complex. Wolfgang skidded past the desk and took the first hallway that led to the edge of the building. He instinctively knew that a stairwell would be located there, providing the most efficient method of escape in the event of a fire.
Edric continued to shout over the earpiece, but he wasn’t shouting at Wolfgang any longer. The commands were directed at Kevin and Megan, ordering them to reposition to cover Wolfgang’s vacancy.
“Target has stopped!” Kevin shouted. “He saw Charlie Three moving. He’s backing away.”
“Charlie Two, stay on him,” Edric ordered. “Charlie One, stay with Raven!”
Wolfgang reached into his ear and dug the earpiece out, cramming it into his pocket as he bounded up the stairwell. He took the steps three at a time and launched himself around the corners of each landing. His heart pounded, and in his mind he counted the number of windows from the corner of the building to the window he’d seen overlooking the café. Was it six? Or seven? He wasn’t sure, and it mattered.
He reached the fourth floor and slid to a halt, catching his breath and laying his hand gently on the door handle. Quiet, now. Not too fast. He didn’t want that rifle redirected at him. The fourth-floor hallway was quiet and still. Each door, made of wood and painted in different shades of bright pastels, was shut and bolted, with glistening Roman numerals to mark the apartment number.
Wolfgang slid his hand beneath his jacket and felt the comforting weight of
the Berretta. He closed his eyes momentarily and envisioned the window again. It was the seventh window from the corner; he was sure of it now. He had to be sure.
He opened his eyes and hurried down the hall, bending low and keeping the gun inside his jacket. He would try the knob first, and if it was unlocked, he would ease inside before drawing the gun.
The door was unlocked, and he held his breath as he pushed it open, mentally pleading for it not to squeak. The apartment on the other side was dark, quiet, and empty, with wooden floors that were polished but dusty. There was a kitchen on his right, and from someplace on the other side of the dining room, soft light drifted toward him. Light from the open window.
Wolfgang eased the handgun out of his jacket as he pressed the door shut and held his breath. He heard the distant blast of horns and a chorus of voices from the streets below. He could smell coffee in the air and pastries from the café. It was the smell of Paris, and it shielded the scent of a Russian assassin in the room.
Wolfgang held the gun up, bracing his shooting hand and slipping into the dining room. It was empty also, but light spilled over the hardwood from the sitting room on the other side of the door. He drew a half breath through dry lips, then crouched and stepped into the next room. It was empty, like the rest. An open window looked over the Juliet balcony, with a white silk curtain flapping in the breeze. But on the floor were marks in the dust—twin scrapes about ten inches apart, just inside the window.
A rifle’s bipod sat there. I was right.
Wolfgang took a cautious step forward, then glanced around the room. Nobody was visible, but there was only one entrance to the apartment. The Russian had to be inside. He had to be close. He had to be—
Wolfgang heard the soft creak of the hardwood only a millisecond before the first blow hit him between the shoulder blades like a baseball bat, sending him rocketing forward and crashing face-first onto the floor. The Berretta spun out of his hand, and he rolled over, kicking out with both legs for the shins of his attacker. His desperate attempts at defense were useless. The shadow of a man in all black encircled him with deft agility, moving toward his head. Wolfgang instinctively shielded his head with both arms as he tried to roll out of the way, but his attacker’s movements were a ploy. The Russian stepped backward like a cat, landing on one foot and sending the other smashing into Wolfgang’s stomach.
The air rushed from Wolfgang’s lungs, and his arms flew toward his middle, bracing for another blow and leaving his head exposed. The butt of the rifle crashed toward his temple only a moment before his head erupted in pain and everything went black.
The Triumph’s motor died with a gentle rumble, and Wolfgang deployed the kickstand but didn’t dismount. He looked at the other two Triumphs parked twenty yards farther down the hotel parking lot, and then the white panel van parked next to the dumpster in the back.
Edric had booked them a two-room suite at the Hilton near the airport, which was large enough to provide a reliable safe house with multiple routes of approach. The team hadn’t planned on using it. The plan was to be back in the air by now, popping champagne and collecting paychecks.
Wolfgang winced. His head pounded from the impact of the rifle butt on his temple, and it still hurt to breathe. But mostly, it hurt to be him, to be sitting there knowing he had to face the team.
They’re going to blame me. Maybe they should.
Wolfgang slid off the bike, hung his helmet on the handlebar, and walked into the hotel’s lobby. He picked up his keycard at the main desk, using the fake passport Edric provided—John Altman, a Canadian businessman traveling for pleasure—and then took the elevator to the eighth floor. His stomach didn’t churn anymore, but that was probably because the muscles were so bruised by the impact of the Russian’s boot on his abdomen.
What was he thinking? He should have waited in the apartment's hallway or just inside the door. After all, where was the Russian going to go? He was boxed in.
Wolfgang stopped outside the suite and ran a hand through his hair. He wasn’t sure if his face was bruised, but there was dirt all over his T-shirt, and his leather jacket was scratched. He looked like a fool.
Nothing for it.
He opened the door and was unsurprised to find the lights off. Two steps in, and he heard heavy footfalls coming toward him from the main room.
“You moron! You tryin’ to get us all killed?”
Kevin barreled forward like a charging bulldog, his eyes blazing hatred. He grabbed Wolfgang by the collar and slammed him against the wall. “Are you working for the Russians?” Kevin snarled, his face only inches away.
Wolfgang snapped. He grabbed Kevin’s elbow with one hand and shoved it inward, slicing Kevin’s leverage in half before plowing his left knee into his groin. Wolfgang slid out of his grip, spinning him by the arm and driving him onto the floor. Wolfgang landed on his lower back, twisting Kevin’s right arm toward his shoulder blades.
Kevin shouted, and Wolfgang drove the heel of his palm into his neck, shoving his face into the carpet and completely disabling him. “Don’t you ever question my loyalty, you overgrown, arrogant piece of meat! I’ve met dogs who are smarter than you!”
Kevin wriggled and grunted in pain as Wolfgang applied more pressure to his arm, knowing he was only an inch away from snapping it. Then he felt powerful hands dig into his coat from behind, and before he could resist, he was slung to the left, farther down the hallway. Megan stood behind him, her eyes blazing. “Stop it, you idiots! Are you out of your minds? We’ve got work to do!”
Wolfgang lay on the floor, propped on one elbow. He shot his nemesis a sideways glare, then picked himself up and stumbled into the suite.
Edric stood next to the window, cradling a whiskey glass in his good hand and watching Wolfgang in stoic silence. Wolfgang avoided his gaze and crashed onto the nearest couch, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Kevin barreled in a moment later. His bottom lip bled from a cut, and he looked ready to commit murder. “He blew it!” Kevin shouted, spitting blood and saliva and pointing at Wolfgang. “We should never have brought him. He’s a liability!”
“Get a drink, Kevin,” Edric said. His voice was calm, but there was an edge of restrained anger just beneath the surface.
Kevin stumbled to the minibar and poured himself three shots of bourbon. Megan, with cheeks flushed, settled into a chair across from Wolfgang and dusted off her pants.
Edric turned to Wolfgang, took a sip of his drink, and cleared his throat. “What the hell happened, Wolf?”
“I told you. I saw a sniper on the fourth floor of the apartment building across from the café. He had a clear shot down Saint-Germain and of the window where Raven was sitting. I made a call.”
“You made a call?” Kevin said. “Are you kidding me?” He slammed his glass down and barreled across the room, making it halfway before Megan shot her foot out. Kevin almost tripped, catching himself on the edge of a chair.
“Sit down, Kevin,” Edric said. He turned back to Wolfgang. “What do you mean, you made a call?”
“The sniper was gonna have a clean shot if I didn’t move in. It was a calculated risk, and I made a call. I moved in.”
“Right. Only you’re not paid to make calls, are you? I’m paid to make calls. You’re paid to obey them.”
“Come on, Edric.” Wolfgang rolled his eyes. “You trained me to use my head.”
“I did. But I also trained you to follow orders, and what you did today not only had the potential to blow the entire operation, it also endangered the lives of every person on this team. Have you considered that?”
“If I didn’t move, he could’ve made the shot.”
“I’m aware of that,” Edric said, his tone boiling with growing tension. “Let me tell you what else I was aware of. I was aware that Lyle was having difficulties with the satellite but was only moments away from obtaining a clear image of the target. Do you know how valuable it would’ve been to confirm identity on Spider? We never got
the chance because you spooked him before Lyle got the image.”
“The Russian was gonna shoot.”
“Probably not. Most likely he would have waited for Spider to sit down with Raven because the Russians aren’t clear on this guy’s identity, either. Even if he did plan to take Spider out on Saint-Germain, Kevin knew where the sniper was, which means he knew how much time we had before the Russian had a clear shot, and we needed that time to get the satellite working. You didn’t know that because it’s not your job to know that. It’s my job.”
Wolfgang swallowed and glanced around the room. He noticed Lyle for the first time. The wiz sat in the far corner behind the lunch table, nestled behind computers. His beady eyes overlooked a laptop screen, watching Wolfgang.
Wolfgang looked away. “You’re right,” he mumbled. “I was out of line. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry,” Kevin snarled. “Lot of good that does.”
Edric turned to Kevin. “I’m not happy with you, either, hotshot. I told you to stay on Spider. Where is he?”
Kevin’s gaze dropped to the floor, and his cheeks flushed.
“You lost him,” Edric said. “So, now Spider is gone, the Russians know what Wolfgang looks like, and the CIA is raising hell. This entire operation is teetering on the edge of collapse for one reason—this team failed to maintain discipline. I’ve never seen such a shit show in my life. We were all over the place!”
Edric’s voice rose in intensity as he spoke, ripping through the room like a hail of bullets. Wolfgang winced and looked down at the floor. He wasn’t angry or defensive anymore. He just felt like a fool.
Edric drained his glass and slammed it down on the counter. “Let me be clear. If any of you ever leave your post, or violate this or any future mission in any way, you’re done. No excuses, no conversations. You’ll never work for SPIRE again.” Without another word, he stomped across the room and disappeared into a bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
7
