Imminent Threat

by Jeff Gunhus

  Unfortunately, those who could afford to buy such an aircraft could also afford the best counterintelligence measures on the open market as well. There was no shortage of professionals available for contract work to make sure the Agency—or any other intelligence service, for that matter—didn’t slide in during the construction process to plant a device or two.

  Even so, they’d been successful on some of the planes destined for Middle Eastern destinations. Dormant listening devices buried into component parts manufactured further down the supply chain were nearly impossible to detect until they were activated. And if it was done in short bursts, then they would only be discovered if there was a scan happening at the precise moments they were turned on.

  Yet somehow, Ryker had avoided any technology getting onto his plane. The fact that it was Ryker Labs that served as the contractor to develop the eavesdropping devices likely had something to do with it.

  That and Ryker had experimental tech that far exceeded what he shared with the rest of the world. He likely had counterintelligence measures that would make the hardware guys at Langley salivate.

  But she had a few tricks up her own sleeve. She opened her bag and removed the Skittle, a microdot listening device that was only as big as the candy it was named after. It was record-only, no transmission. That meant it needed to be retrieved at some later time, but it also made it nearly impossible to find. She intended to find a way to install it on Ryker’s plane.

  Until her driver delivered the bad news.

  “Ryker is waiting in the Vendome Lounge,” her driver said.

  “Hawthorn said he agreed to do the interview on the plane,” she said.

  “Changed his mind, I guess.”

  They stopped in front of an airplane hangar. A short red carpet led to a double set of glass doors manned by two men in suits. A metallic sign that said ADVANCED AIR SUPPORT was posted next to the door.

  Mara had been here before. Hangar H5 had been completely transformed on the interior as a super-luxe waiting area. There were four different VIP lounges, showers, nap rooms, and even a private prayer room. The fact that the prayer room was equipped with a washbasin, rug, and an ornate compass so the faithful could align themselves with Mecca gave an indication of the normal clientele.

  “Want company?” her driver asked.

  “No, I’m good. Shouldn’t be long. Can you confirm my plane is ready to roll?”

  “Already done, ma’am. Your pilot says engines are warm and he’s ready when you are.”

  Mara appreciated the man’s efficiency. Her people skills had been lacking on the ride over, her frustration at the events of the day overriding her first principle:

  Try not to be a jackass to people.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

  The driver looked up in the rearview, a little surprised. He gave her a short nod in acknowledgement. “Ryker. He’s like a real live Tony Stark. My nine-year-old son wants to grow up and be him when he gets older.” He paused for a second. “I hope he’s not an asshole.”

  “Me too,” she said. She took a deep breath and opened the door. She slipped the Skittle into her pocket, doubtful it would be of any use now. But she was never one to close off an option.

  One of the suits opened the door for her. As he did, he spoke into a wrist mic announcing her arrival. Another man met her inside and walked her past the other VIP lounges. They reached the end of the hallway and the man knocked on the door.

  “Come,” came a voice from the inside.

  The man opened the door but then stepped aside to allow her to pass him. Once she stepped in, he closed the door behind her.

  The room was decorated in a modern fashion, with a collection of white leather furniture arranged into a U shape around a brushed metal and glass table. There were two floor lamps made of stacked shiny metallic balls capped with square white shades. On the wall was a black and white photo of a woman posing in front of a creatively lit aircraft.

  On the couch sat Marcus Ryker, unmistakable from the thousands of photos Mara had seen of the man. He wore different clothes from when she’d seen him about to enter La Tour d’Argent only hours earlier. A fresh shirt, some kind of luxurious fabric with a slight sheen to it that highlighted his athletic physique. He was handsome, with a square jaw covered in a fashionable level of scruff, hair worn wild in a I-don’t-give-a-shit kind of way. There was a reason he was often on inane lists ranking the sexiest men alive. It was his eyes that gave Mara pause. They were ice blue, nearly luminous under the interior lights. But she expected that.

  What she hadn’t expected was the chill she’d feel from them. She knew the look in those eyes.

  They were the eyes of a killer.

  This was going to be more interesting than she imagined.

  CHAPTER 30

  Shit.

  Marcus Ryker didn’t do surprises. He spent sizeable amounts of money to ensure he never had to have the uncomfortable sensation of playing catch-up. Ever.

  This was the second surprise in one day. And that made him unhappy.

  The phone call outside La Tour d’Argent had tipped him off to get the hell out of there. The man on the phone had even directed his eyes to the operative watching him from the café across the street. From that distance, he hadn’t been able to identify who it was.

  But he knew the woman standing in front of him all too well.

  Mara Roberts.

  It took every bit of his self-control to keep the emotion from flickering across his face.

  “Hello,” he said standing. “I’m Marcus Ryker. Nice to meet you.”

  “Mara Roberts.”

  He waited as if she might include which agency she represented. He was interested in reading her when she lied to him for the first time. But she offered nothing. The choice said even more.

  “Please.” He motioned toward the leather chair next to the sofa. “Can I get you something? Water, coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” she said, taking the offered seat. “This shouldn’t take long.”

  “I’m always more than happy to be interviewed by sophisticated women,” he said, playing the part of his public persona. He would have said beautiful or attractive, but he knew this would have offended her. Maybe he’d save that for later.

  “I saw your plane is ready,” she said. “Where are you heading?”

  He appreciated her smooth, conversational delivery. He decided a more direct approach was better.

  “You’re here about my meeting with Oleg Manisky at Tour d’Argent earlier today,” he said.

  If she was surprised by his frankness, it didn’t show. “Yes. Only there isn’t a Tour d’Argent anymore.”

  “I saw on the news. Terrible incident. Unbelievable really. Any suspects?”

  Mara pursed her lips and let a few beats of silence fill the air. Her eyes didn’t leave his. He felt his skin prickle. It was the same cold look her mother had been able to deliver.

  “I can’t comment on ongoing investigations,” she finally said.

  Ryker gave her a thin smile. “And what investigative arm do you belong to, Ms. Roberts?”

  “The one that hates bad guys,” she said.

  “And you think I’m one of those bad guys?” he said.

  “Right before you walked into Tour d’Argent, you received a call that warned you of the attack. Who was it?”

  Ryker crossed his legs and leaned back. He wasn’t accustomed to people being rude to him. His was a life surrounded by those who catered to his every whim and impulse. Some did so because they were paid extravagant sums of money. Others because they believed in his vision for the Omega. The end of times.

  But none of them spoke to him with anything less than complete deference.

  He didn’t allow it.

  “As I’m certain you know, I also work for the U.S. government from time to time,” he said. “In my role as global business innovator, I have the occasion to meet with a variety of people your intelligence ser
vices are eager to learn more about—governments, sovereign equity funds, industrialists, and yes, Russian oligarchs. Some of these men”—he stopped and cast her an amused look—“and women, although they are mostly men, are unsavory.”

  “Like the newly departed Oleg Manisky,” Mara said.

  “Exactly,” he said. “My business with Mr. Manisky was to get his assistance with TASS.”

  Mara didn’t rise to the bait. Of course, she would know that TASS was the Russian Space Agency, but she saw zero need to say so to prove it. Ryker found the self-confidence appealing.

  “My own foray into space exploration has hit a few bumps in the road.” Bumps being massive explosions of his supposedly reusable launch vehicles. “While the scientific community likes to posture that they are above competition and intent on cooperation in order to advance humanity, you’ll never meet a more suspicious and insular group.”

  “So, Manisky was going to help you build rocket ships?” Mara said. “Was he planning on using the sex workers he human traffics in to build the parts? Or maybe lend you his paramilitary force he maintains in Ukraine . . . just in case you needed it?”

  Ryker spread his hands wide. “If I only met with angels, I’d meet with no one at all.”

  “That still doesn’t answer the central question.”

  “And what’s that, Ms. Roberts? You’ve dragged things on a little here.” He unfolded his legs and leaned in toward her. He allowed his voice to show just the edge of the building rage he felt for being detained by this pettiness. “What is the central question, according to you?”

  She didn’t react at all to his tone. Her voice inflection didn’t change. “Who was on the phone? Who warned you an attack was coming?”

  Ryker sat back. This woman was not about to be intimidated. “That’s a good question,” he finally said. “Would it surprise you if I said I didn’t know?”

  That question got a smile from his questioner. But it was thin. Not a sign she was amused. “How about, it wouldn’t surprise me that you would say you didn’t know who it was.”

  Ryker let out a barking laugh and pointed at her. “I see why they sent you. You’re good. You don’t fluster easily and you’re on point. Ever thought of leaving government work and joining the private sector? Ryker Industries is always looking for talent.”

  “Maybe I can get your card,” she deadpanned. “Who was on the phone?”

  Ryker stood, smoothing out his suit jacket. Mara remained seated, which infuriated him.

  “I received the call on my private cell phone. Only a few people know that number. Your boss is one of them.”

  “You don’t know who my boss is.”

  “I mean your ultimate boss. The one who sits in the Oval Office,” he said. “But there was no sign who this call came from.”

  “But you still picked it up?” she asked.

  “Like I said, the few people that have this phone number are the kind of people who get their call answered.”

  “What exactly did the voice say?”

  Ryker smiled. He appreciated her directness. “It was a modulated voice, put through some kind of device, so I can’t even tell you if it was a man or woman. This person simply said, ‘If you go in the building, you will die along with the Russians.’” Ryker shrugged. “Seemed like a good time to leave.”

  “Was that all this person said? Video shows you looking around the area, as if you were searching for something very specific.”

  There was more, but Ryker didn’t feel like sharing it. Not that it was anything damning, but he’d had just about enough of being interrogated. “I’m afraid that’s it,” he said. “And, I might add, exactly what I already told the French authorities who asked me to wait for you.”

  “The ones who detained you?” she asked.

  Ryker didn’t like the sound of that. He knew that was exactly why she’d chosen the words. Just to get a rise out of him. Even a small one. “They were very polite,” he said.

  “Money has that effect on some people,” she said.

  “But not on you,” he said. Ryker crossed the room to the small bar and selected a bottle of Glenfiddich. He held it up to offer some to her, but she just stared back at him. He poured two fingers into a glass and swirled it, smelling its fragrant notes.

  “I read somewhere that you were a teetotaler,” she said. “Is that just part of the cover story?”

  “I don’t drink,” he said. “I’d love to, but when I was younger, it was a problem. So I stopped. But I do love the smell of it.”

  “Doesn’t having it in your hand prove too tempting?”

  “Only for someone lacking self-discipline,” he said.

  Mara stood. As she did, he admired her body. Athletic but feminine. Her face beautiful without all the makeup that the women in his life typically wore. He admitted that he found her all the more attractive after her display of self-control and toughness in the interview.

  It was too bad she was at the center of her government’s hunt for Omega.

  That meant at some point he would need to have her killed.

  A pity.

  “Funny choice of words, self-control,” she said. “Coming from someone who cultivates his brand on the idea of excess. Seems to be a direct contradiction.”

  “Nothing exceeds like excess,” Ryker said, reciting the tagline he used in many of his interviews. “Just marketing. In fact, if you look closely at my work, you’ll see it stands in defiance of the reckless excesses of the human race. My labs search for sustainable fuels, methods to eradicate the microplastics now pervasive in the world’s food supply, ways to engineer our way out of the inevitable freshwater crisis which will be the greatest calamity in human history if we don’t prepare.”

  “All Ryker Industries profit centers,” Mara said. “You’re quite the humanitarian.”

  “And you are quite the cynic, Ms. Roberts,” he said. “I find that to be an unattractive quality in a woman.”

  “Then I expect we won’t be dating. Thank you for your time, Mr. Ryker,” she said. “And I think I will take you up on your offer.”

  He was confused. “The drink?” he asked. “Or the opportunity to come work for Ryker Industries?”

  “Neither,” she said. “But be assured I’ll be taking a closer look at all your work. Have a good flight.”

  She turned and walked out. After she left, he had the unsettling sense that she’d gotten more out of the interview than he’d meant to divulge. Nothing terrible, but enough to raise her suspicion of him.

  Damn Stefan Nochek. Before today, Ryker had left no wake from his Omega actions. Slowly and carefully rebuilding after the disaster in DC. And now it appeared he was on the radar of the person he least wanted tracking him down.

  Strangely enough, he found it exhilarating.

  CHAPTER 31

  The shotgun blast was deafening in the enclosed space of the skete.

  Scott jumped to his right, toward the nearest wall. But as he did, he braced himself for the searing pain of shot tearing through him.

  How could he have been so careless? At the minimum he ought to have positioned his Greek escort at the door. Or locked it.

  Instead, he was about to die at the hands of an amateur.

  A split second later he was able to register that the first blast hadn’t hit him.

  Instinct took over.

  He rushed forward, staying low.

  As he hoped, the monk’s first shot had pushed him backward and sent the barrel of the gun up toward the ceiling.

  The barrel was just starting to come back down as Scott’s shoulder slammed into the monk’s chest.

  They flew backward together but the monk was not the amateur Scott had thought him to be. The man struck downward with the butt of the shotgun, making contact with the base of Scott’s neck. Pain blasted down his back, but it didn’t buckle his legs. Luckily it wasn’t a clean hit, or it might have put him out of commission.

  It was time to stop underestimating his
opponent.

  Scott twisted his body, pushing his right arm under the man’s elbow. Using his weight, he leveraged the joint with merciless force, dislocating it. The monk yowled in pain, dropping the shotgun. Scott snatched it out of the air, turned it in one smooth motion, and jabbed the butt into the man’s throat.

  The monk sagged to the floor, both hands on his throat, gagging.

  Scott opened the breach and pumped the remaining shells out of the gun. Then he tossed it to the side.

  “Do you have any more weapons?” he yelled. His ears were still ringing from the first shot. He could barely hear his own voice.

  The monk shook his head no, but Scott wasn’t going to take his word for it. He roughly conducted a quick search of the man’s body. Finding nothing, he shoved him toward the back of the hut. “Stay,” he said, using the same voice he’d use for a disobedient dog.

  When he turned, he was shocked at the sight.

  Blood was everywhere.

  Splattered over the bed. Soaked through the bedsheets.

  Scott had fully expected it to be Thales’s dead body he would find, but that wasn’t the case.

  Instead, the monk had shot Father Spiros in the chest.

  Thales was holding the old man’s hand and leaning over him.

  Scott ran to the other side of the bed. Unbelievably, Father Spiros was still alive. Blood flecked his pale face. His mouth was drawn back in an agonizing grimace. His eyes stared up at the ceiling, blinking hard.

  “What is Scarvan going to do?” Scott said, willing the old man to speak. “Does he have a nuclear weapon? Something biological? What is it?”

  Father Spiros’s head lolled to one side until he was looking at Scott. His lips pulled back further, the grimace taking on the look of a sneer.

  “He will cut the heads from every snake,” he said. “In the chaos that follows, the Lord shall come. I know this to be true.”

  “What does that mean?” Scott asked. “Tell me.”