SHADOW WARRIOR
A Jake Adams International Espionage Thriller #15
by
Trevor Scott
United States of America
Also by Trevor Scott
Karl Adams Espionage Thriller Series
The Man From Murmansk (#1)
The Jake Adams Cold War Espionage Short Story Series
Reykjavik Sanction (Mission #1)
Napoli Intercept (Mission #2)
Wueschheim Imperative (Mission #3)
Jake Adams International Espionage Thriller Series
Fatal Network (#1)
Extreme Faction (#2)
The Dolomite Solution (#3)
Vital Force (#4)
Rise of the Order (#5)
The Cold Edge (#6)
Without Options (#7)
The Stone of Archimedes (#8)
Lethal Force (#9)
Rising Tiger (#10)
Counter Caliphate (#11)
Gates of Dawn (#12)
Counter Terror (#13)
Covert Network (#14)
The Tony Caruso Mystery Series
Boom Town (#1)
Burst of Sound (#2)
Running Game (#3)
The Chad Hunter Espionage Thriller Series
Hypershot (#1)
Global Shot (#2)
Cyber Shot (#3)
The Keenan Fitzpatrick Mystery Series
Isolated (#1)
Burning Down the House (#2)
Witness to Murder (#3)
Other Mysteries and Thrillers
Cantina Valley
Edge of Delirium
Strong Conviction
Fractured State (A Novella)
The Nature of Man
Discernment
Way of the Sword
Drifting Back
The Dawn of Midnight
The Hobgoblin of the Redwoods
Duluthians: A Collection of Short Stories
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and not intended to represent real people or places. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author.
SHADOW WARRIOR
Copyright © 2017 by Trevor Scott
United States of America
trevorscott.com
Cover image of shooter by abishome
Background cover image by author
Contents
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1
Innsbruck, Austria
April showers had given way to a Mayday downpour, enveloping the downtown region of this Tirolian city in a deep funk as late evening moved toward midnight. Hunkered under an overhang two blocks from The Golden Roof, the woman in dark clothes shoved her hands into the pockets of her bulky light jacket. She had cut out her right pocket, so her hand rested on the butt of her Glock 19 on her right hip.
Anica Senka had been working undercover for the past week, so she carried no Austrian Polizei identification. In fact, she had no purse—only a driver’s license with a fake name. Officially she still worked for the Polizei, but she had recently taken a liaison job with a newly formed task force of EUROPOL, the European Police Office, the law enforcement agency of the European Union. After a short briefing at EUROPOL headquarters in The Hague, Netherlands, Anica had come back to Austria to infiltrate the Serbian crime organization.
Whispering quietly, Anica said in German, “We couldn’t have met in a coffee shop?”
The comm earbud in her right ear buzzed slightly. Then her contact’s voice said, “We were lucky to get any meeting at all.”
She knew this, of course. Because of her Serbian language skills, she had been selected to infiltrate a potential criminal organization that was purportedly headed by a former Serbian military officer. Although this man had worked directly under Slobodan Milosevic, the former Serbian President who had been tried and convicted for war crimes, for some reason many of his brutal military officers had been cleared of wrongdoing. Nevertheless, many of these disgraced officers could no longer step foot in Serbia for fear of death by the remaining families who had been brutalized during the 90s. So, they had emigrated to other parts of Europe—like Austria.
Anica knew all too well the horrors of the Balkan Wars of the 90s. Both of her parents had been killed, and she had been forced to flee to Austria as a young girl, living with a distant relative. But that escape had brought her into an equally brutal home life, where this relative had tried to abuse her mentally and sexually. She had been lucky, though, helped by a kind neighbor, who had eventually placed her in the home of a local Polizei family. Anica had repaid her gratitude by becoming a Polizei officer to help others who needed help.
“He’s not coming,” Anica said softly, and then wiped moisture from her face. The overhang only brought her a little relief from the relentless rain, which seemed to come down in sideways sheets.
“Look again,” her contact said. “Far end of the lane by The Golden Roof.”
The Goldenes Dachl, or Golden Roof, was the city’s main tourist attraction, and sat just a couple of blocks south of the Inn River. During nice days, the square in front of this attraction would be filled with tourists. But with the hour and the inclement weather, only a couple of people hurried from bar to bar. Anica had dubbed these European locations terrorist attractions. Locations that were nearly impossible to defend properly in a free society.
Anica finally saw the man lingering down the square, so she moved out into the main deluge and shuffled toward her target. Over the past week this man, Bogdan Maravich, had come close to giving her the name of the next man up the rung. He had been a young Serbian private during the war, but was now unemployed officially, collecting government assistance, while he was paid under the table by the Serbian Mafia. At least that’s what Anica suspected. This Bogdan fellow had a face only an ermine mother could love, Anica thought. His mottled, leathery complexion was a roadmap of self-abuse through drink and smoke.
Moving in closer, Anica felt anxious. Something wasn’t right. She could tell. She had always had this innate ability to feel danger near. Part of that, she knew, was her survival instinct from the war. Yet, these feelings of hers had come in handy as a Polizei officer, keeping her safe for the past ten years.
“Moving in,” she said softly.
All she got back was static. A lot of static. Something was wrong with her earbud. Perhaps the water had shorted something.
She met the man and the two of them didn’t embrace or shake hands. They kept their distance as they wandered together toward the river down Herzog-Friedrich Strasse. Neither of them said a word until they reached the bridge over the Inn River. Lights from the colorful buildings across the river shimmered on the rain-swollen water that cut through the city like a scoliotic spine. For a second, Anica let the beauty of the yellow, green, blue and orange multi-story buildings distract her from the man next to her as they walked toward the pedestrian walk to the side of the road on the bridge. A chill came over her as rain pelted the exposed skin on her neck.
>
“This is dangerous business,” the man said in Serbian.
“I am just looking for a job,” she said.
“The boss does not hire just anyone,” he said, and then lit a cigarette. He offered one to Anica, but she waved him off.
“My father worked for Milosevic,” she said in her defense. Not a total lie. In truth, both of her parents had worked for that man in various capacities in his government. Which is probably what had gotten them killed.
Her contact laughed as he drew in smoke to his lungs. Then he let out a stream of smoke and said, “You either worked for that man or you worked against him. Either way, you would now be dead, in jail, or in exile.”
“Like your boss?” she asked. She needed names, and this man had been reluctant to give her anything in the past week. She suspected he wanted sex from her, but she wasn’t willing to go that far for any case.
Now they crossed the street and entered the walkway along the road on the main bridge crossing the Inn River. A few cars still sat parked along the side of the road on the bridge. For a Monday evening in this desperate rain, not my locals were out and about.
“Where are we going?” Anica said in German, hoping her people were still monitoring her comm. “What are we doing on the bridge?”
“Zoran Petrovic wants to meet you,” he said, sticking to Serbian.
She repeated the name in case her contact had not picked up the conversation. “I thought he was dead.”
The Serb stopped and grasped her left arm. She considered pulling her gun, but the man’s grasp did not seem overly aggressive.
“Oh, he is alive,” he said. “I think he cannot be killed.”
Finally, she heard garbled voices through her earbud. She wanted to ask him to repeat the last transmission, but knew that would be stupid.
When she noticed the car slowly coming toward them from the other side of the river, she wasn’t sure if those inside were with the Austrian Polizei or this man’s organization. Her right hand instinctively grasped her gun.
“What is the matter?” the Serb asked.
Before she could answer, the dark Audi picked up speed and swerved across both lanes toward them.
Anica drew her weapon and shoved the Serb away from her. Instead of jumping the curb, the car turned sharply and skid to a halt. Flashes broke the darkness, followed by at least a dozen loud reports from two guns.
Reflexively, she dove to the ground while she fired at the car. The Serb also hit the pavement, but he did so reluctantly, taking several bullets to his body. Crawling quickly, Anica found momentary safety behind the back of a car. They had her dead if they wanted, she thought. She had no place to go.
Then it came to her. She emptied her magazine as she ran to the railing, the slide locking back on her Glock just as she hoisted herself over the metal rail.
As she seemed to float through the darkness, Anica twisted her legs together and crossed her arms over her chest just as she hit the water.
The impact of the icy water took her breath away momentarily as her body sunk under the surface. Then her feet hit the bottom and she shoved with all her might to rise back to the surface. She wasn’t sure if she could hold her breath much longer, when she finally surfaced and took in a mixture of air and water.
Her body went numb as she was drawn swiftly downstream through the darkness.
2
Pico Island, The Azores
Six days later
The waves were nearly non-existent this Sunday morning as Jake Adams sat on a rock looking to the south at the Atlantic. His fishing rod sat in a fissure in the rocks, his line taught as the outgoing tide pulled his bait further out to sea.
Fishing was still fresh for Jake since his self-imposed exile on this remote island chain a few months back. He had left a lot behind with the death of Alexandra in Calabria, and his subsequent placement of his daughter Emma in Montana with his siblings. Emma was better off with his brother and sister. She would be safe, he knew.
Jake had first tried to drink himself to death in Iceland for a while. Iceland was beautiful, but it was also too damn cold. So, after his last major mission in South America, Sirena had suggested a little warmer climate to the south of Iceland, and Jake had agreed.
He looked at his reflection in the water and almost didn’t recognize himself. His hair was longer than normal, and much more silver than black these days. He shaved about once a week now, and was three days in from his last trim. Even his facial stubble seemed more gray than black. He wasn’t sure if he liked this new look, even though Sirena seemed to think he looked more distinguished. Whatever the hell that meant.
When he could no longer ignore what was coming, he pulled his 9mm Glock from inside his jacket and swiveled quickly around, pointing his gun at a surprised woman, who raised her hands immediately. She was perhaps in her early forties or late thirties. It was hard for Jake to tell with blondes.
“Herr Adams?” the woman said. “Jake Adams?” She had a strong German accent.
Jake got up and moved closer to the woman. She had been a real looker in her younger years, but time had added a few pounds to her midsection and wrinkles of consternation seemed to be deeply ingrained across her forehead, as if she were in a constant state of wonder.
“Sabine Bauer,” Jake said. “What brings you to my island?”
The woman tried on a smile, failing from lack of practice. “I believe the Portuguese still own The Azores.”
Jake waved his left hand in the general area in front of him. “Except for this small piece of the coast.”
When Sirena appeared from behind some small bushes, her own Glock pointed at the woman, Jake said, “It’s all right, Sirena. This is Sabine Bauer, the newest Kriminal Hauptkommisar of the Austrian state of Tirol.”
“You know this?” Sabine asked.
“I know that the Austrian Polizei has been trying to get in touch with me for the past few days,” Jake said. “I finally allowed you to find me. But I’m still not sure why.”
Sabine tried to smile again. “We met years ago.”
“I know,” Jake said. “You were sleeping with Hermann Jung to rise up the chain.”
“That was a mistake,” Sabine said.
“Which part? Sleeping with Jung or taking his job?”
“He took retirement,” she said. “He’s divorced and living in Kitzbuhel.”
“Good place for him,” Jake said.
“He had two heart attacks.”
“I didn’t realize he had a heart.”
“We didn’t end things well,” Sabine said.
“You came to your senses and he moved to Kitzbuhel,” Jake said. “Sounds like things are as they should be. Now, what brings you all the way from Innsbruck to my remote island?”
“If I had your phone number, I could have simply called you,” she said. “But I’m not sure you would have listened.”
Jake returned his gun to its holster inside his jacket. “You look like you could use a cup of coffee.”
“I could,” Sabine said. “It’s not easy getting here.”
Smiling, Jake said, “That’s kind of the point, Sabine.”
The three of them wandered up the path to the small single-story house. Just then, Jake remembered he still had his line in the water. He shrugged it off.
Sirena found some glasses and started to make them each a cappuccino. Jake sat in a leather chair with a pleasant view of the road leading up to the place and the ocean. Even though the Austrian Polizei officer had parked down the hill a hundred meters, Sirena would have been able to see the woman coming from miles away. That was Jake’s reason for renting the fully-furnished place.
Sabine sat across from Jake, her hands nervously on her knees.
In a moment, the first cappuccino was done and Sirena handed it to the Austrian cop.
“Thank you,” Sabine said, and then sipped the coffee. “This is very good. Columbian?”
“Costa Rican,” Jake said. “I know a guy.”
Neither said a word until Jake accepted his cappuccino from Sirena, who then took up a position across the room, standing and listening. Jake could tell Sirena was suspicious of this other woman. She knew some of Jake’s background, but not all of it. Perhaps she assumed he had slept with this Austrian cop.
Finally, Jake said, “Okay, now you can tell me why the Austrian Polizei has been looking for me.”
Sabine hesitated, her eyes shifting toward Sirena and then settling on Jake. “You have a very good reputation with our organization. Not to mention with the Austrian government and the royal family.”
Jake wasn’t sure if this praise was her attempt at blowing smoke, but he sipped his cappuccino and let her fling praise.
Sabine continued, “Anyway, the Polizei would like to hire you as a consultant.”
He shifted his gaze for a second at Sirena, who seemed bored if not completely indifferent. “For what purpose?”
“Are you familiar with Europol?”
“Sounds like a porn star,” Jake quipped.
“Hardly. They are the European Police Office, a law enforcement agency of the European Union, with headquarters in The Hague, Netherlands.”
He knew about them. They were like the junior park rangers of law enforcement. That was all the EU needed was its own cops, he thought. “What about them?”
“Since their inception less than ten years ago, they have not been involved with cross border investigations,” Sabine said. “They have simply been a coordinating agency. They only have about a thousand employees, and those are mostly analysts at their headquarters. Anyway, they have started to push their traditional agenda, becoming more like Interpol.”
Jake was still confused. “How does this impact me?”
After finishing her cappuccino and placing her cup on the coffee table, Sabine said, “We were asked to designate two of our Polizei officers with Europol as resources they could use on cross-border investigations. These two officers were working a case dealing with an international criminal organization in Innsbruck.”
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