Assignment- Adventure A SpyCo Collection 1-3

by Craig A. Hart

  From behind, Perry heard Flick say, “Meet Mr. Zmaj.”

  The man’s voice did not match his appearance, though, Perry thought, how could any voice match this monstrosity. It was light and lilting, with a trace of a Baltic accent.

  “How good it is we are all together at last. I have been working tirelessly to arrange this meeting for quite some time, even going so far as helping Scorpion destroy the city of Paris.”

  “Scorpion destroyed noting,” Burke spat. “And why do you speak of them as if you’re not part of that shit hole group?”

  Perry looked at Burke and for the first time noticed he’d been beaten badly. His right eye was swollen shut and blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.

  “It didn’t matter the bomb didn’t detonate,” Zmaj said. “Granted, it would have been delightful if it had, but once it did not I felt confident this wonderful gathering would take place just as it has. And please, don’t insult me by thinking I’d ever be a part as such an amateurish outfit as Scorpion. Their operatives can barely get out of their own way, their scope and vision is hidebound. No, Mr. Burke, I view Scorpion as nothing more than a reluctantly used tool to pull down from the shelve on rare occasions.

  “A freelancer then?” asked Lyndsey. She too looked as though she’d been handled roughly.

  “No, not really. My own organization is both vast and long standing, though our success at keeping our activities covert has been so complete as to keep all intelligence agencies—and in the case of SpyCo I use the term loosely—totally unaware of our existence, much less our activities. But I assure you that at the root of every act of terrorism for the past several decades, I, personally, have been the prime mover, and my organization has been the framework upon which everything has been built.”

  Moore had been noticeably silent since Perry had been ushered in, although Perry had noticed the man glaring in his direction. Now Moore spoke for the first time since his arrival.

  “I do not usually trouble myself with why a person chooses a life of crime,” he said. “But in your case, I’m willing to conjecture. I’m guessing you were not mommy’s favorite child, or that mommy even touched you much, unless absolutely necessary. I’d guess you were picked last for kickball, except with that head they might have mistaken you for the ball and picked you first. Hard to say. In either case, I picture you moving from room to mirrorless room in a sprawling estate, mumbling repeatedly, ‘I’ll show them! I’ll show them all!’”

  Perry couldn’t stifle a snort and Flick gave him another hard jab.

  “Ah yes. The clandestine wit of J. Carlton Moore,” Zmaj said, displaying what Perry assumed was supposed to be a smile, though the misshapen face didn’t seem capable of actually pulling one off. “Or ‘@j_c_moo’ as your followers on Twitter know you. I’ve been a fan for quite some time. My favorites are the ones where you refer to your dog’s genitals.”

  “You would like those,” said Moore. “You resemble them closely.”

  Zmaj laughed and Perry hoped sincerely the man never did so again. It was a braying, gurgling sound, like when clotted gelatin is squeezed through a strainer by a donkey. Not, of course, that Perry had any personal experience with such things.

  “I certainly hope you don’t think mocking my looks is going to offend me or make me angry, Mr. Moore. I long ago resigned myself to such a fate. In fact, it has become something of a trademark and helps intimidate the opposition.”

  “You don’t look scary to me,” Burke said. “Just gross.”

  Perry braced himself for more laughter, but was spared the horror.

  “Disgust and fear are not always so far apart,” Zmaj said. “In fact, they are very close cousins. However,” and here he seemed to gather himself, “we are not assembled to discuss the psychology of the world’s greatest criminal mind, although I do enjoy talking about myself.”

  “Then what the hell are we here for,” Moore spat out. “If you simply want to kill us, then please get on with it.”

  Zmaj smiled and almost laughed, but the sound died on his lips, as if it was more trouble than it was worth. “Killing you is certainly the end result, but there is more. You see, I only attend executions of high importance or historical significance.”

  “I’m flattered,” Moore said. “I got the feeling you thought little of the opposition.”

  “That is true. I have had many good laughs at the expense of SpyCo and their blunderings. Yet, despite the ongoing incompetence and lack of sophistication, you have managed to rack up a not entirely horrible victory percentage, even if those victories were small and you failed to understand the bigger picture.”

  “The bigger picture?”

  “Yes. SpyCo has long operated under the misapprehension they were at war with Scorpion.”

  “And you’re saying that’s inaccurate?”

  “In the larger sense, yes. You battled Scorpion, but were at war with me...and didn’t even know it.”

  “You’ve been using Scorpion to do your bidding.”

  “Just so.”

  “And now?”

  “And now I am ready to step forward and take credit for all my accomplishments. My worldwide organization has now matured and come into its own. There is no longer any need to hire independent contractors. Everything will be done in-house and under my direct supervision.”

  “And what will happen to Scorpion?”

  “They will be destroyed. There will then be no one to stand in my way. I will have no direct competitors and my main opponent, SpyCo, will be completely decapitated in...” Zmaj checked his watch. “...about five minutes.”

  “There are others who will oppose you,” Moore said.

  “Who, democratic militaries? They are not equipped for this sort of war. The CIA? Hardly. They are so enmeshed in politics as to make them all but useless. Certainly they cannot engage the tactics necessary to win without infuriating a certain voting bloc in the United States. The politicians will not allow them to win against me, even if they could.”

  Moore growled. “So you’re anointing yourself king, then.”

  “The world needs a king. I think we’ve seen this. Everything in chaos, countries spinning out of control. People need strong, ruthless direction. Otherwise, they are of no good at all.”

  “Spoken like a true psychopath. Please don’t try to sell me on the idea you are trying to make the world a better place.”

  From the other side of the room, Flick gave a loud cough.

  Zmaj looked around and then nodded his head. “Ah, my apologies. I got to talking and lost myself for a moment. Indeed, it is time to get on with the proceedings.” He gestured to one of the guards, who retrieved a long, black case that had been leaning in the corner and brought it forward. Zmaj took it from the guard and placed it on the nearby table. He opened the case and from its red velvet interior withdrew a huge medieval sword. The blade gleamed and the hilt, shaped to look like twin serpents, was made of gold and crusted with emeralds and turquoise. Zmaj turned it over and over in his hands.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked no one in particular. “It is Ma’thur al-Fijar, one of the nine swords belonging to the prophet Muhammad, willed to him by his father before he received his first revelations in Mecca.”

  Burke frowned. “I thought that sword was part of the Topkapi Museum collection here in Istanbul.”

  “The fools at the museum have a mere replica. I had the two switched, when this beauty caught my eye a few years ago while on a tour of the world’s treasures.”

  “Made a wish list, did you?”

  “You might say so,” Zmaj said, coming dangerously close to laughter. “In the case of this sword, however, I consider it fitting that I use it to kill all of you.”

  “A religious ceremony? You don’t seem like the type.”

  “I’m not. Organized religion is useful for control, and that is all. I do, however, enjoy symbolism. Using this sword to behead all of you will provide such a tidy segue from the end of th
e old order and the beginning of the new.”

  Zmaj nodded at Flick, who stuck his gun into Perry’s neck, forcing him up from the chair. Then Perry was pushed forward until he stood in the middle of the room.

  “Kneel,” Flick said.

  “Listen, I think we can probably work this out—”

  “Kneel!”

  “Okay, okay. You don’t have to take my head off.”

  “Ah, but that is exactly what I—ah, I see. Joking in face of certain death. How impressive.”

  Perry began sinking to his knees and put his hands voluntarily behind his back. “If you think that’s impressive, I have something that will sweep you off your feet.”

  “Oh?” Flick’s voice was heavy with hatred. “And what is that?”

  Had Perry’s next series of movements been seen by anyone at the New York City Ballet, that storied program would have immediately filed for dissolution, assuming their quest for dance supremacy beyond their mortal grasp. His hands, seemingly clasped in submission, had gripped the knife nestled in the small of his back. As he drew it out, he spun on one heel and brought the razor-sharp blade across Flick’s hamstring. The killer let out a bellow and blood gushed from the wound, but Perry had already moved on. Springing forward, he grabbed the gun from Flick’s weakened grip and shot the guard directly across the room. Still moving, he hit the closest guard like a linebacker, driving him sideways and temporarily into the line of fire between the guards and the SpyCo agents. Another blast from Flick’s gun brought down a third guard and then Perry dove and rolled behind Burke. He slashed the ropes binding his friend’s wrists. A third shot from a prone position took out another guard and Perry saw Zmaj beginning to edge toward the exit.

  The entire process had taken under three seconds and had taken everyone by complete surprise. But now the remaining guards had begun returning fire. Perry fired again, missed, then grabbed a weapon dropped by one of the fallen guards and tossed it to Burke. He turned back to the fight before seeing if Burke caught the weapon, but a half-second later he heard another weapon begin firing.

  “Fall back!” Zmaj screeched. He still held the ancient sword and brandished it over his head like a demented field general.

  If it had been only Perry, the guards would likely have managed to outshoot and kill him. But with Burke’s added marksmanship, it was no contest. Another guard spun down, blood spurting from a neck wound, and the fight was over. Zmaj and his remaining men ducked around the corner and into the back hallway. The door slammed and then a powerful engine roared to life. They were gone.

  Perry wheeled around, half-expecting Flick to be bearing down on him, the horrible knife held high. But instead the killer was slumped on the floor, blood still pooling around him, his disfigured face ashen and shiny with sweat. Burke sat in his chair, feet still tied, and held a gun on him. Perry took the knife and finished cutting everyone loose.

  “My god, Perry,” Lyndsey breathed. “That was...inspired.”

  Burke punched his shoulder. “Impressive, man. Maybe you are almost as good as I am.”

  Perry looked at Adabelle, who said nothing, but smiled and gave him the A-OK sign, her full lips mimicking the “O” shape. Perry almost moaned out loud. That woman could turn him on by reading the phonebook.

  Moore stood, rubbing his sore wrists and looking thoughtful. Then he gestured toward Flick. “If you to do something about this, now’s your chance, Eagle. He’ll bleed out before long.”

  As Perry stepped forward, Flick snarled and drew the infamous knife. It was a pathetic action; the killer was clearly in no shape to fight.

  Perry had dreamed of this moment for years, but now that it was here, he found himself at a loss for words. The angry ranting he’d imagined, the verbal assault, seemed silly and unworthy of the moment. Even the physical aspect—the imagined torture and brutal retribution—seemed to ebb with every fresh surge of blood from the wound.

  Perry kicked the knife from Flick’s hand, and then knelt down to look the killer in the eyes. This was the man who had killed Trina and turned Perry’s life into a living hell, the man he had chased for so long and who inhabited every nightmare Perry had. Now the man was helpless, dying. Perry could do anything he wished.

  “Perry?”

  He looked up to see Burke, Lyndsey, and Adabelle standing just behind him.

  Burke cleared his throat. “You know, we might be able to patch him up enough so you’d be able to...spend a little time with him. Moore’s already stepped out for the sake of plausible deniability and you know the three of us don’t give a shit about this guy.”

  Perry hesitated. It was a tempting offer. Then he shook his head.

  “No. Give me a minute, would you?”

  The other three nodded, then turned and walked from the room.

  Once the door softly closed, Perry stood up and retrieved Flick’s knife. He returned and leaned in close to be sure the killer could hear him.

  “Is this it?” he asked, holding up the knife. “Is this the one you used?”

  Flick’s eyes were full of pain, but still hard and evil. “Yes,” he spat out, his voice hoarse and strained. “That is the knife I used to kill the whore you called a wife.”

  Perry looked at the man, waiting for the overpowering surge of anger that would push him into committing the acts of torture he’d dreamed of for so long. But the surge didn’t come. He still felt hatred for this man, but the anger was now mixed with disgust, as if the weakened, crumpled figure before him was more to be pitied than feared. Of course, there was no pity in Perry’s heart. He still desired to treat Flick to a horrible, long, agonizing death. But now, with the opportunity before him, and with the support of his friends, he felt like Trina was right beside him. He wondered what she would have wanted. In his mind, he’d always heard her saying, “Kill him, Perry. Kill him slow. Make him pay,” but now he had to admit he might have been projecting his own rage onto his memory of Trina. Would Trina, sweet Trina, have advocated for the slow torture of another human being—even her own killer? He wanted to think so, but deep down he had his doubts. And now, when mere fantasy had turned to immediate reality, he realized he wanted nothing more than to honor Trina’s memory. Could he do that by cutting off fingers and toes, or flaying skin from a human body?

  “You killed my wife,” Perry said, surprised at how calm his voice sounded. “And I’ve hated you for that. I still hate you. You’re a waste of a human being and, quite frankly, not worth any more of my life. Hating you won’t bring Trina back, and you’re on the way out. I’m not a particularly religious person, but if I ever believed in hell, it’s now. There must be some place for people like you to spend eternity. And if that’s true, then anything I might do to you would pale by comparison. So instead, I will honor my wife’s memory simply by getting you there a little faster.”

  Perry slid the knife into Flick’s neck, in exactly the same place as Flick had stabbed Trina. He undressed the corpse, bundled the clothes, and placed them under the dead man’s head—just as he’d left Trina’s body. Then he stood up, took one last look at his vanquished foe, and walked from the room.

  19

  The Cessna Citation Latitude’s engines thrummed as the jet powered along the first leg of the trip to New York City. Moore had chartered the flight, not only because it allowed a more flexible schedule, but because the idea of flying commercial once more had almost sent him into a rage. Now he sat near the front of the cabin, pouring over documents and growling into his glass of neat scotch.

  The other SpyCo agents lounged in their seats. Burke, not surprisingly, was asleep, while Lyndsey read a paperback, although her eyes were heavy as well. Perry sat across the aisle from Adabelle. He’d wanted to sit next to her, but could think of no good excuse, since there was plenty of room for everyone to stretch out. Finally, Perry looked over at her.

  “You think the old place will still be standing once we reach New York?”

  “Oh, I think we would have heard if it had b
een taken completely out. What its condition might be, I don’t know. I suppose it depends if Zmaj’s men physically took it over or if this was more of a technological coup.”

  “It’s disturbing to think how close he came to achieving his goal of destroying the organization. If he’d taken us all out, there would have been no way for the greater network to figure out what was happening or mount a counter-offensive.”

  Adabelle nodded. “Yes. I’m hoping this will force Moore to bring in some trusted lieutenants who could step up in his absence.”

  “You know Moore. He’s something of a control freak.”

  “That he is. But the attitude is dangerous to the agency.”

  Perry looked ahead to where Moore was shuffling papers around and swearing. “Maybe that’s what he’s realizing even now. He looks pissed. Maybe it’s why he’s bringing you to New York as well.”

  A moment of silence and then Perry said, “You think Erol will be okay?”

  Adabelle smiled. “You have a real soft spot for him, don’t you?”

  “He’s a hell of a kid.”

  “That he is. But we turned him over to the authorities. I don’t know what more we could have done.”

  Perry nodded. “I guess you’re right. Still…I feel so bad for the little guy.”

  “And how are you doing?”

  The question took Perry off guard. “I’m okay.”

  “Are you?”

  “Shouldn’t I be?”

  “Oh, drop your defenses for once, Perry Hall.”

  Perry liked how she said that. “What do you mean?”