The Zoo Job

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  They were, Eliot noticed, armed with MP5s, but so far they were keeping them strapped to their shoulders, safeties on. Eliot wondered how long that would last.

  Two more men ran out from around the corner, straight toward Eliot. One of them was the leader of the gang from the Escalade—Neto, according to Tereza. Neither of them was armed, and Neto cried out, “¡Ao vivo! ¡Ao vivo!”

  For whatever reason, Mbenga wanted Eliot alive. He didn’t stop running and went straight for Neto and his compatriot, spear-handing each man in the throat without breaking stride. Both men stumbled backward, their hands moving automatically to their necks. Eliot then elbowed one in the solar plexus while punching Neto in his. They both doubled over, and he kneed one in the head, then tossed him at Neto.

  They were both down for the count long enough for Eliot to start running again, but now the other three were almost on him.

  One was ahead of the other two, and he swung the barrel of his MP5 right at Eliot’s head. Eliot blocked it with his left forearm, metal hitting bone with a jarring impact, which he ignored with the ease of long practice, though when he got back to the hotel, he was definitely going to need to ice the arm.

  Twisting his wrist, he grabbed the barrel and yanked it out of the soldier’s hand. The man’s surprise at that gave Eliot enough time to palm-heel him in the temple, which sent him crumpling to the ground, insensate.

  Unfortunately, that left Eliot open to the other two, who each punched him in the side. The one on the left, he was able to block with the MP5. But the one on the right hit a rib, due to Eliot’s open stance. His arm was still up from the palm-heel strike, and he couldn’t drop his elbow fast enough to block the punch.

  The one on the left cried out in pain from punching a rifle, so Eliot ignored him long enough to hit the nose of the one on the right with a hammer fist. The soldier was completely unfazed by that, which was unusual, and he let loose with another punch at Eliot’s stomach.

  Eliot shifted the MP5 to block that one, then swung the rifle in an angled arc over his head so that the barrel slammed into both men’s jaws along the way, sending them to the ground.

  “Don’t move,” said a heavily accented but young-sounding voice behind him. He then felt the barrel of an MP5 in his back.

  Eliot would have thought that General Polonia’s troops would be better trained than that.

  Counting to two and a half, he whirled around and grabbed the barrel of the weapon, pushing it aside to his left. The soldier looked shocked, and his finger squeezed the trigger. Eliot felt the vibration of the MP5 and the heat of the barrel as the bullets shot through it, but the rounds themselves went harmlessly off to his left, which was all that mattered.

  Then Eliot pushed the MP5 barrel downward and toward the soldier, which twisted the man’s trigger hand in such a way that Eliot could slide the weapon out of his grasp.

  In response, the soldier head-butted Eliot—but he did it with his forehead against Eliot’s crown, so the soldier himself was the one who stumbled backward, stunned, while Eliot just felt a mild ache.

  “Three lessons,” Eliot said as he removed the magazines from both MP5s, tossed them aside, and started walking toward the soldier. “One: When you headbutt someone, you hit with the crown onto the forehead, not the other way around. Two: Never put a gun right on someone’s body like that. MP5’s got an effective firing range of about three hundred feet, so you don’t need the barrel to be right on your target where he can grab it and mess up your shot. And three?”

  He sucker punched the kid, who went down in a heap.

  “Don’t get so distracted by your target talking to you that he gets too close.”

  Yet another cry of “¡Aí está ele!” signaled more soldiers. Last night, Eliot had determined that there were nine soldiers assigned to Mbenga’s mansion. Hardison had confirmed this number, adding that there was also a chief of security, Ahmad Sierra; the nine Eliot had counted were part of a rotating group of soldiers assigned by Polonia to guard the mansion.

  Based on what Eliot had seen so far, this was the crap duty Polonia gave to the new recruits and the screwups.

  With these five down, there were still five to go, assuming that Sierra was also going to go after him. He needed to get out of there.

  Unfortunately, they were cutting him off from the exits. Two soldiers were coming around from the back of the mansion, one was coming from the front, and the other two from the driveway. If he tried to go through the hedges and jump the wall, he’d be a sitting duck, especially since the two closest to him were armed with MP5s. Mbenga’s desire to keep him alive wouldn’t necessarily carry weight now that Eliot had taken down five of their comrades.

  So he took the one route that wasn’t cut off: the mansion itself. Mainly because there was no way anyone would be crazy enough to go there.

  Which was, in this case, the best reason to do it.

  He ran quickly toward the kitchen service entrance. There were windows that were much closer, but they were closed, locked, and made of ballistic glass, so there was no way he’d be getting through them.

  But, as he recalled from his previous trips, the service entrance to the kitchen was always open during the day to facilitate food deliveries.

  Throwing the door open, Eliot ran into the foyer and quickly recalled the layout of the house. He could either run toward the kitchen, which would be filled with the cooking staff, who might get hurt, or toward the dining room, which should be empty at this hour.

  He chose the dining room, even as he heard the footfalls of the two soldiers who were closest behind him.

  The room was long and narrow, with a huge table in the middle that seated ten. A white lace tablecloth covered it, with each place set with what appeared at first glance to be good china (and Eliot would expect no less from Mbenga’s dining room, since opulence was very much his thing). Hanging over the table was a crystal chandelier, with a large, mirrored sideboard on the far wall and a window looking out on the front yard taking up the entirety of the rest of the near wall.

  When Eliot was halfway through the room, running between the table and the window, the two soldiers came in. Reaching between two chairs, he grabbed the tablecloth and yanked it out, sending plates, glasses, napkins, and silverware flying with a massive clatter. That got both soldiers to skid to a halt, so Eliot grabbed a chair and swung it across the floor, sweeping out one soldier’s legs, causing him to fall backward.

  Even as the crashing china echoed throughout the room, the sound was overtaken by the rat-tat-tat of MP5 fire—the soldier’s finger spasmed on the trigger finger. That meant the safeties were off, to Eliot’s lack of surprise.

  He then stood upright and threw the chair at the other soldier, which he knocked aside. Eliot followed up with a left jab to his face. The soldier took the punch and then hit with two jabs of his own, which sent Eliot back a bit.

  But then the soldier took a second to raise his MP5, an eternity that allowed Eliot to grab an overturned ceramic serving bowl that had tumbled near him. Just as the soldier was about to fire, Eliot flung the bowl, Frisbee-like, at the man’s face.

  Blood spurted from the man’s nose as he fell backward, crashing to the floor in a mess of arms and legs. Eliot put the finishing touch on him by swinging a ladle at his head.

  The fight had taken all of five seconds, but that was all the time the other three needed to arrive.

  These three, though, weren’t armed.

  To Eliot’s bitter amusement, one of the soldiers had a shock of curly blond hair—which stood out more than a little in this region of the world; Eliot figured he was a mercenary from Europe—another had a thick mustache, and a third had a long nose and dark hair. He found himself thinking of them as, respectively, Harpo, Groucho, and Chico.

  Harpo was the first one in the room, and Eliot was still holding the la
dle, so he swung it like a tennis racket, backhand, slamming Harpo in the jaw, dropping him to the floor.

  Groucho then lunged for Eliot, who stepped back with his right leg to avoid being grabbed, hit the man in the jaw with his left elbow, then poked him in the throat with the ladle, finishing him off with a knee kick to his groin.

  That put Groucho out of it for a bit, as he was now in the fetal position on the floor next to Harpo. Chico, however, was able to land a punch to Eliot’s solar plexus.

  Doubled over, trying to catch his breath like the proverbial monkey in the water, Eliot felt Chico kick him hard in the ribs. He fell to the floor, and Chico moved to stomp on his head. However, Eliot managed to throw his left leg up with a side thrust kick that Chico easily deflected, but that kept him from completing his stomp. While Chico steadied himself by planting both feet on the floor, Eliot thrust both his legs between Chico’s feet, then spread them outward like a pair of scissors. His left thigh and right shin collided with Chico’s Achilles’ heels, and he fell backward to the floor.

  Eliot then crab-walked forward while lifting his left leg, dropping his heel down onto Chico’s face.

  He’d never liked the Marx Brothers anyhow.

  Clambering to his feet, Eliot hobbled toward the door to the dining room, leaving a pile of moaning soldiers on the floor. It would be less than a minute before at least one of them would get up and go after him, so he had to move.

  The far door took him out into a foyer, which had a staircase leading to the second floor and a door to another staircase under it. Then Eliot remembered where that second staircase led.

  He took the stairs three at a time, bounding down them and trying not to think about the pain that shot through his chest with each jump.

  Mbenga’s mansion was built on a small hill, so while the massive parking garage was beneath the ground at the front of the house, it was at ground level in the back.

  When he got downstairs, he found himself confronted with a row of thirteen identical black Escalades. Idly, he wondered if Polonia got a bulk discount. On the end was a red Ferrari. Eliot considered then rejected the sports car—Mbenga’s personal car would stand out like a sore thumb, whereas nobody would look twice at yet another government SUV. In fact, they’d most likely look away from one.

  As he tried to remember how to hot-wire one of these things, he noticed that the one on the far end, closest to the garage door, was a bit banged up—including several indentations roughly the same size as Eliot’s foot in the driver’s-side front door.

  Tereza had said that they had towed the Escalade Eliot had sabotaged.

  With a smile, Eliot went to that one, peering in to see that, yes, they had left the keys in the ignition. Why not? After all, the vehicle couldn’t start.

  First Eliot got under the Escalade, looking for the GPS tracker. Once he found it, he took his smartphone out of his pocket and used one of Hardison’s programs to search for the GPS’s frequency, and then block it.

  Once the phone told him that was done, he opened the dented door and released the hood, then pulled the brown fuse out of his shirt pocket. People with new cars never thought about the fuses. Raising the hood, he reached once again for the box on the driver’s side, popped the lid, and replaced the fuse.

  Then he got into the Escalade. Sure enough, there was a garage door controller in it. He pushed the button and the door obligingly slid upward. Turning the key, he started up the engine and headed out of the garage and down the driveway.

  He heard several angry cries in both Portuguese and English, and a few rounds shot from an MP5—one of which took out the back window, causing Eliot to flinch briefly.

  But in seconds, he was out on the open road. By the time what was left of Mbenga’s security got to the garage and gave chase, he’d be long gone—and untrackable thanks to his jamming the GPS. He considered and rejected the thought of thanking Hardison for the program on his phone. After all, he could just as easily have yanked the GPS out.

  “Sophie,” he said for the benefit of his earbud, “I shot up the flare. Mbenga should be coming to you within the hour.”

  NOW

  “My name’s Annie Kroy. And I believe we’ve some business to discuss, you and I.”

  Sophie stood in front of the Maimona Clinic, her hand out, waiting for Minister Mbenga to accept the handshake.

  Instead, he simply stared at her. “I’m sorry, Ms. Kroy, but I have no idea who you are.”

  “I’m Mr. Spencer’s employer, is what I am. He was doin’ a recce on my orders.”

  Amalia stepped forward. “What is going—”

  Mbenga interrupted her. “Why did you give him such orders? And are you aware of who he is?”

  “He’s a former lackey of Damien Moreau’s. But you already know that, don’t you?” Sophie finally dropped her hand and started pacing around Mbenga. His two goons tensed, but didn’t take any action. “That’s why I hired him. You see, what I need is a source of weapons to sell to some business associates in Belfast.”

  “You’re English,” Mbenga said.

  Amalia muttered, “This morning, she was South African.”

  “What I am is a businesswoman,” Sophie said quickly. “I could give a toss who I work with, long as their money’s all right, all right? I had a deal with Tony Kadjic, but Interpol and the FBI captured him, so things’ve gone all tits up. I’ve got people in Belfast who need RPGs, and I heard you were someone I could buy from. I wanted to make you an offer. And I know you’ve got a supplier of RPGs ’cause Spencer snatched him one off you.”

  Mbenga’s mouth widened into a gap-toothed smile. “I have yet to hear an offer, Ms. Kroy. All I have so far is someone injuring my security and stealing one of my vehicles and my property.”

  Sophie smiled. “Yeah, about that. See, Mr. Spencer knew you’d got Moreau’s ways in. What neither of us knew were how good you were without havin’ Moreau around, so I asked him to suss out your operation. As for an offer, how does a hundred thousand quid per grab you?”

  Nodding, Mbenga said, “I believe we can discuss terms—”

  “Somewhere else.” The reverend stepped forward, and Sophie could hear the anger in his voice. “I do not think this conversation to be appropriate for the front of my clinic.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Mbenga said. “Ms. Kroy, if you wish to continue this negotiation, come to my mansion—along with Mr. Spencer, my Escalade, and my RPG—at seven P.M. tonight.”

  “Cheers, then. We’ll see you at seven.”

  Mbenga nodded, and he and his goons got into the two Escalades and drove away.

  “Eliot,” Sophie whispered, “we’re in.”

  FIFTEEN

  One day soon, Nate hoped to enter his apartment and not find Alec Hardison already there.

  Hardison had a place of his own. At least, Nate was fairly certain he did. He had to be showering and changing clothes somewhere, after all. And Nate had managed to achieve privacy on a few occasions. Some of those occasions even involved Sophie.

  It was odd. He made an effort to keep track of the movements of several people he barely knew—Dean Chesny, dying in a private hospital bed; Jack Latimer, currently at one of his Chicago offices—but he had no idea where Hardison was when he wasn’t with Nate. Same for the others—except Sophie. In fact, he hadn’t even known where Parker lived until recently, and he wasn’t entirely sure that she still lived in that warehouse.

  He made a promise to himself to talk to Sophie about it when she got back from Malani, a promise he knew full well he would under no circumstances keep.

  As Nate entered the duplex apartment, a glass half filled with Irish whiskey from downstairs in hand, he wondered if he could just ignore Hardison and go right up the spiral staircase to take a nap.

  Then Hardison said, “Nate, I finally got through th
e encryption on McAllister’s computer.”

  That brought Nate up short. “I thought you said that’d take at least a couple of days.”

  “Yeah, I thought it would, but—” He reached for something on the table, but couldn’t find it. “Where the hell are my remotes?”

  Then Nate saw the last thing he expected to see: a small monkey head sticking up from behind the couch.

  Speaking very calmly, he said, “Hardison. Why is there a monkey in my apartment?”

  “Parker!” Hardison cried out, looking toward the spiral staircase.

  “Sorry!” Nate heard Parker’s voice from upstairs. She came dashing down. “I thought Alec was up there with me.”

  The monkey—which was clutching one of Hardison’s remotes—ran toward Parker and leaped up onto her shoulders, wrapping itself around her neck like a mink stole.

  “Parker, I—” Nate hesitated, raising his hands and shaking his head briefly. “I don’t know where to start. First of all, you were upstairs. Second of all, you brought a monkey into my home. Thirdly, you brought a monkey into my home and took him upstairs with you.”

  “What’s the big deal about going upstairs?” Parker asked with her usual ability to utterly miss the point. “I mean, I’ve been up there. I’ve even pretended to be dead up there.”

  “Parker, that’s not the point.”

  Hardison held out a hand. “May I please have my remote back?”

  Looking at the monkey, Parker said, “Alec, give him the remote.”

  Wincing, Hardison added, “And can we please name him something—anything else?”

  The monkey—Alec—held out the remote, which Hardison snatched.

  With a sigh, Nate tried again. “Parker, why did you bring a monkey here, into my home?”

  “It’s also our office,” Parker said defensively.

  “No,” Nate said slowly. He pointed to his feet. “This is our office.” He pointed at the staircase. “That is my home. I’m much more particular about who I let up there, and you can rest assured that that monkey is not on the list.”