Wolfe Trap

by S L Shelton

  Upon arriving at the terminal, it took me thirty minutes to get through the line at customs. They only had two people checking passports. It was a small airport, and the bored-looking customs officers were taking their time checking the travelers. But I passed through without any trouble and made my way to ground transport.

  Once there, I set my bags down next to a water fountain and pulled my phone out.

  After popping the SIM card out, I snapped it in half, peeling the laminate and metal away before shoving it back in my pocket. Then I popped in another card before grabbing my bags and heading outside. Any tower logs referring to that SIM would have come to an abrupt dead end before we even left US airspace—I wanted no breadcrumbs that led back to me.

  I spotted the DRM taxi as it pulled into the pick up lane, cutting off other drivers who had been waiting longer. They yelled out of their windows and honked their horns at him, resulting in a friendly smile and wave from the driver. I walked toward the taxi stand as the car jolted to a halt in front of me.

  I climbed in. “Good evening,” the smiling driver said cheerfully.

  His gleaming white teeth seemed to glow against the frame of his dark face. The license on his dashboard showed his name to be Sky Tinibu. The cab smelled of cherry tobacco and air freshener; it wasn’t as unpleasant as it might sound.

  “Good evening,” I replied as I settled in next to my case and new iPad, which were in the floorboard, waiting for me. I picked them up and set them next to my bags.

  “Where would you like to go?” Sky asked.

  “Dock’s Cafe. Joordaenskaai sev—”

  “Dock’s!” Sky exclaimed. “I know Dock’s. No problem.”

  He whipped the cab out of the airport drive and sped us on our way. Absent from the ride was the normal cabby chit chat. Understandable, considering the fact that anyone Sky might pick up wearing that ski cap could be in possession of a gun and employed by the CIA—or any other CIA contract. He even avoided looking in the rearview mirror at me, though I caught him stealing a glance a couple of times.

  I considered the ride my last lingering connection to my previous life. Though I was already “Scott North”, as soon as the ride was over, I would truly be on my own. Then it dawned on me. I’ll be with Kathrin! My Gretel.

  I’d been trying to find a way back to her since I’d left Germany in May after rescuing Barb and the other hostages. Each time I’d considered it, something had gotten in our way. It appeared that was about to change. My level of anticipation suddenly ticked up a notch, and I was no longer waxing poetically about the cab ride delivering me from my old life but feeling excitement at stepping into my new life.

  I’m a covert operative for the CIA, and I’m about to see the woman who was there when it all began.

  The lighter evening traffic made for quick travel, and we arrived at the café in less than twenty minutes…though still not fast enough for my taste; I was anxious to shed my old skin. We pulled up outside and he looked up, flashing his toothy grin in the rearview mirror.

  “Can I have the hat back?” he asked as I moved to get out.

  “Sure,” I replied, handing it to him.

  “Stay out of trouble now,” he said as he stuffed the hat into the glove box.

  “I’ll do my best,” I replied and handed him some bills for the fare, including a reasonable tip. I was pretty sure doing so was a best practice to keep up appearances. If not, then I was still happy to give him some extra pocket cash.

  As soon as my feet hit the pavement and I had my bag on the curb, he sped away, whipping out in front of an angry, honking driver. I stood and smiled, looking up into the clear, cold night sky for a moment…my first time in Antwerp.

  I turned to reach for my bags but flinched backward as I noticed a yellow-haired figure rushing me from the café. I had to suppress my reflex to strike because the body coming in for a landing on my chest was none other than my former partner-in-crime and uber-hot, curly headed blonde, Kathrin. Gretel.

  She flew through the air with a squeal of delight, wrapping her arms and legs around my torso. I nearly lost my balance and tumbled backward, her impact was so great. With her arms wrapped tightly around my neck and her legs around my waist, she assaulted me with a barrage of kisses to the face and neck. I wrapped my arms around her waist and held her close as the assault dissipated.

  “I’m—so—glad—to see you,” she said between kisses, her accent curling around each word like sugar. For some reason, a German accent had never seemed warmer or softer than it did at that moment.

  I turned myself so I could keep an eye on my bags, in particular the metal briefcase containing my new weapon. It wouldn’t do to have a thief come by and pick that up… I’d have a hell of a time convincing Tex I needed a replacement.

  “I’ve missed you too,” I said. I felt familiar warmth rise in my face, not to mention the pleasant sensation of her being pressed against my groin. I suddenly found it amusing that I had known this woman for a little more than a week and yet I felt as if I were being reunited with an old lover.

  Ironically, we had never been intimate. When last we met, in a cafe in Saarbrücken, Germany, we had all of five minutes together before both of us were called away.

  “You are so hard!” she exclaimed with wide-eyed regard.

  I panicked before realizing she was commenting on muscle mass, not what was pressed against her crotch. Thankfully, she detached herself before my mind told my body to respond. As she lowered her legs back to the sidewalk, it dawned on me that it had been months since I had been this intimately close to someone—other than the split second I had been on top of Penny Rhodes in the training gym.

  She placed her hand on my chest and thumped it with her fingers. The look on her face was nearly more than I could stand. Had we not been in a public place, my primitive response would have been to take her right there.

  “I’ve been getting lots of exercise,” I said, pulling her close to kiss her forehead.

  She wrapped her arms around me again. “I’m so happy, I can’t speak,” she said quietly.

  I broke the embrace gently. “Let’s get my bags dropped off and find someplace to catch up.”

  We picked up my bags from the curb before she led me around the corner and down one block to a brick building at the intersection of two streets. The corner door was heavy wood and old, but it looked sturdy. The double deadbolts looked new.

  She unlocked the deadbolts and then, once we were in, led me upstairs to a door to the right at the top of the landing on the second floor. The building looked abandoned. Except for the new lock on the front door and the one we had stopped at, it looked as though it hadn’t been occupied in years.

  She whisked us inside a sparse-looking apartment and closed, then bolted, the door behind us. The tall windows were covered with blinds. She walked over to one and lowered it and did the same to the next one.

  The furniture was well-used, though sturdy looking, and the kitchen was stocked with shiny stainless pots and pans, hanging from hooks above a central preparation island: no more than a rolling butcher block rising to counter height. There was a modern, flat screen TV in the living room, and next to it was a heavy old AT&T rotary phone. The apartment was a statement of contradiction…the perfect hipster, loft feel.

  She dropped my bag on the floor and came back toward me, draping her arms over my shoulders and looking up into my eyes with a mischievous grin, biting her bottom lip.

  “How happy are you to see me?” she asked, flirting. Without waiting for an answer, she gently kissed me on my mouth with a lingering exhale. I felt her warm breath on my lips as I pressed myself against her, wrapping my arms around her waist and returning the soft kiss.

  After a moment, she parted and pulled back a few inches. “I’ve wanted to do that since Amsterdam,” she said in a trembling whisper.

  I kissed her on her lips, once—no more than a peck—then broke our embrace. “At the risk of not seeming completely hot for you
at the moment, can we sit and talk?” I asked.

  “Ah,” she said smiling, suppressing an expression of disappointment. “There’s the man I remember—all business.”

  “Don’t count on it,” I said as I moved to sit on the couch. “But there are some things we definitely need to talk about first.”

  She sat next to me. “Okay. The bad news. I’m assuming Barb is a problem, and we have to be just friends.”

  I shook my head. “No. Barb and I broke up several months ago.”

  Her eyes went wide, and she shook her head. “After all that trouble?” She held the question for a beat as if holding her breath, trying to maintain her incredulity, and then burst out in laughter.

  It was infectious, and I couldn’t restrain my laughter once she’d started. It hadn’t occurred to me before how ridiculous it would sound, that I flew to Europe to save a woman who I didn’t really love then tried, unsuccessfully, to be in love with her once I returned to the States.

  I let the laughter linger into my explanation. “Yes. It was a tragedy. But last May changed me in ways she couldn’t accept and ways I couldn’t change back—it wasn’t meant to be.”

  A solemn look washed over her face. “I understand,” she replied, a wounded expression painted across her delicate features. “Violence changes people.”

  Something struck me as strange about the comment. Like there was an underlying truth—an experience—that she wished to share but felt she could not.

  I nodded in agreement. “Other things have changed as well,” I said as I picked up the metal case and set it on the coffee table in front of us. She looked at me, hesitant, but then reached for the case and opened it.

  Her expression didn’t change. She reached into the case and extracted the Glock, ejected the magazine, examined it, then clicked it back in with a gentle ‘pop’ of her palm. She pulled the slide back, hit the release and let it slide forward again. Balancing it in her hand for a moment, as if checking the weight, she then put it back in the case.

  Her fingers trailed over the boxes of ammo, the extra magazines, and the silencer. As if this had been her case, she dislodged the upper foam panel and looked inside the hidden compartment, replacing it once she had seen the contents.

  She closed the case and sat back, watching me, before I handed her my passport. She took it and examined it, flipping through the pages, looking at all the entry and exit stamps—only one of which actually belonged to me.

  “Scott North, huh?” she said, without looking up from the pages.

  “It’s my travel identity. Nick had it made for me,” I replied.

  She looked up at me with no readable expression. “Nick? The guy who dropped us out of the plane?”

  I laughed. “Yes. Nick the box dropper.”

  She shook her head. “What does this mean?” she asked without emotion. “Are you a spy now?”

  I hesitated. It hadn’t occurred to me that way before, but yes, I guessed I was. I nodded.

  Kathrin smiled and threw her arms around me. “Monkey Wrench and Gretel. International Super Heroes!” she exclaimed softly in my ear and proceeded to kiss me again.

  I thought that she handled that very well, considering the last time she’d had dealings with the CIA.

  I leaned forward slowly, lowering her to the cushions of the sofa. Suddenly, my whole being felt charged—as if I had passed through a brutal gauntlet over the past nine months and was about to receive my long-fought reward.

  I abandoned any worry or lingering guilt and simply allowed the moment to pass over and through me, like warm water spilling through my wretched life, cleansing me.

  The softness of her lips became my world as her scent filled my nostrils. Our tongues entwined as if they were guiding our movements.

  This time we didn’t part. She pushed me backward, without breaking our kiss, before pulling my jacket off and tossing it aside. As she slipped her hands down to my waist, grasping my T-shirt, I felt myself stir involuntarily, rising to her loving touch. After pulling the shirt over my head, she paused for a moment, seeing the scars from our first adventure.

  She leaned forward and gently kissed my shoulder, then the burn scar on my chest. Her kisses slowly and gently trailed down my stomach to the ugly, jagged scar on my abdomen.

  As she deftly unhooked my belt and unbuttoned my jeans, she lingered a moment, touching her lips to my flat stomach. She laid her cheek down on my belly and closed her eyes for a moment, as if she were elongating every second, absorbing it and etching each detail in her mind. I could feel her hot breath on the thin trail of hairs above my belt line and the hot touch of her face pressed against my skin.

  After a moment, she worked her way back up, pulling her bulky wool sweater over her head, revealing her alabaster skin and the soft curves of her pert breasts, cupped by her bra.

  As her face emerged from under the sweater, I pressed my mouth against hers. Her lips parted, and I found her soft, wet tongue with mine.

  She turned her head and pressed her face against mine as she reached down to fuss with her clothing. Her breath was hot on my cheek, and I could feel my erection rising, pressing against her hip.

  Her hand trailed down my chest, tracing my scars, slowly and lovingly. When her fingers reached my pants, she flattened her palm against the bulge that was pressing against her from beneath the denim. Her eyes opened momentarily, accompanied by a subtle smile and an escaped breath from her lips that I captured in my mouth.

  I reached my hand up to her bra, searching for the clasp in the back. She abruptly broke our embrace and pushed away from me, taking half a step back from the couch before unbuttoning her trademark military fatigues and letting them drop to the floor.

  As she stood there in front of me in her boy-cut panties and simple white bra, I couldn’t help but feel I had left Europe with the wrong woman last year. She unclasped her bra from the front and revealed her porcelain breasts. Pert and perfect, tipped with dark pink nipples, now distended in parallel to the condition of my erection.

  She extended her hands to me, and I rose from the couch. Taking me by my hand and flashing that devilish grin of hers, she led me to the bedroom, where I kicked off my boots and stripped my pants.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, pulled my face to hers, and our tongues eagerly met again.

  **

  1:45 a.m. on January 19th—Dubai, United Arab Emirates

  HEINRICH BRAUN sat in his hotel at the Emirates Towers, watching a video feed on his laptop.

  The scene playing out through his hacked security camera footage was one of decadence and depravity—and he had grown tired of it. A prince and his entourage were enjoying an evening of indulgence a few hundred feet away in a room just a few floors above him in the desert skyscraper. The prince, one of so many in the region, was responsible for opening some oilfields in an area that Combine interests wished to be shut down.

  Despite intense negotiations with the royal family, the prince had convinced the others that the best course of action would be to increase oil output. This affront to Combine dictate was unacceptable, so despite Heinrich Braun’s involvement with quelling the exposure of Combine assets, the Spryte Brothers had dispatched Braun to the Middle East to remedy the prince’s inconvenient rebellion.

  Braun’s only task was to convince the prince to allow the closing of the oil fields.

  As he watched the closed-circuit video feed of the floors above, he wondered if Spryte would recommend more drastic measures to close the loop on the Gaines problem.

  It couldn’t be any more drastic—or worse—than attacking a CIA training facility, Braun thought. That was idiotic. William Spryte is out of control.

  As his thoughts drifted away from the task at hand and back to the failed operation at the Farm, Braun let a sneer pull at his face, thinking about the loss of Eric.

  What did he do that exposed him? If I only knew who was responsible for his death, I’d know who to punish.

  Braun was alread
y on the flight to Dubai when he’d received notice that the operation at the Farm had failed and that Harbinger had lost a good portion of his fighting forces in addition to the DIA Jagger asset. His jaw clenched tightly at the mounting failures in this operation. The monetary cost was minimal, but the exposure was growing. If Combine was to remain hidden—and Braun was to remain alive—he would have to find a way to extract himself from the Sprytes without further exposing Combine.

  Braun glanced at the display on his laptop when he noticed one of the partiers move the hookah that had been in the corner of the room. When someone handed the large water pipe to the prince, Braun quickly pushed all other thoughts from his head.

  A servant reached his hand into a bag of wet, fruit juice-drenched tobacco, causing Braun to lean forward unconsciously.

  The tobacco, Braun had learned, was the prince’s favorite, and it was available in only two shops in Dubai. Regrettably, the first shop had been closed due to a death in the family—a death that Braun had seen to.

  He watched as the young, shirtless man packed the tobacco mush into a ball and placed it on the screen of the large water pipe. As one of the prince’s guests wrapped foil around it, Heinrich felt a subtle stirring in his groin. The charcoal was lit, and the guests began sucking the sweet, fruity smoke through the brightly colored hoses attached to the pipe. After a few seconds, one of the women began to cough.

  At first, everyone ignored the disturbance, making Braun smile at the building tension. But soon, others began coughing, and within a few seconds, they were all coughing—and then coughing up blood—and then blood was pouring from their noses and their ears. After the first of the partygoers began to collapse, Braun pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed William Spryte.

  “What do you have for me?” Spryte asked when he answered.

  “The prince has been convinced not to resist our position on the oil fields,” Braun said ironically.

  “Is there any chance he will change his mind before we can get a vote on the pipeline from Canada?” Spryte asked.