The Spy Devils

by Joe Goldberg

  Beast pointed the gun into what was left of Tough Face’s skull and fired a safety shot. He saw the shape of Robot curled in a massive pool of blood by the door—dead. Beast pointed the weapon in his direction, then decided to save the round.

  Beast sat sweating, bleeding, and sucking in air as he leaned against the desk. Setting his gun in his lap, he tried to wipe the debris from his eyes so he could see the damage caused by three 9mm rounds that ripped into his body. Then, he recognized the symptoms of shock. Dizzy. Sweating. Shallow breath. It was coming.

  Confusion was another symptom of shock, and that is what he thought was happening when he saw another shape enter the room. A blonde-haired woman in a red dress? Did she pick up a gun? Is she pointing it at me? He was even more confused when he looked down and saw his chest exploding with a series of red holes. He looked up as his vision started to tunnel shades of gray around the edges.

  The last confusing moment was when he thought he heard the word “devil” before everything faded to black.

  42

  A Proposal

  Kyiv, Ukraine

  At 6:00 a.m., Bridger backed the rusty Skoda into a parking space by a courtyard adjacent and northwest of the Ukraine Standard Bank. It gave them some level of invisibility from three directions protected by trees. A review of Google Earth indicated the space also gave Bridger, Peter, and Pavlo a clear view of a rear door into the bank.

  The light of dawn was starting to define the shape of the bank.

  A narrow drive passed by the plaza connecting Dilova Street to a parking area in the rear. On the other side of the alley was a six-story building that took up the entire corner of Dilova and Velyka Vasylkivska Streets. A low building was attached to the Ukraine Standard Bank in the rear, which led to Bondar’s five-story Ukraine Investment and Holding Company building.

  “This, ladies and gentlemen, is a poor place to run an operation. Cramped. Limited access. Security guards not too far away,” Bridger said. “In espionage parlance, this location sucks.

  “Demon?” Bridger asked.

  “We are in a don’t park zone a block down the street. Can’t see shit,” Demon said, with more gravel in his voice than usual. “Should we proceed on foot?”

  “Imp, tell me what you see.”

  “I don’t see anything on the cameras I can access,” Imp added. “You are in the blind where you are parked. I will blink the cameras as you move. I don’t hear radio chatter…and I could use some coffee.”

  “Milton?”

  “Beatrice has it in the air. Nothing on IR. The closest images of guards are to your north, near the building in the back. They seem to be stationary. This is a good time.”

  “Snake?”

  “Yeah, I’m scootin’ not shootin’,” Snake answered.

  “Beast?” Bridger said into his comm system. “Beast?” he repeated louder a few seconds after he didn’t receive an answer. “Beast, are you there?”

  Still no answer.

  “If he is asleep, I am going to kill him,” Demon barked.

  “Maybe his comms are out,” Snake said.

  “Or in the can,” Imp suggested.

  “Our comms, don’t ‘go out,’” Milton said with slight irritation.

  “Demon. You see him in the restaurant?”

  “I don’t have a good angle to see anything. Want me to check?”

  Mistakes were in the air—Bridger could feel them. Lack of time forced compromises to his normal planning process. His senses were hyper-alert as his eyes swept the windows of the surrounding buildings—cars in the lot, pedestrians, and the entrances to the area. His ears listened for sirens, revving engines, or Imp yelling a warning. Even his sense of smell was checking for strange odors.

  “No. Let’s get this case, then figure it out where the hell Beast is.” He was worried about Beast, but they had a mission and time was short. “Gotta love espionage,” he said with confidence. He took one more look out the window. “I’m going inside. Stay here,” Bridger told Peter.

  “But—?” Peter started to protest.

  “You are staying,” Bridger said. He looked over his shoulder at Pavlo. “Pavlo. You are coming with me. Do you see anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No, but there will be guards soon. We should get inside,” Pavlo said quickly, like he was running out of air.

  “Yeah. I agree. I don’t want to sit here. Here we go,” Bridger announced.

  With his Devil Stick in one hand, Bridger got out of the car, walked to the rear passenger door, and let Pavlo out. He took a firm grip on Pavlo’s arm with the other hand and started toward the back entrance to the bank.

  The rear door was forty feet away, about ten feet in from the alley. Above the white metal safety door was an industrial light that was still on and a security camera that Bridger hoped was off. Next to the door attached to the wall was a silver metal box.

  “Okay, get us in,” Bridger told Pavlo.

  Pavlo flipped up a lid on the box to reveal an alphanumeric pad. His hands were shaking so much he missed the numbers and had to start over twice.

  “Relax, Pavlo. Open the door,” Bridger said with a friendly pat on the back.

  Pavlo steadied his hand and pushed five buttons. A click signaled his success. Bridger pulled the door open, and they stepped inside.

  Bridger poised his Devil Stick for a possible attack. He kept Pavlo in front of him as Pavlo led them downstairs to an unmarked subterranean door. A small yellow bulb in a metal cage cast dim patterns of light and shadows along the walls and across the door.

  “Where are the bank security guards?” He could feel Pavlo shaking.

  “Normally, upstairs sleeping off the salo and kovbasa they stuff themselves with every night. This is off-limits to them, by order of Ms. Ira. This is my space,” he said. Bridger appreciated the mixture of pride and vanity in the little man’s voice.

  “This is my door. The room is RF-protected. No radio signals.”

  “Yeah. Imp was thrilled to hear that. Open it.”

  With quivering hands, Pavlo keyed a code into another security lock.

  As they stepped into the room, Bridger saw motion and instinctively grabbed Pavlo by the collar and pulled him closer. He raised the Devil Stick, prepping for a fight. Bridger waited. He swiveled to look behind him, then to each side.

  Then he saw her. A gorgeous woman with blonde hair and azure eyes sitting in a padded desk chair rotating slightly right and left. She was in a red dress that did not reach her knees. On her feet were black leather boots that did. On the floor next to her, Bridger saw a silver case—just like the one Gilbert had shown to them in KRT.

  Pavlo gasped and sank to his knees. The collar of his sweatshirt tore away, leaving a handful of material in Bridger’s hand.

  “Ms. Ira! I am…I am…they took me…I am sorry!” He gasped out each word, then started to cry even harder. He brought his hands to his face and bent over at the waist like he was prostrated in prayer.

  “It is fine, Pavlo. You have done nothing wrong. Do not worry. Please stand up,” she commanded, like he was her pet dog.

  He stayed on the floor—the buzz of computers, air conditioners, and Pavlo’s sobs filled the air. She took in a breath and let out a sigh, shaking her head at Bridger in a ‘what can I do?’ look.

  “Hello, Mr. Bridger. I am Ira Bondar. I would like to discuss a proposal with you.” She stood and held out her hand. He didn’t move any closer to her. She dropped her arm and sat.

  Bridger looked at her, then looked around the room. She was the only one inside. The room was exactly as Pavlo described in his debriefing. Lots of computers and racks of equipment. Monitors and workstations. The air conditioners hummed, but it was still warm in the room.

  “Yes. Ms. Bondar. I have heard of you. And Pavlo here speaks very highly of you,” he said, trying not to react to her calling him by his name.

  How the hell do you know so much, Ms. Ira?

  “Yes, I am sure. Please call me Ira
. And my apologies, as time is short and we need to discuss some important matters—however, I would like this conversation to be only for our ears. Perhaps—” Her voice trailed off as her pupils zeroed in on Pavlo—still in the same position and sobbing softly.

  “Ah, I get it.”

  Bridger raised and extended his Devil Stick. He flipped the thumb controls.

  “Pavlo, get up.” The man didn’t move. “Get up, please. Pavlo, I’ve got chocolate!” Still no movement.

  Bridger shrugged and touched the end of the Stick against Pavlo’s back. The stun gun setting let out a staccato electric pulse. Pavlo’s arms and legs flapped on the floor. Bridger moved his thumb one more time. He turned his head away, pointed it at the defenseless man’s snot, sweat, and drool-covered face. He pressed the activator switch. A fine mist shot out of the end into Pavlo’s face. In seconds, the man went limp—his relaxed neck muscles dropped his head to the concrete floor.

  “That is amazing,” Ira said, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward to get a closer look at the unconscious man. “I had heard of this, but to see it used. Amazing.” Bridger could not help but notice the tips of a black lace garter clipped to the tops of her stockings.

  When was the last time I had sex….?

  He scolded himself for the lapse in his concentration.

  “You have heard of this.” He waved the Devil Stick in the air as he asked her the question. “May I ask how that is?”

  “Yes, but please sit. I will explain.”

  She gracefully flicked her hand to another padded desk chair a few feet in front of her.

  When Bridger didn’t move, she smiled in understanding. “Please. You are safe, since you are here and not dead. I ordered my security teams to allow you to enter. Our time is short. I would like to negotiate a deal with you.”

  Instead of asking about the deal, he raised his nose into the air. Sniff. Sniff.

  “I am catching a slight scent of a bouquet of flowers in the room.” His face took on the look of a man in full concentration. Sniff. “Let me think.” He sniffed once more. Then he slapped his free hand on his knee—the other still held the Stick—and said, “Ah-ha! I have it. Chanel No. 5!”

  “Quite right!” Ira said with a laugh.

  “I have a good nose.” Bridger raised his eyebrows and smiled. “I can sniff out scents that smell sweet, just as well as I can when I come across the odor of something that stinks.”

  Your face tells me you got my meaning, too. Red is your color, Ira.

  “How? I know what is in the public domain. How do you know so much detail about—?” he paused for a moment. At first his face showed concentration—then understanding.

  “Oh, yes. Of course. I know of you from your presence on social media. I am a fan.”

  “Thank you. We are coming out with a line of clothing soon.”

  She paused for a moment with a bewildered look on her face. Then she smiled. “Yes. I see. I became aware you were searching for the case in Kyiv through a consultant who works for us. His name is Danforth Chapel. He seemed quite well versed in your professional skills and expertise. He highly recommends you.”

  “Yep. Chapel. A recommendation from on high, but why not just give him the case?”

  “Then I would not get what I want.”

  “And what is that?” he asked, as he leaned his tired body back in the comfortable chair.

  “I want you to rid me of my father.”

  43

  Take it to the Bank

  Kyiv, Ukraine

  Her words were spoken so calmly it actually made Bridger uncomfortable.

  “Rid you of your father?” He repeated in a slight accent. “Rid? Do you mean to kill him?”

  “I didn’t state I wanted you to kill him.” Ira corrected him.

  “Okay. Explain it to me, then. I like hearing the ideas that roll around in the minds of the rich, powerful, and sociopathic.”

  “Oh, Mr. Bridger. Please, it is a business matter. I am disappointed with how my father has been handling our businesses—poor planning and partnerships leading to the loss of assets. The American company is a problem only because he took their money to cover our losses. He never intends to pay on our debt. A recent setback in Serbia is his fault.”

  “Serbia? What happened in Serbia?”

  “He trusted the Chinese,” Ira continued. “A catastrophe that has caused more issues with our finances and stress with our relationship with the government.”

  “You were working with Serge?”

  Ira was shocked. “Serge? Yes. You know Serge? You know of the issues in Serbia?”

  Bridger let a few seconds of silence be his answer as he fixed his unblinking eyes on her.

  “What’s the real reason you want him gone, Ira?” Bridger finally asked.

  “He—” she paused and swallowed as her eyes looked down, “—killed a man very close and dear to me—very dear to me.”

  “Ah, well, so not only about business.” He faked a frowning face. “Everyone has a story, Ira.”

  “Excuse me?” She was puzzled.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  She leaned in slightly, rested her white hand and red nails on her knee, and squeezed. Her face momentarily turned red. “As I said, I cannot kill him. He is my father.” She sat back. “I would like you to ruin and humiliate him, such as you do on social media. Pressure and embarrass him, so he must step down and leave the country. That will give me enough to convince him I should take over the businesses.”

  “You think so? How I am suppose to do that.”

  “I have all the materials you will need here.” She indicated a leather satchel by her chair. “Implications of illegal arms trading. Murders and extortions. There are videos and audio files. More than enough.”

  “Won’t that hurt your business? Having him exposed like that?”

  “Mr. Bridger,” she said, with a look of amusement, “this is Ukraine. The people know the government and oligarch class are corrupt. It is expected. But when a global high-profile and respected group such as your Spy Devils tells the world, it will have much more credibility. It will be hard for him. Even his judges and politicians will abandon him quickly. After all, he will no longer be able to pay them bribes to control them—unless I do. He will need me.”

  Bridger gave her a look of approval. “Nice plan. What’s in it for me?”

  “You will receive this case as payment for your efforts,” she said, pointing to the Hillcrest case at her feet. “I never wanted it. It was my father who wanted to take it from the Americans. He stole it before he could give it to a Chinese government official.”

  “Chinese government official? Which Chinese government official?”

  “Minister Chen, I believe. The American was bringing the case to him. Did you not know?”

  “No, I didn’t know.” Bridger narrowed his eyes. “Minister Chen?”

  “Yes.” She crossed one black boot over the other at the ankle. “I would forever be in your debt.”

  Bridger’s eyes did the involuntary glance at her legs.

  “I supposed if I just take the case and walk out that door, the security guys waiting outside would be a hindrance.”

  “Of course. What is in it?” She asked. “Pavlo was unable to open it. Do you know?”

  “Nope.”

  Bridger rubbed his hands through his greasy hair. He got a whiff of his armpit. He smelled like a lab experiment gone wrong.

  “Okay,” he finally answered.

  “Thank you.” She picked up the satchel, walked to Bridger, and handed it and the folder to him. “I will take you on your word.”

  “You can take it to the bank!” Bridger laughed, as he looked around. Ira also laughed, placing her hand on his shoulder. He felt a tingle.

  “There should be a bag for this. Have you seen it?” Bridger asked.

  “I do not know.”

  Bridger found it in a corner. He slid the case into the bag and zipped it shut. He t
urned and started for the door. He stepped around Pavlo, who was still lying unconscious, then stopped.

  “Oh, Olek is in jail in Cyprus. We got a little—creative—with him. We didn’t hurt him, too bad, I hope. Tell him we are truly sorry. Nothing personal. I apologize. Oh, but we aren’t giving the boat back!”

  She hesitated, then said, “Well…thank you.”

  “See ya, Pavlo. Thanks for the help. Maybe we will meet again under different circumstances.”

  Bridger walked through the door wondering if they could get through the day without any additional surprises.

  44

  Beast is Dead

  Kyiv, Ukraine

  When he reached the Skoda, Bridger got in and handed the bulky bag to Peter.

  “You got it!” Peter bear-hugged the bag that contained Hillcrest. “I can’t believe it. This is great!”

  Then Peter realized the car wasn’t moving. Bridger wasn’t giving orders to the Spy Devils. “What’s going on?” Peter asked after nervously waiting alone in the car.

  “Nothing,” was Bridger’s one-word leave me the fuck alone answer.

  Within seconds, he pulled the Skoda into the early morning traffic to start his surveillance detection route.

  Bridger checked his phone for messages. Nothing from Chapel. No safe house location. No message from Beast. His senses were firing on all cylinders.

  He opened his Signal secure application and sent a message to Chapel: Have it. Where are we meeting?

  Bridger then launched a group voice call and selected the speaker on his phone’s audio controls.

  “Any word from Beast?” Bridger asked. He felt his pulse rise when no one answered. “Demon, find him.”