by Joe Goldberg
Peter whirled around the corner, using his elbow to flip the light switch on the wall. The front entry and hallway lit up. Laying in the hallway, face down, was Benton dressed head to toe in black. On the floor, a few inches from his hand, was a large knife.
Standing over the unconscious man was Demon, also dressed in black and holding his Devil Stick like a sword. He looked up, then down, a big smile on his face. Snake was by the sliding kitchen door.
“Full power. Went down like an anvil in a swamp.” He pulled the electrodes out of Benton’s back and rolled them up. “This is a pretty big hunk of meat. I had to let him have it.” He clipped the Stick to his belt, reached down, and tossed Benton—who probably had fifty pounds on Demon—over his shoulder like a bag of roof shingles.
Peter was speechless.
“You should use your security alarm.” Demon turned and walked toward the kitchen door.
“How? What?” Peter finally asked.
“Greetings from the Devil,” he heard them say, as they disappeared into the night.
59
Angel
Abaddon Ranch, Texas
As he worked in the Spy Devils Ops Center below his house on Abaddon Ranch, Bridger relished the ease in which he could destroy Kirkwood International Industries.
They were a sitting duck.
In minutes, media business experts would report the company was having “an issue.” In a few hours, stories would proclaim “serious allegations” surrounded the management of the company. By the end of the day, it would be described by financial news commentators as a company that required “criminal investigation.”
Bridger just couldn’t stomach Chinese intelligence ripping off technology from a U.S. company. He couldn’t stomach the culpability of Kirkwood executives in their fraudulent actions. Most of all, they were going to suffer his wrath for how they treated Peter—and the attempt on his life—which was a stupid move.
When Demon called with the news that he had intercepted the intruder at Peter’s house, that stoked the flames of his wrath.
“What do you want me to do with him?” Demon asked.
“I don’t care,” Bridger replied. “Use your imagination.”
“Hell yes!”
Bridger could give a rat’s ass. Chapel had called trying to convince Bridger one last time to hand over the case—which Bridger replied with a “In all due respect, go fuck yourself.”
Chapel then informed him about Peter’s decision. Bridger respected that Peter didn’t cave to Kirkwood’s bribe offer or NDA demand. That showed him something. A man with a family risking it all for principle. A rare commodity. Chapel understood that, too. Bridger assumed the relaying of the intel on Peter was the real reason Chapel called.
He had Imp hack into Peter’s computer to retrieve all the documents he would need as proof of Kirkwood’s crimes. It was there. The arrangements to significantly inflate revenue from Mourning Dove contracts in a subtly crafted exchange for trade secrets and technology.
He sent the info through back channels—not as a Spy Devils-branded investigation—but to a BBC News Business contact. The story was the lead for their 7 a.m. news program. Simultaneously, it appeared on BBC’s webpage and social media. Bridger’s sources at NHK in Tokyo and ChannelNewsAsia in Singapore, 4 p.m., and 3 p.m. local time, respectively, picked up and led with the BBC scoop.
The news crossed the international dateline at digital speeds, reaching all the morning business shows in New York City five hours later, 7 a.m. local.
With slight variations, all the media read or reprinted the reports from the same Bridger-supplied copy. The bright red ‘Breaking News’ banner blared - Kirkwood International Suspected of Accounting Fraud.
Before Kirkwood’s communications staff could answer the tidal wave of text messages, calls, and emails looking for a comment, he released the next story: Kirkwood CEO Linked to Chinese Intelligence.
Later in the evening, armed with a stack of emergency search warrants, FBI agents, supported by SEC officials, raided Kirkwood headquarters. The images of FBI agents clad in dark jackets with yellow block letters across the back, were added to the developing story. They hauled out boxes and computers as anxious employees looked on.
In an emergency board meeting vote the next day, Samuel Kirkwood was removed as Chairman and CEO. Walter Jessup retired immediately. Tom MacBride was put on leave.
Peter received a package the next afternoon.
He ripped the tab open, pulled out the bubble wrap, and dumped the contents on the table—a white envelope and a mobile phone. He set the phone aside, opened the envelope, pulled out a few sheets of paper, and read.
Peter:
I hope you don’t mind receiving a letter from the Devil. My wrist is recovering nicely, thanks for asking.
You did well in Kyiv. Unfortunately, your former employer, Kirkwood, is not doing as well. They will not be bothering you further.
As you might remember, I have an opening. If you are interested, I have a company in my network called EDR&J that needs to fill a position. It is an international political consulting firm in need of a “business development manager” with experience in the public and private sectors. You will get a package to finalize all the details.
You will find attached some invoices dated over the next year and a signing bonus totaling $2.1 million. They are made out to the company with the catchy name Peter Schaeffer and Associates, LLC.
I took the liberty of setting up a few accounts in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands on your behalf. The access codes and contact details are attached.
You might find it coincidental that $2.1 million is the exact amount I found in one of the numerous private accounts of Viktor Bondar. Viktor was not thrilled to know I took them. I told him just before he shot poor Ira.
The phone is for Spy Devils work only. Keep it on you. Be prepared.
The rest of the gang says hello. You might be pleasantly surprised to learn they have already chosen a name for you.
Welcome to the Spy Devils, Angel.
The Devil.
Peter set the letter on the table and looked at the next sheet listing bank accounts and access information. He put down that paper and smiled at the thought of being a Spy Devil.
He picked up the phone Bridger sent and powered it on.
It blinked to life.
So did he.
60
Don’t Call Me
Great Falls, Virginia
Snake covered the fifty feet from the shore in a low crouch. He scooted around the trees and thick brush and stopped behind a bush where the well-kept lawn sloped gently up to the large colonial home. Light came through the windows on the lower level.
More like a colonial mansion, he thought as he flipped down his night-vision goggles.
The area was large and secluded. The magnificent two-story house had a veranda that encircled the house on all sides, framed with a white railing on all sides. Square windows with black shutters. Paths led down from the house to a stable. On the far side, a long one-lane drive circled up to the front door. A flag pole with an American flag flooded by lights was in the center of the circle.
“Milton?” Bridger asked, from his prone position behind some bushes next to the circular drive.
“Guard coming around the front—pacing along the porch,” Milton’s southern accent whispered through the secure comm system. He adjusted the camera of the Devilbot hovering above them. “Two guards on the west veranda, walking in overlapping patterns. Another…hang on standing far side. I think.”
“You think? You think?” Demon scowled.
“Enough,” Bridger interrupted. “Imp?”
“As usual, due to my incredible skills, we are all clear. They are quiet, except for a brief chat about each other’s small reproductive organs. Shameful to talk about their colleagues that way.”
“You should know, pencil dick,” Demon cracked.
Some laughs over the comm.
“Beatrice?”
“I’m ready,” she replied.
“Okay, Imp. Kill all the security systems, cameras, and alarms. Jam their communications. Let’s go.”
Demon crept up behind one sentry.
“Hey,” he whispered.
The guard wheeled around as Demon rose from his crouched position. He coiled, then swung his Devil Stick backhanded full force across the face of the sentry.
The guard made a soft “Oooomp,” followed by the crunching sound of his shattering nose and cheekbones. Demon caught the unconscious man before he hit the ground—not to be polite, but to avoid the loud noise of his body thudding to the patio.
Demon looked up to see another guard turn the corner ten feet away. The sentry instinctively crouched and raised his weapon. Demon was ready and released the Taser dart electrodes. They struck the chest of the man above his heart. Demon covered the distance in two seconds and sent a fist squarely into the shaking, defenseless man’s face. His twitching, unconscious body flew back and over the rail. He crashed into some bushes, snapping branches as he sunk.
“Geez. This is what passes for security now?”
“What’s your status?” Bridger whispered, exasperation and tension in his voice.
“Two down and in need of a dentist and plastic surgeon.”
Beatrice stood as a guard who must have heard the branches break quickly turned the corner of the veranda on the far side of the house. She released a full dose of gas into the face of the unsuspecting man. The capsaicin neurotoxin was so strong he didn’t even react. He simply dropped to the ground like his bones had been removed.
“Three down,” Beatrice reported.
Snake rose from his location and did the same to the guard in front.
“Four.”
“Imp, unlock the doors.”
“What would you do without me?”
Bridger adjusted the soft cast on his left wrist and stepped out of the darkness onto the porch by the front door. Bridger steadied his nerves, opened the front door, and walked in. He held his Devil Stick tightly in his right hand, given the cast covering his wrist. In his other hand was the bag containing Hillcrest.
She was on the couch talking to a man sitting in one of two high back chairs across from her.
May saw him in the doorway. “Speak of…well…the Devil.”
Chapel peered over the top of the chair. “Hello, Bridger. We meet again, as they say. As you can see, I have not ‘fucked myself’ as you suggested.” Chapel waited for a snappy retort from Bridger. When it didn’t come, he shrugged. “Come in and have a drink.”
“Sit down, Trowbridge.”
She pointed with a thin finger to the empty chair across from her. He didn’t move. She signaled again. He stood with a look that he hoped betrayed nothing of what he was thinking or feeling. It was working. Bridger saw her eyebrows rise an eighth of an inch.
“Please display some common courtesy. Do what your mother asks—for once,” Chapel said.
Bridger walked into the study and sat on a second chair across from her. Chapel, dressed in his usual suit and tie, was to his right, arms crossed. Calm and composed, Bridger set the Faraday Bag on the floor by the chair.
“It is nice to see you.” She nodded to his injured wrist. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine for having to blow myself up.” He let the Devil Stick rest in his lap—the end was pointed directly at May.
“I am glad.” She looked at the weapon, then back to Bridger’s unflinching face.
“That was quite an audacious idea,” Chapel added with a laugh. Bridger looked at him with disdain. “And my guards? Demon did not kill them, did he?” Chapel looked over May’s shoulder out the window.
“You both will find your security teams are in less than perfect operating condition.” Bridger looked at Chapel. “Again.”
“Disappointing,” he said. “I was told these men were better.”
May reached for a cup of tea on the end table. Her steady hands brought the hot beverage to her lips, sipped, then returned it to the saucer with a rattle. “It might not come as a surprise, but I was expecting you.”
“No, I am not surprised. I assumed Chapel whined to you about our dinner date,” Bridger said.
“I do not whine.” Chapel brushed his tie as he smiled and turned in his chair.
“Shut up, Chapel. I wasn’t talking to you.”
Chapel ignored Bridger. “I told her she should expect you, since, as I said, you had no choice but to come here.”
“Shut up, Chapel,” Bridger said, keeping his eyes on May.
Chapel looked at the bag and continued with the pompous tone he used to let others know how prescient he was. “I expounded that your options are limited. And here you are.”
Bridger twisted his wrist, pointed the Devil Stick at Chapel, and clicked the Taser switch. The probes hit Chapel at point-blank range in his neck, just above the knot of his tie. He gagged, stiffened, and jerked back as his feet spasmed against the floor, propelling him and the chair backward. Bridger flipped the controls, extended his arm, and let out a blast of spray into the grunting man’s face.
He went silent.
Shock crossed May’s face as she realized her son had just attacked one of the most powerful men in the world—and a useful tool.
She looked at Bridger. Now the Devil Stick was pointed directly at her. His hands were steady. His eyes were focused on May. Bridger rolled his thumb to the gas controls. He saw her body tense.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Tell me everything, May. Everything.”
“What don’t you know?”
“Why us?” His thumb slowly rubbed across the control like he was scratching an itch.
“I made a deal,” she said. Her eyes nervously flicked again at his hand.
“A deal?” He felt the sweat in his palms. He tightened his grip on the weapon.
“I had to get the case to Chen. It was the last step in a decades-long operation. You were the only option. The last option. Chen had supplied all the intel you used to eliminate the Dragon Fire—I assume you ascertained that.”
“I’m not a fool.”
“No, you are not. Chen thought it fair I do the same—as a final show of good faith. Imagine, after all these years, and the things we have done to get to this point. He wanted a show of good faith.”
“I can only imagine.”
“I had to figure out a way to get the case and get rid of the rest of them, and, well, the only way to do that was to use you and your team.”
She started to reach over toward her tea, then stopped when she saw her hands were trembling. She clutched them together and set her hands in the lap of her dress.
“Chen had to appear to have acquired the case and bring it back to the MSS. We had made them think it was a vital technology. A long and steady deception op with Chen seemingly overcoming all odds. Now, acquiring it is their number one priority.”
“What is inside the case?” Bridger asked.
“Nothing we can’t live without and something his side will commemorate when he brings it to them.”
“But, like most ops, it all went sideways. He couldn’t fail.”
“At the most critical moment. First, MacLean and Bondar. Then Mr. Li Chu, who had nothing to do with Hillcrest until he went out on his own looking for you in Ukraine. I promised to give Chen the Spy Devils. He had a small amount of leverage. Can you believe that? Leverage on me!” She shook her head a few times. “Certainly, you can see allowing him to locate you was the only alternative left to me. Once you had your encounter, either way, Chen would be happy. Li Chu dies by your hand or his. He gets the case. I kept face.”
“No matter the outcome?” Bridger asked.
For the first time, he noticed the deep creases of age around her eyes. Her shoulders were slightly stooped. The hands she still tried to hide were mostly tight skin over protruding blood veins and bones. She was getting old.
&nb
sp; “Yes. No matter what, but you knew that before you came in,” May answered.
“I knew it. I just didn’t want to believe it. You picked a double-agent operation with Chen over your son and the Spy Devils. It almost cost me my life. And Peter Schaeffer, too. It cost Beast his.”
“It is a hazardous profession.”
“Chapel was your channel to Kirkwood and the Chinese—to us.” He glanced at the motionless body crumpled on the floor to his right.
“Danny is a man with power connections in all sectors—and with me, of course.”
She started to reach for her cup. This time her hands were steadier.
“Why attack Peter Schaeffer at his home?” He was tapping the Devil Stick up and down on his thigh. He saw that she noticed.
“I had nothing to do with that,” May said, just a little too quickly. “That was an internal Kirkwood decision.” She looked him in the eyes to show she was not deceiving him. “It was rather impulsive what you did to Kirkwood. They might not recover. Classic Bridger. You always were impulsive, no matter how much I tried to train that out of you.” She forced a smile as she changed the subject.
“You can fire me.”
May’s face displayed slight exasperation with her son.
“I am sorry about Beast,” she said, after a moment of silence.
He still had to notify Beast’s family. He dreaded it. He planned to open an account and shift a few million to help support his family. “He had a generous life insurance policy.” It was something.