The American Agent (An American Agent Novel Book 1)

by Eric Dabbs

  "That's it?" Alex rose from the couch his mind clouded with what lay ahead. Pain stabbed his rib cage, and he clutched his side.

  "Are you hurt?"

  "It's nothing. Just a rib or two."

  "You should have that looked at. I'll contact our physician. Don't worry, she doesn't have a clue who you are."

  "Maybe later...right now," Alex winced, "I've got a job to do." He clipped the grenades to his belt, bent over and snatched up the M4, along with three additional magazines for reloading. He nodded a short thank you to Wes and eased past him through the front door.

  "Good luck, Mr. Preston."

  "I'll need more than luck," Alex replied from beyond the front porch of the Spanish villa. "But I've faced worse odds than this...much, much worse."

  33

  Alex imagined using the Porsche as a battering ram to get through Coraco's front gate. In his mind, he stormed the mansion with guns a blazing, a grenade blasting through the front door, ripping the security force to shreds, only to be mowed down by automatic fire after discovering Samantha wasn't even there.

  He shook himself after the enlightening vision and came to the conclusion that a full frontal assault might not be the best course of action.

  Alex grimaced at the thought of a multitude of bullets ending his existence on planet Earth. No, this rescue operation needed to be carried out with extreme caution. Using stealth, in the dark of night, he would infiltrate Coraco's mansion in order to get Samantha out alive. Or should the mansion be his first target? It was the most obvious choice, of course, but the enemy probably already thought of that. Maybe he should take a look inside the structure that lay to the west of the main house? It was secluded on the property, like the warehouse. He remembered spotting it from the helicopter before he jumped. This secondary location would be an ideal place to hold Samantha until Coraco determined what to do with her. This conclusion solidified his decision as he brought the Porsche to a stop on the shoulder of the road a quarter of a mile from Coraco's front gate.

  Out of the car, he cut a trail through the woods.

  With the M4 assault rifle nudging limbs and brush aside, Alex broke into a clearing, spotting a house with a porch across the front at the top of the hillside. He guessed the house provided lodging for the security guards. He leaned against the side of the dwelling and picked off the stickers he'd collected while trudging through a briar patch.

  He peeked around the corner. From the looks of it, the majority of Coraco's guards had been dispatched to locations surrounding the main estate and the warehouse facility. Only one man sat in a wooden chair on the porch, rocking, humming.

  Alex tossed a rock over the porch rail. It bounced twice and tumbled to a stop near the man's boot. The guard went quiet, edged up in the chair.

  Alex backed behind the corner and waited.

  Hard heeled boots scuffed across the wood planks. "Quién está ahí?" Who's there?

  The barrel of a pistol extended over the hand rail. From a cloak of darkness, Alex reached up and snatched the gun from the guard; the hard yank pulled the man forward, his figure tumbling over the railing and crashing headfirst into the ground. Alex grimaced. That had to hurt...for about a second. He tossed the firearm away, knelt and found a pulse. For a moment, he thought the guy might have broken his neck.

  Alex dragged the guard to a shadowy spot around the side of the house and then hustled up the porch steps. Peering through one of the windows, he saw a living room with a fireplace. Inside, the place was dark, but a light at the end of the hall revealed some of the interior features.

  With his path seemingly clear, he turned the door knob and entered the guesthouse with the assault rifle leading the way.

  34

  As Alex crossed the living room, a man spoke, his voice coming from the back of the house, probably from a bedroom. Quickly, he entered a hall closet and shut the door. Footsteps creaked down the hallway, passing his hiding place.

  He waited in silence.

  A minute or two crept by.

  A glass slammed on a kitchen counter. At least that’s what it sounded like.

  Then, whoever was in the kitchen wobbled back down the hallway, bumping into the walls as they went. Maybe the person had been drinking? Alex cracked the door open and glimpsed a man as he entered a rear bedroom. From behind, the guy looked like Carlos Diego, the chief of security.

  The hallway didn’t stay quiet for long, so Alex closed the door again...

  Another person waltzed down the hallway, heels clacking on the floor. As she strutted by, Alex opened the door and peeked his head around to see the retreating figure of Carmen Sanchez leaving the house. As soon as she was gone, he decided to investigate the bedroom where he'd seen the chief of security go. He entered the master suite, checked the bathroom, and then noticed a huge walk-in closet, hearing faint voices coming from inside.

  He pushed through a curtain of dress shirts and slacks, knocking a hanger off of the clothes rack. It bounced off the hardwood floor.

  He crouched, hesitating.

  When nothing happened, he began feeling the outer edges of the back wall with his hands. The sheetrock gave a little under his fingertips, pushing inward.

  Nudging open a hidden recessed door in the back of the closet, he saw Samantha hanging from the ceiling, her hands tied above her head. She had cuts and bruises on her face. She seemed to be alone. As he stepped toward her, a fire burned in the pit of his stomach, her eyes growing large at the sight of him.

  Samantha mouthed something a notch above a whisper. It sounded like, he's behind...

  "He's behind what—" A barrel jabbed into the back of Alex's head.

  "The door," she finished.

  "So we finally meet," a man said.

  "Let me guess, Carlos Diego, is it?"

  "That's right, Mr. Preston. Nice of you to drop by. Saves me the trouble of hunting you down."

  Alex bit his bottom lip, hard enough to taste something metallic in his mouth. Blood he guessed.

  "Very carefully," Diego circled around, his gun transitioning to Alex's temple, “lower the rifle to the floor, and kick it away from you."

  Alex obeyed, booting the M4 assault rifle to the opposite side of the room. "You didn't say which direction to kick it."

  "Enough of the small talk. I've been a little grumpy lately, haven't I?" Diego glanced back as he moved around to face Alex, his back to Samantha.

  "Just a wee bit," Samantha said.

  Alex didn’t expect it, but she snarled as she thrust her body toward the ceiling, whipping her right leg up and around. The smugness on Diego's face faded to a look of disbelief as he watched the top of her shoe crash into his chin. With what had to be the last ounces of strength left in her body, she swung backward like a gymnast and propelled her limber frame forward and up again while simultaneously skipping her bound wrists over the end of the bar. She landed on her feet, but stumbled backward on her heels before catching her balance.

  With the gun arcing away, Alex lowered a shoulder and rammed into Diego's mid-section, one hand latching onto the barrel of the weapon, shoving it from his body. Forced backwards, the chief of security careened into Samantha, driving her to the concrete floor.

  Her bound wrists looped over Diego's head and cinched like a noose around his neck.

  Alex slammed the hand with the gun against the floor, over and over, as Samantha's taut and sweaty forearms squeezed like a vise clamp around Diego's throat.

  The gun skittered away, bouncing on the concrete.

  Samantha kept choking Diego. The harder she strained, evident in her flushed cheeks and bulging eyes, the rage fed the adrenaline running through her veins, and she continued to strangle him until his eyes started to roll back in his head.

  "Sam," Alex yelled.

  She kept choking him.

  "Sam!"

  "What?" She froze, arms still locked in a hangman's noose.

  "I think you got him."

  Samantha's face twisted,
her gaze combing over her handiwork. In recognition of what she'd done, she cried out, squirming out from underneath Diego's limp form. She lurched away, her voice whimpering in her throat, her arms and legs sprawling out on the floor.

  Diego's chest rose and fell with ragged breaths now that his airway was no longer constricted. He was lucky she hadn't crushed his windpipe.

  "He's alive, Sam. You didn't kill him, but your sleeper hold was lethal...almost."

  Alex cut the ropes from her wrists, and they wasted no time, making a hasty escape through the woods to the Porsche which was waiting by the side of the road.

  35

  In the secondary safe house, a lamp shined on a nightstand as Samantha recuperated on Wes's bed with a stack of pillows piled high behind her. The one-inch cut under her left eye closed up as Alex pinched both sides of the wound and applied a layer of dissolvable glue from a field combat kit. The clear liquid dried in seconds like super glue and according to his estimation, stitches wouldn't be necessary.

  Agent Reed and his counterpart, Wilson, were snoozing on a pair of twin beds in the adjacent bedroom. Samantha's jaw tensed as Alex wiped away a trail of dried blood on her cheek with a warm washcloth, treading lightly over bruises and the occasional tender spot. After a quick stop by the old safe house to gather Alex's suitcase and the rest of his things, they met Wes and followed him to the new location. He needed to return the Porsche to the weapons and equipment specialist anyway. He wouldn't be driving the car to London.

  Samantha flinched as he inspected the reddened rope burns and dark bruises around her wrists.

  "Tender?" he asked.

  "Very." Her lips straightened into a thin line.

  "It'll take some time to heal. You're lucky, though, the ropes only broke the skin in a few places, and the bleeding is already scabbing up." His brow pinched together, dreading what came next. "I still need to clean the wounds. Are you ready?"

  "No. But get it over with."

  Alex took a bottle of rubbing alcohol and poured some of it into a clean handkerchief. "Here we go, brace yourself."

  He wrapped the handkerchief around her right wrist, covering the entire circumference, soaking the affected areas with the cleansing agent.

  Samantha yelped.

  "Sorry."

  "It's okay. Just hurry up and do the other one."

  Quickly, Alex added more alcohol and then did the same thing to her left wrist.

  Another yelp of pain. Then it was over. With Samantha grimacing, he wrapped gauze around each wrist, applied tape to hold it in place, and then he was finished.

  As he closed the field kit, Wes stuck his head in the doorway. "I heard your cries from the living room."

  Samantha cast him a hard glare.

  "Just an observation." He raised a hand to stave off a harsh reply. "Meant nothing by it. I only wanted to let you know your flight is set for five in the morning. And you're going too, Samantha. Or should I call you, Monica?" He grinned like a possum.

  His expression soured under Samantha's heavy scowl. Earlier, she revealed to Alex that she had to use an alias to convince Diego to put them on the guest list for Coraco’s party.

  "That name is a sensitive subject,” she said. “I'd advise you not to call me that at the moment. Carlos Diego probably doesn't want to hear that name anymore, either."

  "Yes. I heard you nearly strangled him to death."

  Her chin tilted to one side. "So, I'm going to London...with Alex?"

  "Yes, I'm afraid so. Last minute addition. We believe you may be valuable going forward. You've proven yourself to be clever, dependable...and durable. As a matter of fact, you might want to start packing your bags."

  "I have no objections to her going," Alex said.

  "I didn't ask for permission, but that's good to know."

  "But I do have a problem with such an early flight. I was hoping for a few hours of shut eye." Alex checked his watch. "It's three now. A shower and a change of clothes, and an hour drive to the airport?"

  "You and Samantha can sleep on the plane is all I can tell you."

  Alex frowned. "We might need to use that time to go over what we're going to say to MI5."

  "You'll get no sympathy from me." Wes rolled his eyes. "Besides, there's not that much to rehearse. Just be ready when the wheels touchdown in London. Sleep or no sleep."

  Alex sighed. "I'm putting my money on no sleep."

  As Wes wandered back into the living room to sleep on the couch, Alex observed Samantha with a warm smile, taking into consideration everything she’d accomplished thus far in the deadly game of espionage. She was good at what she did. They had chosen her wisely, for her determination and ability. But deep down, he felt they were using her as their queen of hearts, and he wasn't sure he held a better hand.

  36

  LONDON, U.K.

  With Samantha's flat heeled shoes clickety-clacking ahead of him, Alex left terminal two at London's Heathrow Airport at around seven Sunday morning. After having their passports stamped at customs, they recovered their suitcases at baggage claim. Their ride should have been waiting for them, but must have been late due to the morning traffic. At least that's what Alex told Samantha while standing next to the curb near the front entrance.

  "Relax, they won't start without us, I can assure you." He adjusted his yellow pinstriped tie and tugged on the cuffs of his black Armani suit.

  "Everyone uses traffic as an excuse," Samantha replied, the dark shades of her Costa Del Mar sunglasses hiding her eyes, and some of the bruises she received at the hands of Carlos Diego. "Besides, it's Sunday."

  "This isn't the United States, Sam." Alex's gaze followed a long trail of vehicles in the pick-up line. One thing Wes hadn't told them was what kind of car to expect. "England is an island smaller than Georgia. It's cram packed. There's always traffic."

  "Smaller than Georgia? Are you sure about that?"

  "No, but you get my point."

  "A point that's not well grounded in fact, or at least research."

  Alex cut his eyes to Samantha, had a mind to offer a rebuttal, but the sight of her standing before him caused a tremor of concern to wash over him. She looked professional in a pair of gray slacks and a navy blue blouse, which fit her cover well, but that wasn't what bothered him. It wasn't the fact that she was here, period. Since Coraco’s party, he'd come to accept her involvement in this line of work, although, it was far from the dangers she'd faced as an elementary school teacher.

  "You don't look so good, Sam," he said.

  "Well," she eased the sunglasses off of her face, "what'd you expect? I've been slapped and punched around by a womanizing, male chauvinist pig."

  Alex tightened his lips and softened his gaze. The last thing he wanted to do was come across as an insensitive jerk. He felt an internal instinct that warned him to back off. He didn't think he'd crossed a line, but he didn't want to push it too far.

  The cut under her left eye had scabbed over and held a slight sheen from the dissolvable glue. Upon further inspection with her compact mirror aboard the plane, Samantha said that the cut wasn't that deep after all. A little make-up around the edges made it not all that noticeable. But her nose was a different story. Thankfully, it hadn't been broken, but it was sore and bruised. A black and blue streak stretched across the bridge of her nose. She did her best to hide it as well, but without much success.

  "I'm just saying that if you're not feeling up for today's meeting with MI5, you could go ahead and check into our hotel room and relax. I hear the Cheval Three Quays at The London Tower has superb room service."

  She huffed. "Superb. Really, Alex. Is Wes rubbing off on you?"

  "You've been through a lot in the last twenty-four hours. I'm just..." He bit the inside of his cheek, tilted his head down, eyes peering up at her with a mild grimace on his lips. "It's just...I don't...I don't like seeing you like this. I mean...I don't know what I mean."

  "I appreciate your concern, but I'm supposed to be in on this
meeting. It's part of the mission, besides there'll be plenty of time for rest when this is all over."

  "Suit yourself. I'm just trying to help." His body ached from sleep deprivation, especially a growing tension behind his eyes. He knew it was having an effect on Samantha as well. "Speaking of when this is over, maybe we could...you know..." Alex rubbed a hand over his chin, and on second thought, turned his head away.

  "Maybe we could what?"

  "Nothing. It was probably a bad idea anyway. Forget about it."

  "Forget about what?"

  "Nothing." His countenance hardened as he stared straight ahead.

  "Fine. Whatever."

  A car pulled to the curb and stopped.

  "Alex Banks and Samantha Peterson," a young man said from the driver's seat of a midnight blue BMW. His short cropped red hair contrasted against a pale complexion of fair skin.

  "That's something else,” Samantha said under her breath. “Why do you get an alias and I don't?"

  Alex raised the back of his wrist to his mouth and faked a cough. "Because your cover is already established as CIA.”

  "Seems sexist to me."

  "I didn't write the script for this, Wes did, blame him."

  "Excuse me," the man said, his right arm resting on the frame of the car door. "Banks and Peterson?"

  "That's us," Alex replied. Banks was his cover for the British since Alex Preston was a scientist with a love for all wildlife.

  "Name is Randall Grant. British Security Service, MI5. Here to pick you up."

  "You're late," Samantha said.

  "I got tied up at headquarters. Things have been bloody wild lately."

  "It's okay," Alex replied. "We haven't been waiting that long."

  Samantha opened the door to the backseat. "I told you it had nothing to do with traffic."

  "You were right, I regrettingly admit.”

  After Alex scooted in beside Samantha and closed the door, Grant gave the BMW some gas. Their next stop was MI5 Headquarters on Westminster Bridge Road. The British Security Service focused its resources on counter terrorism. MI6, the secret service, was located across the street. Of course, Alex knew MI6 was nothing like the movies. He doubted he'd have a run in with one of their international spies anytime soon.