The Ethan Galaal Series: Books 1 - 3

by Isaac Hooke

  Her face darkened. "Thanks, dad."

  He chortled at the age reference. "I'm surprised the police don't arrest you for carrying a concealed weapon when you walk down the street with that."

  "It's not that noticeable," she said. "Besides, the police usually look at something other than my ankles."

  "I'm sure they do." He opened the glove compartment and scanned the contents. "When do I get a weapon?"

  "There are a few choice pieces in back," Bretta told him. "When we reach Râmnicu I'll hook you up."

  Ethan fished out his phone and activated the GPS: he liked to be aware of the highway exits, a carryover from his war days when he never knew where the next ambush might come from.

  The two-lane A1 freeway cut through the countryside to the northwest of Bucharest. After passing the town of Pitesti, home of Romanian auto icon Dacia, Bretta turned onto the DN7 / E81 undivided highway, a two-way, single lane arterial road. Meadowlands alternated with thick forests on either side, giving the impression of a journey deep into the wilderness. Now and again the foliage yielded to valleys and tree-covered foothills, along with farmer's fields, villas, or small towns with names like Căzănești and Aldesti. The traffic was comprised of transport trucks and compact cars. Dacia models accounted for roughly one third of the latter vehicles, with the remainder belonging to manufacturers such as Opel, Volkswagen, and Toyota.

  Eventually Bretta began the ascent into the foothills of the Transylvanian Alps. According to the GPS, the Olt river was just beyond the roadway to the west, though Ethan couldn't see it because of all the fenced-off villas and trees that bordered the road. Mangy dogs wandered the litter-strewn gravel shoulders of the road. Beyond the fences, the houses were in fairly bad shape, reminding him of wooden versions of the ones he had seen in Karachi: graffiti, peeling paint, collapsed walls. Laundry hung from clotheslines. Chickens and roosters inhabited the gardens.

  And then, unexpectedly, in the middle of a grassy field, a Mercedes-Benz "AutoPortal" dealership cropped up, teasing the passersby with gleaming luxury sedans tucked away behind glass walls.

  The route turned west. As the Audi reached a road built over a dam, the mysterious blue waters of the Olt finally presented themselves. Sourced in the Eastern Carpathians, the river flowed six hundred kilometers across Romania before eventually joining the Danube.

  Across that dam awaited the riverside town of Râmnicu Vâlcea, their destination.

  6

  Râmnicu Vâlcea, Romania

  RMNICU VLCEA HAD a population of ninety thousand people. One could travel its seven kilometer length by car in twelve minutes. Inhabited since Roman times, it had become a major cultural center by the 1500s, only to experience a long decline. In modern times, the town underwent a revival when the chemical giant Oltchim opened up a plant, providing thousands of jobs, but the company went bankrupt in 2012. By then, the local youth had already discovered other means of making money. The criminal-minded ones, anyway.

  The buildings were similar to what Ethan had seen in other European towns: mostly apartments and gated bungalows. The apartments literally abutted one another, and various retail shops rented out the ground levels of each one. Residents parked their vehicles on the shoulders of the road, reducing the width of the streets and choking traffic in areas. Sometimes, on the busier roads, vehicles parked on the sidewalks between the trees instead of the shoulders. One-ways were prevalent. Like most European and Middle Eastern cities, names were used for the streets rather than numbers. Without GPS, Ethan knew Bretta would have been lost. He would have been, too.

  "I'll let Eight-Blue know we're here." Bretta grabbed the sat-phone from the center console.

  "Wait." Ethan had his GPS open in front of him. "Pull up here."

  She doubled-parked in front of the indicated building.

  "I'll be right back." Ethan leaped out and returned a few minutes later with a case of Ursus Black, the top-rated beer in Romania.

  He had Bretta pop the trunk, then loaded the case in the rear compartment. He grabbed one of the cans before returning to his seat.

  Bretta gave him a look of disbelief as he took a long quaff.

  "Really?" she said.

  Ethan shrugged. "You don't realize what a simple luxury it is to drink beer. When you've worked in the Middle East for as long as I have, you take advantage of every opportunity to drink that you get, because you never know when the chance will come again." He took another long swallow. The beer wasn't bad. Not the best he'd ever had. Not the worst.

  Bretta waited a few moments, then started the engine.

  "Eight-Blue just pulled up behind us," Bretta said, accelerating away from the liquor store. "Two cars behind."

  Ethan glanced in the right rearview mirror and spotted the Ford Transit 2T.

  "The white van?" he asked.

  "That's the one."

  She reached beneath the collar of her jumpsuit and produced two wired earbuds. She attached the clothing clips to her collar and popped the earbuds in, tucking the coiled wires behind her ears.

  "Eight-Blue, this is Maelstrom, do you copy, over?" She paused. "Loud and clear Eight-Blue."

  Sensing Ethan's gaze on her, she cracked open the center console. "Here. Put these on." She indicated a small headset whose microphone and earbuds were connected to a lanyard. There was also an inconspicuous-looking radio about the size of a pack of cards.

  He clipped the radio to his belt and then unbuttoned his white dress shirt. He fetched the in-ear transducer headset and slid the lanyard over his neck. He tightened the cord, bringing the microphone close to his throat, then attached the earbud clothing clips to his collar. He popped the actual earbuds in, sliding the wires over the fleshy part of his ears like a pair of glasses. He connected the headset to the radio at his belt and then activated the radio.

  He hit the transmit button. "Eight-Blue, Copperhead here."

  "Eight-Blue team leader," came the answer. Jerry Wong. "Good to be working with you, Copperhead."

  Satisfied that the radio was working, Ethan buttoned up his shirt and concealed the main wire.

  As Bretta approached the city center the traffic increased. Audis, BMWs, and Mercedes-Benzes began to dominate the roadways, driven by men in their twenties and thirties.

  The vehicle passed the River View Plaza, a sprawling, modern mall with a multi-faceted glass half-dome at the front that wouldn't have been out of place in a science fiction movie.

  A Dacia Logan police cruiser sped by.

  "How come the local police weren't able to capture this Yellowjacket?" Ethan asked Bretta.

  "Look at the cars they drive," Bretta deadpanned.

  "Funny."

  "According to the report," Bretta continued. "He fled his penthouse only a few minutes before the police arrived."

  "Ah. So let me guess, you're driving to the penthouse right now?"

  "You're a good guesser."

  "I don't think we'll find anything there," Ethan said.

  "It's a start."

  "Eight-Blue," Ethan said into the radio. "Tell us what we have on Andrei Funar, the Yellowjacket."

  "Parents divorced when he was thirteen. During high school, he fell in with the Internet scamming crowd. You know, the whole post fake ads, get people to send you money thing. It was a big game to them. A competition of sorts, to see who could outdo the others. Most of them ended up making millions. After that, everyone and their dog started doing it. So much so that the city attracted the attention of the FBI, who nicknamed it Scammerville. I guess there isn't really much else for smart kids to do in a place like this.

  "Anyway, the original crew started to get caught. The smarter ones dropped out of the game. Not Andrei. He was eventually convicted, and went to jail for six years starting in 2008. When he got out again in 2014, he went right back at it, using advanced techniques he learned in prison to hide his trail. He even hacked the local police network, installing malware that let him take control of their webcams, basically turning t
he police computers into his own surveillance network. When they came to his luxury condo to arrest him, he knew."

  "Does he have any immediate family members?" Ethan said over the connection.

  "His mother lives in a well-to-do condo he bought for her in 2007. That's about it."

  "Does he or his mother own any vacation property?"

  "Not according to the city records. Though it's possible he bought something like that using an alias. I'll have one of my analysts dig up his bank transactions."

  "All right, then." He glanced at Bretta. "I say we forget the penthouse and go see the mother."

  "You're asking for my permission, or my opinion?"

  "Neither." Ethan spoke into the radio. "Eight Blue, we're going to need an address on the mother."

  Jerry read the location over the line and Ethan entered it into his phone's GPS.

  Bretta was about to turn the car around but Ethan stopped her. "Let's find a park or something first. I want you to show me what kind of pieces you have in back."

  Bretta allowed him to guide her to a quiet park on the outskirts of the city. She popped the trunk and exited the Audi. Ethan joined her.

  In the storage area at the back were two cases piled one atop the other.

  She opened the first case, revealing the dismantled parts of a takedown sniper rifle.

  Ethan never really trusted breakdown rifles. "How well does it return-to-zero?"

  She smirked. "This is the Valkyrie, a special order by Nemesis Arms. All their chassis are return-to-zero. Take it apart and put it back together as many times as you wish, the scope accuracy will always be the same."

  "All right," Ethan said. "But I need something smaller."

  Bretta closed the case and reached for a Blackhawk load-out bag just to the left. From it she produced an ankle holster with a Px4 Subcompact inside.

  Ethan accepted the holster and removed the Px4.

  "A little small for my hands," he said, showing her that when he held the pistol, his pinky finger had nothing to grip but air.

  Bretta shrugged. "There's an adapter that lets you use the full size magazine. But it will affect concealability. You'll be fine. Just don't pinch yourself while reloading."

  He regarded the ankle holster dubiously. "Do you have a shoulder holster getup?"

  She produced a shoulder holster and harness from the load-out bag.

  While Bretta shielded him from the road, Ethan removed his blazer, buckled on the harness, and slipped the Px4 into the clamshell holster under his left armpit. He replaced his jacket and practiced drawing the Px4, taking the first steps to train the muscle memory. The short grip was a little awkward but he could deal with it.

  He loaded a thirteen round magazine into the Px4 and racked the slide, chambering the first round, then drew the weapon a few final times before leaving the weapon in the holster.

  Bretta handed him flexicuffs from the load-out bag; he secured them to the shoulder harness, making sure they weren't visible with the suit jacket on, and then he returned to the passenger seat.

  Bretta joined him inside. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

  Ethan was well aware of the slightly uncomfortable yet reassuring press of the pistol against his ribs and inner arm. "Always does."

  7

  "Park along here," Ethan instructed Bretta when the two of them were a block away from their destination.

  She did so, taking the first available spot, which happened to be beside a phone booth with the word Telefon painted in bright white letters on it.

  "I'll be right back." He walked into the booth and pretended to make a call. Meanwhile, he surveyed the surrounding street, with special emphasis on the area in front of the target's apartment. He spotted a white sedan parked across from the building. Two occupants. Likely a surveillance team from the Romanian police. They probably carried full frame digital SLR cameras to take snapshots of all visitors coming to and from the apartment. Ethan didn't need his picture in some police database, especially if things had to get nasty inside.

  Over the secure radio, he said, "Maelstrom. I want you to get rid of the surveillance team."

  "Permanently?" she returned.

  He glanced at her through the booth's window. She wasn't smiling. A dangerous woman.

  "I'd prefer it if you didn't harm officers of the law," he said. "Move them out of the area, if possible. Or block their view. And be discreet about it. We don't need Sam to catch any flak because of our actions."

  "I'm coming with you," she answered over the line. "So I'll have Eight-Blue handle it."

  "No you're not."

  "Who's going to translate for you when you get inside?"

  That was a good point.

  "Eight-Blue," Bretta said. "Did you copy that? We're going in and need a diversion on a white sedan parked in front of the apartment."

  "Roger that, Maelstrom," Jerry's voice came over the line. "One diversion coming up."

  He waited, putting on a show of using the phone booth, keeping the handset at his ear. He studied the surveillance vehicle, and thought it too bad that his team couldn't involve the Romanian authorities. Usually he didn't mind requesting permission from a European government for such mundane tasks as surveillance, or search and seizure—Europe was an ally, and the governments were somewhat accommodating. But Ethan had more than simple surveillance or seizures in mind. He'd have to perform some interrogations and he didn't need some Romanian observer trying to enforce the UN Convention Against Torture while he questioned subjects. He'd have to make threats. Coerce. Blackmail. Hurt. He might have to kill some people. For that, he had to operate under the radar.

  It was a funny thing. In the Middle East, because of the clout the U.S. wielded in the region, operatives received far more leeway. The U.S. often had permission to conduct full-blown, standalone military raids, though usually in remote areas. And in regards to interrogation, Middle Eastern governments were way more accommodating. For one thing, said governments were quite good at it. And if an interrogation—torture—was required, it was often preferable to have members of the foreign intelligence service conduct it, allowing the U.S. agencies to skirt any accountability issues.

  After about ten minutes of standing there in that booth, Ethan was beginning to grow impatient.

  "Well, Eight-Blue?" he said over the line.

  "Here you go," Jerry returned.

  On the opposite side of the street a garbage truck drove behind the unmarked sedan and started honking. The surveillance vehicle was parked ahead of three smallish bins: the first for bottles, the second for plastics and papers, the third for garbage. The unmarked vehicle wasn't blocking any of the bins, however, so Ethan was unsure what would go down.

  The garbage truck abruptly drove forward a car length and stopped again, effectively providing a shield.

  Bretta abandoned the Audi. "That's our cue."

  Ethan followed her, walking at a brisk pace. Honking and shouting came from the direction of the unseen sedan.

  The rear of the trapped vehicle came into view behind the garbage truck as Ethan and Bretta neared the front door of the apartment.

  "Eight-Blue, back up a little," Bretta said into her concealed mic.

  The garbage truck slowly moved back, keeping Ethan and Bretta concealed.

  At the front door Ethan pressed the button labeled Funar. Through the lobby window he saw walls of gray-veined Calacatta marble; a Turkish carpet patterned with geometric designs covered the floor.

  "The driver and passenger are getting out," Jerry warned over the comm.

  Before Ethan could say anything a voice came over the apartment speaker. "Alo."

  "Tell her we're delivering fliers," Ethan said, keeping his back to the street.

  "Foaie volanti, doamnă," Bretta said.

  "Ce vrei?" the voice over the line returned.

  "Foaie volanti!" Bretta said.

  The door clicked open.

  Ethan hurried inside, not daring to look back. He turned a cor
ner and ducked from view.

  "We're good, Eight-Blue," Bretta said into her mic.

  Ignoring the elevator, Ethan took the marble stairs and climbed the two stories to the destination apartment. When he arrived, he popped out the earbuds and hid them beneath the collar of his shirt. Bretta did likewise.

  He knocked.

  A woman in her sixties, presumably Mrs. Funar, opened the door. She wore a blue silk caftan with an orange belt that proclaimed "Moschino" in big gold letters—a luxury brand of some kind. Her gray hair was packed into a tight bun, with a long hairpin sticking out the right-hand side.

  Behind her was an expansive living room with hardwood floors and a marble fireplace. Fine art hung from the walls. The furniture was a blend of Romanian antiques and contemporary models. A mosaic tile bathroom was visible on the far side.

  "Ce vrei?" the woman said.

  From her expression and body language, Ethan knew she meant: "What do you want?"

  "Translate," he told Bretta. "Tell her I'm a friend of Andrei's. That I have a message from him."

  While Bretta translated, Ethan surveyed the apartment behind the lady more carefully. His eyes drifted to the fireplace on the far side of the family room. Almost hidden from view by the placement of Mrs. Funar's body, a series of photos and trophies had been set upon the mantelpiece. The photos depicted a young boy in love with soccer. In one, he was holding a soccer ball, smiling widely beside an older man, presumably his father. In another, the boy kicked the ball toward a goalie. In a third, he posed with the team. There were awards beside each picture, seven in total, probably one for each elementary school grade.

  Mrs. Funar responded to Bretta.

  "She says she isn't surprised her son sent a message," Bretta told him. "Because Andrei promised he would contact her when he was able."

  "Tell her to come out into the hall," Ethan beckoned for the woman to join them. "Tell her the apartment could be bugged."

  When Bretta explained what Ethan had said, Mrs. Funar nodded reluctantly and then stepped into the hall. She shut the door behind her and spoke a few words to Bretta.