Boiling Point (An Ethan Galaal Thriller Book 4)

by Isaac T. Hooke

  Aaron swung the Mercedes right, weaving through a tight gap in the sporadic traffic, causing the Audi to hit the brakes to avoid colliding with a beat-up hatchback. The officer driving the police car was obviously a zealous man, because he floored his car through the gap, ripping the bumper off the hatchback and ridding his own car of its side mirrors. He edged up close to the Mercedes as Aaron headed for Carrer dels Escudellers loop.

  “Sorry, buddy,” Aaron murmured to himself, and twisted the steering wheel hard to the left, shunting the smaller police sedan.

  The police cruiser hit a public bicycle parking area––sending bikes flying and spinning in all directions––and then smashed through an empty bus stop. It crashed into a lamppost in an explosion of steam from the radiator. Its blue lights spun sadly.

  Aaron continued up the street. As the Audi caught up and came alongside, he mounted the curb, leaned on the horn––sending the few pedestrians scattering––and ploughed through the outdoor seating area of a tapas bar. Luckily, that part of the bar was closed, the seats unoccupied.

  “Good of you to hit the horn,” William commented.

  Aaron veered back onto the road, narrowly avoiding a concrete planter and crashed into the side of the Audi. “Do you ever shut the fuck up?” he asked, his teeth gritted with the strain of concentration.

  William seemed to consider this question as the cars broke apart again, their flanks dented where they’d collided.

  “My daddy always did say I shot my mouth off so much I must eat bullets for breakfast,” William quipped.

  The cars crunched together again with a sound that always made Ethan think of God crushing an empty coke can. At the mention of bullets, Bretta raised the Glock 18 and was just about to pull the trigger when Ethan grabbed her arm.

  “No! One stray round hitting some kid on the way home and the DIA will burn us quicker than you can blink,” he said.

  “But they’re right there,” Bretta said, a whole cast of emotions waging war across her face.

  It was true. As the two cars sped down the almost empty avenue, the faces of the other Kidon members were within spitting distance. Ethan realized that the driver––the mysterious fourth member of this particular Kidon cadre––was another woman; mousy brown hair cut pixy short, dark eyes screwed up in concentration, a scar running through her hair from ear to temple.

  Boots sat in the back seat, the compact rifle pointed at Ethan’s head. Ethan ducked, but the incoming fire didn’t come.

  Aaron threw the SUV around the corner of George Orwell place, tires squealing in protest, and the vehicles broke apart again. The A6 slid out across the road, hit a parked car and bounced off.

  This gained the Mercedes a little extra room as it raced off up Avignon Street, through the crossroad with Lioness Street.

  “That helo still up there?” Aaron asked no one in particular.

  It was clear that the bird was still aloft, because as the Audi made the intersection of Avignon and Lioness, thirty seconds or so behind the Mercedes, two more police cars had appeared. They fell in behind the Audi, while the Israelis continued to chase Ethan and his crew.

  The four vehicles wove their way through the Gothic Quarter causing extensive damage to local businesses and public property. Horns blared, people screamed and the vehicles were trailed by destruction just as fishing trawlers are trailed by gulls.

  They hurtled the wrong way up a one-way street, past the Lemon Patio and through a series of tight alleyways in single file, before bursting out onto Via Laietana. As they rejoined this main thoroughfare, yet another cop car pulled in behind the Mercedes; sirens wailing, lights flashing.

  Ethan, looking behind them, had an idea. “Aaron, put your goddamn foot down and leave these guys in the dust. I have a feeling they might cut their losses.”

  “Cut their losses how?” Bretta asked.

  “Just do it!” Ethan ordered.

  Via Laietana was a little under one and a half kilometers long and they had about half of it stretching ahead of them. Once more, the Mercedes roared away, swerving in and out of the sparse traffic. The cop car behind tried to keep up for a little bit, but then suddenly slackened its speed.

  Ethan nodded happily. “Good.”

  “What are they doing?” William asked.

  “Boxing in the Kidon,” Ethan explained.

  Even as he watched, one of the three police cars went wide of the Audi, another moved up close to the rear, while the cop car that had been trailing the Mercedes slowed down so that it was almost directly in front.

  William nodded. “Trying to get their hands on at least one of us, huh?”

  Ethan leaned to the side to gaze at the sky, then glanced at Aaron. “You got a way we can lose the bird?”

  Aaron nodded. “First rule of tradecraft: always have a contingency plan.”

  As they turned off the main street and headed back into the warren of crooked side streets and alleyways that made up much of the Gothic Quarter, Ethan looked behind him. By the way that the Audi was shunting and swerving from one side to the other, it was clear the driver couldn’t find a way through. They were taking fire from the police vehicles as well—Ethan suspected the Kidon had opened fire first. Evidently the police had been ready, and hadn’t liked that.

  As Aaron steered the Mercedes skillfully into the mouth of a dark alley, leaving the Kidon out of sight, Ethan hoped fervently that the cops would manage to subdue or kill their Israeli pursuers.

  Had Ethan been driving, the team would have stood far less chance at losing the police helicopter. As it was, Aaron was as good as his word––and not only that, but he was extremely familiar with the backstreets, alleyways and tunnels that crisscrossed even this central district of Barcelona. There was no way for the police chopper to keep an eye on the Mercedes, hidden as it was for blocks at a time by the older buildings leaning towards each other and the covered alleyways. Occasionally one police vehicle or another turned up in the distance, but Aaron always lost it by taking a fresh detour in the maze.

  Before long, Aaron zipped quickly around a corner and entered an underground parking garage in the Sant Antoni district. He drove quickly down four levels and then pulled the Mercedes into a space in a shadowy corner. He ushered the team out of the vehicle and across the echoing concrete expanse. He unlocked a waiting, scruffy-looking Peugeot 3008 station wagon.

  “When you ride with the Constrictor, you ride in class,” William quipped.

  “Damn straight,” Aaron replied.

  Ethan bundled Kiana into the back seat and leaned over her as they took to the road once more in the new vehicle.

  Aaron drove sedately east, back into El Raval. A pair of police vehicles sped past in the opposite lane with lights and sirens blaring. The officers within didn’t even spare the Peugeot a glance.

  Several minutes passed. There was no sign of the Kidon. And Ethan didn’t spot another police vehicle.

  A muffled noise came from under Ethan’s arm. He ignored it at first, continuing to search the streets.

  Bretta cleared her throat and said, “Uh, Copperhead, I think the package wouldn’t mind coming up for a little air.”

  Ethan stiffened, then loosed his hold on Kiana.

  The doctor raised her head, looking around with a slightly bleary expression. Her mane of sleek black hair was looking a lot more disheveled than it had before she had been thrown into the Mercedes at the airport. After a second man-handling it looked like something that might have been worn by the lead singer of an Eighties glamor rock band. In spite of this, the mauve and orange of the sunset blending with the streetlights produced a soft ambience that only enhanced her already lovely complexion.

  “We finally lost them?” Kiana asked.

  Ethan nodded. “For the moment, at least.”

  Kiana leaned her head against the seat and released a prolonged sigh.

  Now that the immediate danger was, as far as the team could tell, passed, and the Kidon team tied up with the loca
l authorities, William leaned forward and slapped Aaron on the shoulder.

  “It’s a shame you have to ditch us, Mr. Berkeley,” the Texan drawled, “would have been might nice to catch up. It’s been too long.”

  Ethan made a sound of agreement. He saw the flash of Aaron’s bright white teeth in the rear view mirror as the man drove the Peugeot past the famous giant cat sculpture, El Gat de Botero.

  “The demands of the office, huh?” Aaron said.

  “That nine-to-five grind can get a man down sometimes, can’t it?” William replied, catching Ethan’s eye and winking.

  “Sometimes,” Aaron agreed. “But all it takes is a quick op with you two to remind me why I don’t like the field as much anymore.”

  “Still,” William said, “it would’ve been nice to grab a drink or somethin’.”

  Ethan snorted and rolled his eyes.

  “Firstly,” Aaron said, “I don’t know if this is quite the time, mid-op and all, to be busting out the Moet. Secondly, the last time I grabbed a drink with you it came out through about a dozen bullet holes.”

  Ethan barked a laugh and shook his head.

  Aaron guided the Peugeot along a circuitous route through the quiet backstreets of El Poble-Sec district and back into the bohemian boulevards of the El Raval.

  “Get your gear ready,” Aaron warned, “we’re almost there. No waiting about, kissing my ass, telling me how I saved yours. Get out and get inside.”

  William snorted with laughter in the backseat. “Would you listen to his guy? I ain’t ever seen a guy strut while he was still sittin’ before! Fails to mention that the reason we were almost caught was because he was late.”

  “And your flight was early, but don’t let the facts get in your way,” Aaron replied.

  “He never does,” Ethan said with a grin, “you know that.”

  “Glad to hear nothing has changed with you two,” Aaron replied.

  “How do we know the Mossad doesn’t know about the DIA’s partial ownership of this hotel?” William pressed.

  Ethan was the one who answered. “They don’t know.” Though his voice exuded confidence, even he couldn’t be certain of that.

  Aaron maneuvered the car off the grandly-named Street of the Lion and into a small cobbled side street––almost an alley––which was lit by ornate gothic street lamps. Almost halfway down this atmospheric little street was a large five-story building, which had clearly been renovated in the not-so-distant past. It still held much of its former Gothic charm, but there was an air of boutique luxury that hovered around the well-appointed front entrance. Over the oaken double-doors, a well-lit sign in gold lettering proclaimed the place as El Hotel Arintero.

  “All right, kids,” Aaron said, checking the rear view mirror, “this is you. Get the hell out of here. I’m going to ditch this thing somewhere, then keep an eye out and see who comes sniffing. You never know, I might be able to tail these Kidon guys back to wherever it is they’re holing up.”

  Privately, Ethan doubted that.

  The nondescript Peugeot pulled up at the front steps. Bretta and William went first, and confirmed that the way was clear and unwatched.

  Ethan followed, leading Kiana. With only a quick backward glance he led the way inside the building, into the lobby of a hotel partly owned by the Defense Intelligence Agency.

  He heard Kiana let out a shuddering sigh from next to him. He knew what she was thinking.

  She thinks we’re safe, he thought to himself, as they made their way over to the front desk. He set his hand on the cool marble of the desk and tried not to look like a man who has just charged into hell armed only with a bucket of water.

  I hope she’s right.

  15

  Ethan looked out of the window of his room at El Hotel Arintero, down onto the corner of Carrer de la Paloma––which sounded a lot more impressive in Catalan than it did when you translated it into English: Pigeon Street.

  Five stories below him, pedestrians hurried by under the amber glow of the streetlights. Many of them were wearing facemasks. Ethan noticed that, when a couple of people did recognize each other and stopped to exchange pleasantries, they refrained from any touching. Restaurants and bars were open, though not all of them. In a culture in which dining out played such a significant role in society, it said something when even a few tapas or wine bars had elected to close their doors.

  After securing the attention of the efficient-looking, dapper concierge and giving his name––Mr. Copperhead––Ethan and his team had each been given a room on a different floor of the hotel. El Hotel Arintero had seven rooms that were placed constantly on hold, unless asked for by someone with a name that was on a very select, very short list. The rooms were tactically spaced throughout the hotel, making an assault by hostile operators harder to coordinate, should such a thing ever happen. This standard bit of tradecraft practice was one of only two little clues that Ethan was given that this sumptuously decorated hotel was, through many convoluted legal channels, owned by the United States’ Department of Defense. The other hint that the hotel served a clandestine secondary purpose was that, when Ethan mentioned his name he and his companions were supplied rooms immediately, despite the fact that the hotel had just implemented a policy refusing any new guests due to the escalation of the COVID-19 situation.

  Ethan, in an attempt to help his mind wind down somewhat, listed off his team and their allocated rooms. He was on the fifth and top floor, Bretta on the fourth and William on the second. Kiana had been offered her own room, but Ethan had instructed her to bunk with William.

  Ethan had given explicit, if slightly unnecessary, instructions that no member of the team was to leave their rooms for any reason. They were to order room service and get some rest. For the three DIA agents, it had been a hectic few days. They had travelled over seven-thousand kilometers since leaving Istanbul on March 3rd. Ethan, though he would never admit it, was glad for a chance to take a long, hot shower and eat something that hadn’t been purchased from a cart and wrapped in paper.

  El Raval was one of the many districts in central Barcelona that was undergoing a slow process of gentrification. Ethan suspected that was the very reason the DIA had invested in El Hotel Arintero. Barcelona was a strategically handy city in which to have a base of sorts, thanks to the Mediterranean Sea and the convenient access it afforded to Africa and the Middle East. El Raval was the perfect neighborhood in which to renovate a dilapidated hotel because so many property investors were doing it. One more would go quite unnoticed. Plus, it was so central within Barcelona itself. Due to its bohemian and artistic denizens, shops and restaurants, it was essentially the perfect place to hide. One had to look or act quite outrageously to stand out in El Raval.

  Ethan turned away from the window. It was made from Level Six––of a possible eight levels––grade ballistics glass, weighed just under thirteen pounds per square foot, was two centimeters thick and was most definitely not a standard building material in Catalonia. Level Six grade glass would stop an assault rifle round or sustained automatic gunfire, if not something as big as a fifty caliber round, and the thought warmed Ethan as effectively as a slug of whisky.

  Speaking of whisky...

  Ethan went over to the minibar and pulled out a bottle of Eixample Pils beer and cracked the top. He took a long pull on it, closed his eyes and sighed. He could say a lot about the sort of work he was in, but one thing was for sure, it sure made him appreciate the simple pleasures.

  He walked over to the bed and called room service. He ordered a portion of paella and something called a bombas off the menu that sat on his coffee table, then took the long, hot shower that had been occupying a lot of his mind since he had walked into the room. He took his beer with him.

  About twenty minutes later there was a knock on the door. Ethan had only just towel dried himself off, and quickly pulled on his underwear and a shirt. He looked cautiously through the peephole and saw that it was the room service attendant with di
nner.

  Ethan opened the door a crack and kept his undressed lower body hidden while he took the tray from the man.

  “Gracias,” he said.

  “De nada,” the man replied and turned to go.

  “Hey, um, I don’t have any euros to give you,” Ethan said awkwardly, “but if you’re able to add a tip to my room bill I’m sure my management would be happy to pay it.”

  “Gracias, sir,” the man said. “Will there be anything else?”

  “I don’t think––actually, can you tell me what this ‘bombas’ is that I’ve ordered?” Ethan asked.

  The man brightened. “Ah, si, senor, it is a specialty here in Barcelona. You know what a grenado is, si?”

  Ethan gave the man a small smile. “Grenades? I’m familiar with them, yes.”

  “Well, back in the bad days of the Spanish Civil War revolutionaries would roam the streets throwing these grenados through any house or shop windows that they thought belonged to General Franco’s Fascistas, you see. It was a very––how do you say?––effective weapon against them,” the waiter said.

  “I can imagine,” Ethan replied.

  “Well, these bombas, they are one chef’s, um, dedication to these grenados. It is one of Barcelona’s most famous tapas. It is a potato croquette about the size of a ball for tennis, si? Served with two different sauces; a white garlic aioli that represents the, um, the fuse, and a spicy, chili-tomato sauce that symbolizes the, the…the bang! Si, they very good, senor. Enjoy.”

  The man hurried off, leaving Ethan holding the tray.

  “I’m eating a grenade as part of my dinner,” he mused, closing the door behind him with his foot. “How very appropriate.”

  The following day the sun rose fat and red, peaking over the eastern horizon and staining the façade of the unmistakable La Sagrada Família––Gaudi’s still unfinished church and the landmark most often associated with Barcelona––with a ruddy pink glow.