Imminent Threat

by Jeff Gunhus

  “. . . we’ve got to start hurting people,” Scott said. “Sounds like maybe we need a better plan.”

  “All right, smart-ass. Let’s hear yours.”

  “Food,” he said.

  They’d grabbed a sandwich on the train down. Seville was known for its amazing food but his sudden suggestion threw her off guard. But only for a second.

  “Probably long shifts for the protection detail,” she said. “Guys have to eat.”

  Scott painted a picture. “We intercept the food being brought in and add some night-night juice. We have what we need in the supplies. With radiation poisoning, he’s not eating solid foods. We wait until they eat. When all the guards are out, we enter through the front door and just step over the sleeping bodies.”

  “I like it,” Mara said, enjoying the opportunity Scott had given her to hand his own comment right back at him. “Direct. Simple. What could go wrong?”

  Scott frowned. “Finding the food source being brought in might take a bit,” he said. “And not everyone eats at the same time. Maybe the wife and daughter already ate. Maybe one of the guards brought his own food, he’s not out when we come in. He raises the alarm. Once the alarm is raised . . .”

  “. . . we’ve got to start hurting people,” Mara finished. “Sounds like maybe we need a better plan.”

  “Who taught you how to be such a smart-ass?” Scott asked.

  “Pretty sure it’s genetic.”

  They both smiled, but an awkward silence followed. The follow-up comment would have been something like Yeah, your mom’s side of the family was like that or That’s not a very nice thing to say about your mom. But they didn’t talk about her mom. Wendy Roberts may not have appeared to either of them as an actual ghost, but she was still very effective at haunting them every day. It was like she was everywhere, permeating everything, as if the memory was the air she breathed.

  Mara stopped in place. She pulled out her phone and brought up the images of the town house she’d snapped. She zoomed in on them and smiled.

  “I like that smile,” Scott said. “I know what that usually means.”

  Mara showed him the photo and what she’d enlarged. It only took a few seconds for him to grasp her new idea. “Of course. Perfect. That’ll work.”

  “Do we have what we need?” she asked.

  Scott shook his head. “No, but we can get it by tonight. Good work. Kind of mad I didn’t think of it.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure when I’m your age I’ll lose a few steps, too,” Mara said.

  “See, there’s that charming hereditary trait kicking into gear again,” he said.

  Scott pulled out the satellite phone and, covering his mouth with his hand, ordered the exact materials they would need. He was told it would take at least eight hours, arriving close to midnight. That worked for their timeline. He hung up the phone and they started their preparations.

  CHAPTER 9

  Jacobslav Scarvan fought toward the glimmer of light far above him, knowing it was the surface. His lungs burned, his head throbbed. But no matter how hard he kicked and clawed, he made no progress. The gunshot wounds in his body sent electric bolts of pain through him with every move.

  But he wouldn’t give up. Couldn’t give up.

  With one final, excruciating effort, he gave everything he had. He blew out the stale air in his lungs in an underwater scream, forcing his damaged limbs to do his bidding one last time and reach, reach, reach . . .

  Scarvan bolted up in bed, screaming with a ragged voice he hardly recognized.

  Waves of pain crashed over him. From the gunshot wounds. From his head. From everywhere.

  He fell back onto the mattress, fighting to stay conscious.

  He took short breaths, fighting through the pain, something he was good at doing. Before long, he got control of it. Pushing it aside. Using the adrenaline rush of waking up in a strange place to give him strength.

  With the pain pushed aside, something else rushed in to fill the space.

  Confusion.

  Where was he? What the hell had happened to him?

  “I thought you had gone to meet our Maker,” came a voice.

  Scarvan instinctively pushed his body away, arms up covering his face.

  “It’s all right,” the voice said. “Nothing to fear. Not from me.”

  An old man rose from a wicker rocking chair deep in the shadowed corner. He wore a plain black gown cinched at the waist with a length of brown rope. A curled, gray beard hung down to his chest, matching a shock of wild white hair sticking out from a tall black hat. Scarvan knew what the clothes and hat meant, but in his experience, anyone could be anything. A man dressed as a priest did not mean he was one.

  “How long?”

  “Four days,” the old man said. “You are on Mount Athos. My name is Father Spiros. And you are . . . ?”

  Scarvan swung his legs off the bed. The second he raised himself up, a brilliant burst of pain exploded in his head. The room tipped on its side and he collapsed back onto the thin mattress.

  Father Spiros laughed, a low, rasping sound that produced a wad of phlegm that he spit into a handkerchief from his pocket. “That won’t work. Not for a while, I think. Rest. You are safe here.”

  Scarvan took stock of his situation. If he had been out for four days like the old priest had said, then the fool could be right. If his enemies thought he was still alive, then the search would have turned him up by now. They must have thought there was no way anyone could survive the open ocean in the middle of a storm like that. Let alone with four bullet holes in him.

  They’d underestimated him.

  Like always.

  “I’ll make us some soup,” Spiros said. “Avgolemono. Egg and lemon. Very good for you.”

  The priest bent slowly down and turned on the burner on a small propane stove. He moved stiffly, pulling ingredients off the shelves in the small corner of the room that served as a kitchen. His face was ancient, covered with deep lines and splotched with sun damage. Dark bags hung under deep, heavy-lidded eyes.

  Out of habit, Scarvan surveyed the space around him, looking for both threats and weapons. He was in a rectangular room made of laid stone on three sides and a sheer mountain face on the fourth. He heard waves crashing against a shore nearby and tasted salt in the air. Two small windows had been left open in the rock walls, but these were covered with shutters that let in only slivers of light.

  He laid back on the bed and closed his eyes. How could he have been so stupid? All the warnings had been there. The assignment information had been too perfect, too complete. That never happened. Not unless it was being made up out of whole cloth. But he’d trusted Belchik, a man he’d known for decades, a legend in the KGB, a man known to fight for his agents against the bureaucracy. Belchik had asked him personally to take the job, saying it was personal, promising he would come with him in the field.

  All of it lies to isolate him on that boat.

  But that wasn’t all. They could have taken him out anywhere. A sniper rifle from two thousand yards could have ended it all without the need for the extravagant ruse. There was something more at work here. And he knew what it was.

  The Americans.

  They’d wanted to witness it. Be a part of the retribution for what he’d done.

  He knew the CIA man, James Hawthorn. There was history between the two of them. A grudging respect; admiration, even. But the political capital he’d had to have expended to demand such an execution must have been incredible. Then again, perhaps his mentor would have agreed no matter what the Americans had on him.

  And why? Because of the death of a single family? Burning them alive hadn’t been his fault. The agent he’d been assigned to interrogate could have just told him what he needed to know early on. It was his own obstinance that led to his family’s death. The American agent bore the blame, not him.

  Besides, he’d only done what Belchik had taught him years ago.

  Scarvan opened his
eyes and stared at the stone roof above him. Moss lined the mortar joints, giving his eyes a crisscrossing pattern to follow. Everything was connected, just like all the men on the boat were connected. But more than that. There were others. People who had been briefed once the idea to kill him had been suggested. Approvals had been made. Help given to fool him along the way. He thought through all of them, connection after connection, until he ended up on the trawler, staring into the eyes of James Hawthorn.

  And then down the barrel of a gun held by Scott Roberts.

  Only one thing was clear to Scarvan, all of them had to die.

  “Here, eat,” Father Spiros said, holding out a bowl of steaming soup.

  Scarvan grunted as he pushed himself up onto an elbow and then up against the headboard. He reached out and accepted the soup, his stomach growling in hunger.

  The old man stood in front of him, watching. Scarvan lifted the spoon from the bowl and tried to bring it to his mouth. His hand shook violently, spilling the soup everywhere.

  “Let me help you,” Father Spiros said.

  Scarvan shrugged him off with a scowl. He dropped the spoon on the bed and put a hand on either side of the bowl, slowly bringing it toward his lips. Halfway there, his hands trembled; his body wouldn’t obey the command to execute the simple act.

  “Shit!” Scarvan yelled, throwing the bowl to the floor. The dish shattered, sending soup everywhere.

  Father Spiros turned, crossed the few steps to his stove, and filled a new bowl. His face registered no anger or judgment. He sat on the chair next to the bed, spooned out some soup and lifted it toward his visitor.

  Scarvan tried to resist, but his hunger was too strong. He opened his mouth and allowed the old man to feed him like a baby.

  The soup tasted better than any food he could remember. Smooth and creamy, with a pleasant tartness from the lemon. The aroma wafted up to his nose and he breathed it in deeply. He opened his mouth a second time, expecting the spoon to be there. But it wasn’t.

  The old man held it just out of reach until Scarvan met his eyes.

  “The Lord our God has sent you here for a great purpose,” Father Spiros said. “He has revealed this to me. I have seen in visions how you will transform the world.” He squinted his eyes. “So, you will not use such coarse language again. Is that understood?”

  Scarvan nodded slowly, not sure what to make of the old man, but knowing he’d do anything for another mouthful of soup.

  “Good,” Father Spiros said. “Let’s nurse you back to health. I have much to teach you before you go back out into the world.”

  Scarvan ate, savoring each bite, unaware that it would be twenty years before he set off to complete his task. But that when he did, it would not only be to execute a plan for his revenge, but to completely change the course of human history.

  CHAPTER 10

  Scott and Mara had two hours until the material arrived. All other preparations had been made, so they left the camera trained on the building to catch video of any new activity in the area, and then went down the street for a quick bite to eat. He was looking forward to a little downtime with his daughter before things got serious.

  The tavern they selected was down a side alley, away from the tourist avenues where menus were offered in both English and Spanish. Both of them were fluent so navigating the menu filled with tapas was simple enough. They ordered several dishes, Scott staying conservative with piles of Iberica ham, gambas de ajillo and patatas bravas. Mara went with more of the local delicacies, ordering orejas a la plancha and callos a la Madrileña, pig’s ears and a heavily sauced tripe, or the lining of a cow’s stomach. Scott wrinkled his nose at her choices.

  “Do you really like that stuff? Or are you just trying to ruin my meal?” he said.

  She sipped her water. “You look like the waiter when we told him we’d drink water instead of wine with dinner. Total disgust.”

  “I’m with him,” Scott said, taking a drink and making a sour face. Mara gave him an easy chuckle. It was the kind of thing dads did the world over to make their kids smile. He still loved making her laugh. He put the glass down and rubbed his hands together. “So, are we going to talk about this guy you’re dating?”

  “I don’t see why we would,” she said, tearing into some of the bread on the table. “And you know his name. Wouldn’t doubt you’ve done a full background check on him.”

  Scott feigned shock but felt a small pang of a guilty conscience. Of course, he’d run a background check on the guy. What father with the full resources of the United States intelligence community wouldn’t do that when it looked like his only daughter was getting serious about someone?

  “Why don’t you tell me about him?” Scott said.

  “See if there’s something that wasn’t in his file that you might want to know?” she said, grinning. “A little ground truth. Want to hear how great he is in bed? Because there’s a lot to talk about there, let me tell you.”

  Scott choked on the bread he was chewing on and had to take a quick drink of his water. He overdid it for comic effect. Mara smiled. Beamed really. God, he loved that. All kidding aside, he was happy she’d fallen for someone.

  “I could have passed on that detail,” he finally managed. “But thank you for sharing. And good for you.”

  “It really is,” she said. “Incredible, actually.”

  “Enough! I’m an old man. You’re killing me over here.” The waiter approached with their food. “Oh, thank God.”

  The first of the food arrived on small, steaming plates. The gambas de ajillo were plump shrimp in a piping hot butter and garlic sauce and Scott dug into them, dipping his bread into the mix. Mara ate the orejas, munching on the pig’s ears and making low sounds of appreciation. She offered one to Scott.

  “I like eating most parts of a pig, but I’ll pass on the ears,” he said. “I suppose Rick is all about the pig ears?”

  “It’s not a contest, Dad,” she said. She waited a few beats before adding, “Good thing, because he’s smart, handsome, kind, empathetic, thoughtful—”

  “—but can he take out a bad guy at a thousand yards?”

  “Yeah, he can,” she said. “He trains with the counter-sniper team for fun.”

  Scott already knew that part, but he enjoyed seeing Mara’s pride in telling him. He turned more serious. “You both have hard jobs to make a relationship work. Just making sure you’re keeping a clear head around this.”

  Mara leaned back, clearly surprised at his serious observation. “I know,” she said. “We talk about it.”

  “And?”

  “And we’re making it work,” she said. “For now, it’s good and right now is all we’re worrying about.”

  The rest of the food came. The waiter asked one last time if they’d like some wine or beer, looking bewildered when they both declined.

  “Are all these questions really about Rick, or about my thinking about leaving Alpha?” she asked.

  Scott liked that his daughter was direct and to the point. “Both, really. I figure he’s part of the reason, so . . .”

  “He’s not,” she said. “In fact, he’s trying to talk me into staying.”

  “I like him better already.”

  “The problem is, it doesn’t feel like we’re getting anywhere,” she said, leaning in and lowering her voice. “Omega is either so far ahead of us that we’ve lost their trail. Or they don’t even exist anymore. Maybe they collapsed after DC.”

  “I don’t believe they’re gone,” he said. “And neither do you. Not really.”

  “We keep finding small splinters, like this terrorist in Munich you told me about. Are those really part of some sprawling, powerful entity? Or just copycat wannabes that try to co-opt something they’ve heard whispered in dark places?”

  “You didn’t see this guy in Munich,” Scott said. “He had the look of a true believer as he popped the cyanide capsule in his mouth.”

  “But what he did, the Christmas market bom
bing, it’s terrible, but not the mission of an organization supposedly trying to restructure the world order.”

  Scott munched on his food. This wasn’t a new conversation for them. Nor were the ideas she was expressing something he hadn’t thought of before in his own mind. But in his gut, he knew Omega was still a threat. Still powerful. Still dangerous. And his gut was rarely wrong.

  “Omega is still out there,” Scott said. “And I need your help.”

  Mara leaned back in her chair, taking stock of the two men who were walking into the tavern. Her eyes searched each one, looking for any signs they were carrying guns beneath their clothes. Seeing none, she evaluated the way they carried themselves, the way they looked over the room, whether they stole a glance her way, whether they tried too hard not to look at them.

  Scott watched her, knowing exactly what she was doing. He wondered if, like him, part of any threat assessment included a quick calculation of how to kill the target if it proved necessary.

  They both reached the same conclusion. The men posed no threat.

  “A few more months,” Scott said. “After this business is done.”

  Mara shook her head. “I have Joey to think of, too.”

  “He’s probably having the time of his life with Ted and Marie,” he said. He knew the comment fell flat because he couldn’t help the jealousy and guilt creeping into his tone. Ted Suarez was Joey’s grandfather, but so was he. Sure, he was risking his life every day trying to stop madmen from destroying the world that Joey lived in, but Ted was actually there for the kid. Teaching him how to ride horses. Developing his work ethic by doing chores on their Wyoming ranch. Hunting rabbits in the afternoon. Fly-fishing on the river meandering through their property. Joey was having the best childhood possible. But it didn’t change the fact Scott hadn’t seen him in over two months.

  “The whole reason to sacrifice the time with Joey was the imminent threat Omega represented,” Mara said. “I’m just not sure that’s the case anymore.”