The Spy Devils

by Joe Goldberg

  “George introduced us to Mourning Dove. They’ve been a valuable partner. We are very busy, Peter, and I am sorry to say you are not helpful here.”

  Peter forged on.

  “I noticed a company called—" Peter paused while he checked his notes, “Quadrangle Investment Group, LLC, buried deep in every Mourning Dove contract. I traced the ownership, but it ended before it began. The company was consistently included in our business and it makes me wonder.” He stopped short of adding, “…and was obvious MacLean was funneling funds through inflated revenues in those contracts and taking a cut with each deal. He was committing a crime…”

  “Anyone ever heard of Quadrangle?” Peter asked.

  “Poor George. Few knew he was in such a terrible predicament,” a voice said from the direction of the door.

  Peter involuntarily flinched. Before he turned, he knew it was a man in a nice bespoke worsted wool suit and floral tie.

  “Hello, everyone.” Ever the consultant, Chapel sauntered around the table, shaking hands. He sat opposite Peter, to Kirkwood’s left. He reached out and patted Kirkwood’s arm.

  “Hello, Danny. Wonderful to see you,” Kirkwood replied with a sound of relief. Having Chapel in the room seemed to be the crutch Kirkwood needed to offset the red-checked look of dread that had taken over his face since Peter started laying out the facts.

  “Peter, if I had known you were coming back so quickly, I would have invited you to join me.” He pointed at Peter. “Gentlemen, you should be very proud of your employee here. He did all he could to bring a complex situation in Ukraine to a favorable end for Kirkwood. And he seems worse for the wear. Are you alright, Peter?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Peter answered, knowing he wanted to strangle the smug smile off Chapel’s face with his floral tie. Peter was amazed at how fresh he looked.

  “It there anything else, Peter?” Kirkwood asked.

  “Well, I’m just confused. Things are rattling around my head on how the different events were connected—if they are. MacLean. Hillcrest. Bondar. Kirkwood. Mourning Dove.” He left out Hillcrest plus Chapel plus Chen plus The Spy Devils. The equation was too complicated.

  Peter’s head throbbed, but he needed to finish what he had started. There wasn’t another option.

  “Do you mind if I ask a couple of questions?”

  “Time—” Jessup said as he abruptly stood.

  Peter got the message.

  “Thank you, Peter. Another job well done.”

  The executives exited the boardroom through the far door that led to the CEO’s office.

  “Peter. A moment.” Chapel stopped him with a grab of his arm. “I believe you left out many details that you have come to know. True?”

  “Yes. I did,” he said, nodding. “I just wonder how much technology we have given to China in return for new business deals? How much have we been inflating revenue to strengthen the stock of the company?”

  “Peter, you should be very careful about what you think you know and to whom you convey your feelings.”

  Chapel put his hand on Peter’s shoulder. This time it wasn’t friendly pats. He felt the fingers tighten deep into his skin. Then he let go. Peter’s heart was beating through his chest as he watched Chapel stride through the door on the other end of the room.

  “Remember, the comment about truth being stranger than fiction? On the plane?”

  “Yes, I do,” Peter answered.

  “You should have listened better.” Chapel turned and walked across the boardroom. He exited through the door to the CEO’s office.

  Peter stood. Chapel’s warning was clear.

  Peter knew too much.

  51

  Wrath of the Devil

  Kyiv, Ukraine

  The two Mercedes’ luxury sedans' license plates indicated they were diplomatic vehicles registered to China's Embassy in Ukraine. They were parked mid-block, half on the sidewalk and half on Pavla Skoropads'koho Street. Their flashers blinked red in the dark Kyiv night. The meaning was clear: stay away.

  The drivers leaned on the hood of the second car, chain-smoking cigarettes. A pile of butts collected at their feet on the red bricks. Street kids knew enough to stay away from the pair but had no fear of hassling the well-dressed people walking up the sidewalk. It was only midnight, so there was plenty of darkness left to hassle unsuspecting tourists.

  They were on the street outside Skybar—one of the more elite and trendy nightclubs in a city known for elite and trendy nightclubs. Situated atop a building in the fashionable Arena City area, Skybar’s panoramic view, dance floor, music, drinks, and food attracted crowds of tourists, locals, and VIPs.

  Bridger was ready. No more Peter Schaeffer. Kirkwood, secret cases, or corporate intrigue. He didn’t need May to give him a mission. He had one, and that mission was to find out who killed Beast and kill them. He was ready to unleash the wrath of the Devil on those responsible.

  The Spy Devils are the ones who fuck with people. Not the other way around.

  No Spy Devil had ever been killed. The risk was inherent in covert operations. It’s hard to avoid a few scrapes when combating the most dangerous and corrupt humans or organizations on Earth. The Spy Devils didn’t know it, but Bridger always calculated the risk versus reward equation to avoid a dead Devil. This mission from May had forced him to rush.

  It had killed Beast.

  Every member of the Spy Devils had a ‘Death Folder’ containing contact info and a series of potential cover stories depending on where they worked in Bridger’s covert business network. Bridger knew Beast had some family in New York. A mother and sister. An ex-wife and daughter. It was Bridger’s duty to inform them—something he had never done before.

  He was providing personal security for a client that can’t be named, sorry. You should be proud. A brave man.

  Seared in his brain was a list of people who might have killed Beast. Tonight, he was going to make that list shorter.

  Neither Chinese driver felt the danger coming. However, they simultaneously felt the fifty thousand volts of the Taser prongs when they hit them at the base of their skulls. They rattled on their feet for three seconds, then collapsed straight down to the sidewalk. Demon and Snake slid off of the Mercedes’ roof and landed next to the men.

  Releasing the wires, they jammed the weapon into each man’s eye and pushed the stun gun trigger. The electronic clicking kept time with the bodies quaking. To make certain the Chinese guards were obedient, they rotated the handle to the switches that controlled the aerosols. They stuck the end under each man's nose and released an airborne fentanyl and pepper spray mix. Their bodies arched as their heads rolled back. Then they stopped moving.

  “Anything?” Bridger pinged Imp, who was in a stolen Toyota Camry nearby.

  “Clear on all frequencies. Now I need you to plug in the doohickey I gave you into the China guy’s little comm gizmo.”

  Bridger complied.

  He was grateful that the massive doses of painkillers were finally working. In a few seconds, Bridger heard, “Okay. We own the bitches. I will knock them out of their systems as you move. Go have fun in the nightclub full of naked drunk girls. I will sit here in a car that smells like donkey piss.”

  As Demon and Snake locked the men in the Mercedes, Bridger walked toward a frosted glass side entrance door to the building a few feet from the cars. The door opened slightly, and a watermelon-sized head peered out.

  “Hello, Yaroslav.”

  “Mr. Bridger. It is good to see you. I did not know you were in Kyiv.” The bald-headed security guard, dressed in a black T-shirt, jacket, and pants, was as large as a city bus. He swung the door open and let the men in. They entered into a small hallway that led to a fire door ten feet away. To their left was an elevator.

  “Just for the day. How is your little boy, Yaroslav?”

  “Not so little anymore. He is twelve now, big as a bull.”

  “Twelve? My goodness. Time is an angry beast. It just keeps m
oving on. Here.” Bridger pulled packages of American baseball cards from his black windbreaker. “Give these to him.”

  Yaroslav took the little packages into his massive hands. “Thank you, sir. He will enjoy these.”

  “There are some Chinese men here?” Bridger asked, his head flexing up to the ceiling.

  Yaroslav glanced toward the frosted glass door where he knew the diplomatic cars and the drivers were on the street. “Yes. Upstairs. The important man and several others. They come often. They are very arrogant with our security men and the guests.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “One is usually at the elevator entrance. Two with the man. One roams on the balcony. All in gray suits.”

  “Thank you, Yaroslav. Do you mind if we go upstairs through the employee entrance?” Bridger asked, as he pushed the button before he had an answer.

  “No, sir. Of course.” Yaroslav held the door open to let the men in, nodding to each as they passed.

  “Thank you. And…um…keep an eye on that Mercedes, okay?” The doors closed on the service elevator.

  When the door opened, the deafening music, spinning lights, intense heat, body oder, and gyrating bodies assaulted Bridger’s senses. The place was packed with men trying to look tough and women who didn’t need to work hard to look sexy.

  The ceiling was illuminated with semi-circular rows of colored lights positioned like stars. Powerful beams of light—greens, yellows, purples, blues—hanging from spinning overhead projectors sliced the darkness, catching the fog shooting from machines at the stage.

  Plush gray couches and high-backed chairs were arranged in rows facing the bar and stage. They were jammed with patrons laughing, pointing, and screaming into their friend’s ears, trying to be heard over the booming music. Every table was coated with glasses, bottles, and plates. Along the far wall was a large panoramic window with a stunning night view of Kyiv.

  To Bridger, it looked like something out of an Edgar Allen Poe horror story.

  “Beatrice? Milton?”

  “We are jammed by the windows about twenty feet away from the target.”

  Bridger could barely hear them in his earbud.

  Dressed as tourists, Milton and Beatrice had arrived at the club two hours before—just moments after the Chinese. The couple had been dancing and drinking since then.

  “Okay, wait for the clicks,” he semi-shouted into his comm.

  Snake broke right out of the elevator, then left. He walked between the DJ stand and stage where girls in mesh tops and short skirts whirled their arms over their heads. Snake forced his way past the bar toward the elevators that went directly from the ground floor to the club level.

  Snake could see a small man in a gray suit shouting in the face of bigger men. The security men's faces were red with anger, but they let the little man shout and point at them. He pointed at the people coming off the elevator and back toward the sitting area.

  Snake had his Devil Stick in his left hand along his leg. In stride, he grabbed a square appetizer plate off a table with his right hand, walked into the elevator alcove, and tapped the shorter man on his shoulder. The screaming Chinese intel officer wheeled around, exposing his neck as he tilted his face up to glare at the taller intruder.

  Snake speared the man’s throat with the edge of the plate. He staggered back and gurgled as he grabbed his damaged windpipe. Snake dropped the plate, grabbed him by the lapel, and shoved the Devil Stick into the man’s groin.

  He quickly maneuvered the guard against the wall. A pistol fell from the man’s jacket and clattered on the dark floor. Using his weight to keep him in place, Snake kept up a constant Beethoven’s 9th Symphony rhythm on his groin —tap, tap, tap, taaaaaap. After ten seconds, Snake let go. The MSS officer slid down the wall and crumbled at Snake’s feet.

  Skybar security guards were going about their jobs of inspecting people exiting the elevators. No one entering the club seemed to notice or care what was happening a few feet away. The security men turned as Snake walked by.

  “He is all yours.”

  Snake heard through the earsplitting music the sound of steel-toed boots hitting a body and the crack of ribs breaking. He clicked his comm once. Over the noise, he heard two clicks come back.

  Demon was on the narrow balcony that overlooked the nightclub. Five small tables and chairs were crammed along two large horizontal tubes that served as a railing. The four tables nearest Demon were crowded with partiers. At the fifth and farthest table, one man in a gray suit sat alone, looking down, mostly on the dancing girls below.

  For a man many decades older than his target, Demon was agile and quick. The party-goers were oblivious to the man squeezing by them. The MSS man froze for an instant, caught off guard by the terrifying look on the face of the man who appeared like an apparition above him. Before he could retrieve the gun from his jacket, Demon was on him.

  With a high thrust of the knife, he held it palm down, entering it straight into the neck near the man’s Adam’s apple. He rotated his hand up to maximize the damage and sever the left internal jugular vein and left common carotid artery. The space was small, so Demon kept the knife in place as he rotated his hips to bring his entire body weight to bear on the dying Chinese sentry. He held the man up, counting off the seconds. Their faces were inches apart. Demon smiled into the fading eyes, which in seconds transitioned from pain, fear, and finally, the eternal blank stare of death.

  Ten seconds later, using the knife like a joystick, he guided the dead man into his chair and propped his head against the wall. Demon pulled the knife out. Blood instantly flowed down the dead man’s new suit, onto the table, and then the floor. Demon wiped the bloody knife on the shoulder of the dead man’s suit, turned, scanned the crowd below, and headed to the stairs. He turned and pointed his Devil Stick at the people a few feet behind him, expecting some of them to have noticed his bloody attack.

  None had.

  He clicked his comm once. Two clicks came back.

  Bridger remained by the service elevator while Snake and Demon completed their tasks. With the confirmation clicks, it was Milton’s and Beatrice’s turn to move. Bridger spotted them in the far corner of the club on a direct diagonal from where he was. They were collecting their things and standing.

  He looked right and saw Chen in an intimate area separated from the masses by a line of couches. Beyond them, out the huge window, was a view of the city. Seated to his right was a blonde. To his left was a red-head. Two brunettes sat across from him on a short couch. Bridger’s mind wandered for a moment, thinking that the only thing the beauties had in common with the Chinese master spy was a taste for champagne. The evidence was the empty bottles covering nearby tables.

  Two gray suits sat on colorful square ottomans on either side of the couch. They faced outward, their eyes scanning the crowded room.

  Bridger walked along the outer wall to avoid the crowd. Snake and Demon fanned out to flank the sitting area. Beatrice and Milton weaved through the couches, tables, chairs, and people, closing the twenty feet without any suspicion from his security—until it was too late.

  Milton and Beatrice each pulled out a mini-Devil Stick, extended it to its six-inch maximum length, and sprayed each MSS man in the face as they walked by. The guards froze for an instant, then fell out of their chairs to the floor. The couple walked to the line where other patrons were waiting for the elevator.

  Chen reacted, but it also was too late. Demon and Snake blocked his escape.

  “Ladies,” Bridger said, handing each two hundred dollars, “Good-bye.” They did not hesitate. They hurriedly collected purses and coats and disappeared into the crowd.

  Bridger sat next to Chen.

  “Hello, Minister Chen. You might not know me—”

  “I know who you are,” the man said calmly through thin lips.

  “Good,” Bridger smiled back.

  Chen looked over his shoulder at Snake and Demon. When he looked back, Bridger had a
Devil Stick pointed at his nose.

  He released a cloud of spray into Chen’s face. They let him fall to the floor.

  52

  Mr. Nice Guy

  Kyiv, Ukraine

  “Minister Chen.” He waited, then shouted, “CHEN!”

  Even with administering an extremely low dosage of spray, over an hour later Chen was still under its influence. Bridger pondered how it was possible that Chen’s black hair was still shiny and combed, despite being drugged, dragged from a club, and tossed in the trunk of a car. He tapped Chen on his cheeks like they do in the movies to wake someone from a coma.

  “Want me to smack him?” Demon said. He and Snake were leaning against the wall behind Bridger. Bridger ignored the offer.

  “What…I…am…” Chen slurred. His eyes were glassy. His head was circling like a cement mixer. His dark suit and white shirt were splotched with streaks of grime.

  They were back at the same warehouse, sitting in the same chair, behind the same metal table where they had broken Pavlo. Now it was Chen’s turn. Chen’s hands were also shackled to the table in front of him. The lights were on—not quite as bright—but enough to get good lighting for the cameras recording the interrogation. Even at 2 a.m., the room was hot. No windows. A broken ventilation system.

  Bridger needed answers. Getting those answers was complicated by several factors out of his control. First, time mattered. He did not have the luxury of interrogating the person in a friendly, casual manner.

  Second, Chen was different. This was an experienced MSS master spy seated across the metal table. Chen would know how to draw out his responses, which played back into the time issue. Chen wasn’t a robotic killer whose greatest skill was pointing and shooting. As an experienced espionage officer, Bridger knew Chen would resist as long as he could—perhaps totally. That was not acceptable. If he didn’t cooperate and provide helpful answers right away, Bridger would be forced to resort to alternate means to extract what he wanted.