by L. T. Ryan
“If you’ll excuse me,” Katrine said, rising and dropping her napkin on the table. “I’m going to leave you two old friends alone to hash a few things out.”
Awad slid off the bench seat and extended his hand. Katrine leaned close and kissed him. “Inform her of our plan.” She pressed her lips to his ear and said barely loud enough for Birgit to hear, “Then escort her out.”
CHAPTER 62
Bear cleared his mind for the seventh time in six minutes while staring up at the racing clouds. He had tried mastering the mindfulness thing, but it wasn’t working for him. There was always some problem lingering that his brain tried to find an answer for. When the static burst emanated from his earpiece, he nearly sat straight up, revealing himself.
“It’s time.” Katrine’s breathing filled the void. “She will be exiting the restaurant in a few minutes. Ready yourself.”
Bear rolled over on his knees and sank back on his heels. The breeze hit him in the face. He’d grown accustomed to the smell of the bakery. The sun glared down from his left. He set the short tripod on the knee-high wall and rested the barrel of the M40 on top. A few slight adjustments and the concrete landing in front of the restaurant’s entrance was perfectly aligned in his sights.
The deadline.
That imaginary line outside of a prison that guards used to determine whether a prisoner would be given another chance to get back inside or be shot dead.
Bear marked his own deadline a few feet in front of the doorway. God help anyone who passed it.
“I see you are in position. Be aware that you will be visible to anyone on the ground, not that they have a reason to look up. So take care to conceal yourself until the last possible moment.”
Bear was comfortable enough with his abilities that leaving the perch was OK. He closed his eyes and visualized the target exiting the restaurant. Lining up his shot. Squeezing the trigger. Breaking down the weapon. Descending the stairwell. Ditching the weapon.
Where was Frank? Given the man’s position now, he was likely a block away, monitoring the radio and keeping tabs on the chatter to see if anyone had picked up on the meeting. It wasn’t everyday two dead women met for brunch.
“Two minutes,” Katrine said. In the background he heard Sasha say something but couldn’t make it out.
The taste in his mouth soured. He knew he should have turned this damn job down. Sasha could have protected him while Jack faced the consequences on his own. Perhaps it was his stubbornness that led him to this mess. Loyalty was to blame as well. Why’d he have to be so damn proud that he couldn’t let her help him more?
The damn tumor in his brain was the only answer he could think of. Staring down his possible death — one that would have him rolling in his own feces like a babbling idiot — he needed to control what remained of his life because it sure as hell seemed like there was a good chance there wasn’t much left.
And that was why Bear decided right then that he would kill whoever they asked him to, then he’d make sure every last one of the sons of bitches paid for what they had done.
Or he’d die trying.
CHAPTER 63
The call from Thomas never came.
“It’s time,” the guard said.
On the counter were two Berettas, two extra magazines, one suppressor and a tactical knife. I put the magazines in my right pocket. Tucked one of the Berettas behind my back. I held the suppressor in one hand, the other sidearm in the other.
“Just thread it on?” I said, acting like I was having trouble with the device.
The guy rolled his eyes and nodded slowly as though he were dealing with a fresh recruit who had never handled a gun. He stuck out his hand. “Let me see it.”
“Sure thing.”
I squeezed the trigger and placed a single round between his eyes. His ass hitting the floor made more noise than the shot. As expected, his partner jumped off the couch and ran toward me while attempting to free his weapon from its holster. I squeezed the trigger twice, hitting him dead center. He went down hard on the glass coffee table. It shattered under his weight. Fragments scattered across the floor. I walked around the couch and placed one more round into the back of his head.
I took each man’s cell phone and emptied their wallets of cash and IDs. The latter I threw out the window into the alley. They were fake, so it really wouldn’t matter if the officials found them. There was enough cash to get on a train.
I only had three minutes to make it to the back of the restaurant, so I made the phone call on the way.
The man answered in his native Spanish. He was an old friend of mine from my days in the Marines, working with the CIA SOG. We spent plenty of time in Central America. Javier supplied us with shelter and supplies anytime we were in his country. He was a high-ranking official in Costa Rica, and had always been friendly to our cause. He had an affinity for me and Bear after we’d spent our leave one summer rescuing his daughter from a local drug lord.
“Javier,” I said. “It’s the Nobleman.” He’d always called me that. “Look, I need a favor.”
The call took no more than twenty seconds and I was off the phone by the time I left the apartment building. I dismantled the cell phone, tossed the sim card in the trashcan, the battery into the gutter, and the phone itself onto the top of a two-story building that housed a florist, butcher, and a massage parlor.
While the street smelled of the bakery, the alley behind the restaurant smelled like burned grease and trash. An interesting combination that always seemed to be present at the rear of every restaurant I’d had the pleasure of standing behind.
A young woman wearing a blue shirt and black apron with flowers on it and an older man wearing an apron covered in blood were smoking cigarettes. They took one look at me, smiled, then noticed the weapon in my hand.
“Don’t worry,” I said, holding my free hand up, waving at them. “It’s not for you.”
They dropped their cigarettes where they stood and fled into the back of the two-story building I had thrown the phone on top of a minute ago. I wondered why the masseuse hadn’t joined them for a break. Guess her clients didn’t like smoky hands on their asses.
The cigarette smoke wafted past me, tempting me on some level. It had been long enough that I really didn’t want to smoke anymore, but damn if it didn’t smell good at that moment.
I stopped at the back of the restaurant. The screen door hung open an inch. It sounded as though there were two radios playing, one with something akin to a man battering a steel trashcan with a club while screaming his head off, and the other baroque piano. Combined, it was an interesting combination that got my blood flowing even more that it already was.
I hadn’t felt this way in some time. The thrill of the hunt had returned and electrified me. My heart pounded against my chest, and I liked it. I felt alive. I was not running now. I had no fear of what would happen to me or my brother, father, sister-in-law, nieces, and even little Mia.
Every single one of these assholes was about to die.
I would leave no one in my wake.
CHAPTER 64
“We want your help,” Awad said. “Both of you, actually.”
Thomas shifted in his seat and bumped into Birgit, causing her to spill some water in her lap. The mercenary placed his hand flat on the table. “While I do have a certain amount of moral flexibility, I will not participate in any terrorist activities that result in the death of innocent women and children.”
Awad barely glanced at the man. “I think you’ll do whatever your boss tells you to do.”
“I am under no obligation to—”
Birgit placed her hand on Thomas’s. “We haven’t heard the facts yet. Let’s hear the man out. If I know him as well as I believe I do, then there will be plenty to gain.”
For the next five minutes Awad detailed a plan for which he was the primary source of financial backing. Birgit’s accounts, which were controlled by her sister, were liquidated in order to contribute. As
the money rightfully belonged to the sister seated across from him, he considered that her buy-in. Thomas, for his part, if he chose to go along, would be compensated accordingly. Birgit knew that if Thomas refused, Awad would have him killed. Today, most likely. He’d seen and heard too much.
“I’ll expect your answer when I return.” Awad excused himself from the table, leaving Birgit and Thomas alone. Birgit glanced at the out-of-place man in the kitchen. He made no effort to conceal his effort to watch the pair.
“What do you think?” Thomas asked.
“I think you should reconsider what you are thinking right now.”
“How do you know what I’m thinking?”
She hadn’t removed her hand from his. She squeezed and looked him in the eye. “Somewhere outside this restaurant is a sniper whose job it is to remove evidence from the scene. We have been told of a terrorist plot with the potential of disrupting the European and perhaps all western economies. Awad may present himself as a financier, but trust me, I have known the man for a long time and in many ways, and he will not shrink away from bloodying his hands. He is an extremist. Worse, he has wealth beyond most people’s imaginations. If he can visualize it, he can make it happen. And his visions are of the worst kind.”
She paused to allow Thomas time to respond. No words escaped his clenched lips. Perhaps the reality of the situation was setting in.
“If you refuse,” Birgit said, “you will be killed. Even if Noble comes through and completes his part, we will not be able to stop them from ultimately carrying out our executions and this attack.”
Thomas pulled his hand away from Birgit and leaned back. “You want to take part in this?”
She shook her head. “I am not saying that. But I do believe that the proper course of action at this time is to say that we will. We will then wait for the right opportunity to leave.”
“What about Noble?” Thomas glanced toward the kitchen. “He’s due to show up any second now and do what he does best.”
“We will see him before anyone else does. When Awad returns, you will rise to use the restroom and instead go to the kitchen to stop him.”
Thomas cleared his throat and gestured quickly toward the dark hallway. Awad emerged, shaking the remaining water from his hands. He returned to the table and sat.
“Have you made your decision?” Awad said.
“We have,” Birgit said. “We’re in.”
“Excellent.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” Thomas said, standing. “I need to use the restroom now.”
He walked past the hallway that Awad had emerged from and went to the yellow smoke-stained swinging door that separated the dining room from the kitchen. He glanced back and nodded at Birgit. A move that resulted in him not seeing the moment that Awad’s guard posted in the kitchen went down.
CHAPTER 65
One tap.
One shot.
One man down.
It was easy to pick the guy out in the room of cooks. If they had wanted him to blend, they should have dressed him somewhat like the others. Clad in black gear and holding a pistol at his side made it too easy.
The bullet slammed into the back of his head. He never had a clue. Never heard me enter. Probably pegged the thud of the shot as one of the cooks’ spatula on the flattop.
The other men in the kitchen took notice one by one. I aimed the Beretta in their direction and held my other hand to my lips for a beat, then gestured for them to file past me and exit. The first of the cooks hadn’t reached me yet when I noticed the next out-of-place visitor to the kitchen.
Thomas stared at the fallen man with a look of confusion. It didn’t appear that he recognized the guy or cared that he was dead. Perhaps he’d entered the space with the same idea I had.
He looked up at me, threw his left hand up in a gesture that said stop now. But his right hand went to his side. I had a bead on him so I paused long enough to see what he’d do next.
Thomas took a few steps toward me. He stopped, glanced backward, then spoke. His hands remained in the same positions. “Calling it off.”
“Why?”
“Birgit’s orders.” He lowered his left hand. “Not mine.”
“You call your guy in Costa Rica?”
“I have.” He glanced quickly to the left, back at me. His lack of questioning me verified I had the country correct. “He’s bailing out now.”
“Lies.” I squeezed the trigger three times with no more than a half second between shots. The first hit dead center, creating a dark red circle that spread rapidly across his white shirt. The next created an effective tracheotomy in the soft fleshy part of his neck. His head dipped back so the third round hit under the chin and exited through the top of his skull, sending bits of blood, bone and brain into the air, coating the upper wall and ceiling.
I spat on his shoe as I walked past on my way to the dining room. Glancing toward the cooking line, I saw a young man cowering near the fryer.
“The hell is wrong with you?” I said.
The cook looked like he was about to cry.
“Didn’t you hear me tell you to get the hell out?”
He shook his head. One of his hands was behind his back.
“It never crossed your mind to follow the others out the back?” I flicked the pistol up and down. “Get up, asshole.”
The young guy grabbed hold of the top of the fryer. He dipped his fingertips into the boiling grease and let out a scream. A second later the door to the dining room burst open and a woman not much older than the cook froze in place, her gaze fixed on my Beretta. The door swung back and forth, colliding with her ass.
“Christ.” I pulled the non-silenced pistol and aimed it at the cook while shifting the first Beretta toward the waitress. “Join him.”
She didn’t move.
“Now!”
Her gaze was fixed on the cook. Her eyes grew wide, as did her mouth. I don’t know what she wanted to say but a sort of shrill yet soft scream came out.
The cook skipped forward on his knees and brought his arm around from his back. Son of a bitch thought he was going to be the hero. He flung the chef’s knife at me in an underhanded sort of motion that a softball pitcher uses when they want to throw a curve.
I sidestepped the blade. Before it collided with the steel walk-in door and bounced off, skating across the floor, I fired a shot at the man. Fortunately for him I placed the bullet near his knee so it would be non-fatal. Probably.
Unfortunately for me, I used the naked Beretta and it sounded like a rocket exploding in the mostly metal kitchen.
The waitress fell to her knees and crawled toward the boy, muttering something. Presumably his name. I didn’t stick around to see. Kicking the door open, I saw Awad and Birgit seated at the table. He was twisted at the waist, his left arm draped over the chair next him and his right arm reaching inside his lightweight herringbone coat.
I surveilled the rest of the room and determined no other immediate threats.
Without hesitation I squeezed the trigger. The first shot hit Awad in the left arm at the tricep muscle. It likely shattered his humerus. He fell forward. The table stopping his progress. He grabbed his arm with the opposite hand. Blood spilled through his clenched fingers. His sidearm fell to the ground. I sent another round into his lower back. I decided at that moment then to use the entire magazine on the guy before launching the final fatal shot into the top of his head from a distance of only two feet away.
Why?
Because fuck that terrorist son of a bitch.
His body jerked with each shot. His screams grew weaker.
Across the table Birgit flailed her arms back and forth in front of her, crossing them.
“It’s off, Jack,” she said. I swear I heard it in slow motion. “The whole thing is off. Thomas was supposed to tell you.”
I stopped behind Awad and grabbed a handful of his hair. I glanced at Birgit.
“He told me.”
She shook he
r head, tears streamed down her cheeks. “What? Why, then?”
“I didn’t like the way he said it.” I placed the Beretta on the back of Awad’s head. “So I killed him.”
Birgit pushed away from the table. Her chair tipped and she fell backward to the floor. The woman managed to turn as she went down and landed hard on her right side. She crawled away from the table, then got to a knee and stumbled toward the ground again.
Summoning his last bit of life-force, Awad screamed out. “Get out of here, Katrine!”
I yanked back hard so the son of a bitch was forced to look me in the eye. Noticed the curly flesh-colored wire hanging out of his ear.
“Until we meet again in hell.”
I squeezed the trigger, sending the round through the back of his head. His forehead ripped open and the bullet smashed into the light hanging over the next table.
Birgit tripped over the step up to the front door. She clawed her way to her knees, looked back at me. As she moved to her feet, she fell forward again.
I was closing the distance between us fast.
She rolled over and scooted on her ass until she reached the door. Unable to open it, she settled for leaning back against it. It cracked slightly, creating a howling wind tunnel.
“There’s probably a sniper,” she said, her voice shaking.
I aimed the un-suppressed Beretta at her head and said nothing.
“Please, I have millions and can pay you whatever you want if you just get me out of here.”
“Tell me a number.”
She blinked and shook her head and spat out the first thing that came to mind. “Ten million.”
I lowered the weapon, still keeping it aimed at her, and acted as though I were thinking it over. A moment later, I gave her my response.
“Not good enough.”
She stared at the rising pistol as though it were a snake about to reach out and bite her.
“I’ll give you all I have,” she said, both hands extended, pleading for me to take it. “Every last cent. Twenty million.”
“You think twenty million is enough to buy off the souls of all those you have had a hand in killing?”