by Trevor Scott
Then Jake sensed movement from behind and he turned to see the couple who had been strolling the baby running at him.
By now the old man shifted back into a fighting position. But Jake closed the distance, catching the man swinging the cane toward Jake’s head. Jake wrapped his left arm around the man’s right elbow and lifted up until he heard a loud crack and an immediate scream from his attacker. Then Jake shoved his right knee into the man’s gut and followed up with an elbow to the guy’s face, dropping him to the sidewalk.
One down, Jake turned to confront the man and woman, who had stopped about ten feet away. The man seemed most dangerous with a long knife. The woman had what looked like a Tazer. Screw it. Jake pulled his gun and aimed it at the man’s head. Discretion dictated an immediate retreat on their part. They collected their stroller and scurried away.
Jake put his gun away and checked to see if anyone had seen him pull his weapon. He was sure that gunplay was not common on the streets of Valencia.
Then he quickly rifled through the old man’s pockets, looking for identification. But he had none. Jake found his phone and took a close up of the man’s face. And that’s when Jake confirmed that the old man was really in his mid thirties, wearing make-up to appear in his sixties.
He got up and turned to go to the café but stopped dead in his tracks. A dark-haired woman nearly as tall as Jake stood in front of him. She wore dark slacks and a leather coat past her waist. Her right hand was inside her coat and likely held a gun. With her long curly dark hair Jake suddenly flashed back to Toni Contardo, his on and off girlfriend from his past with the CIA. But Toni had been killed almost two years ago, her body found just a few blocks from the CIA headquarters.
“Sirena,” he said. “I’m Jake Adams.”
She looked confused and took a couple steps toward Jake. “Bullshit. I was told to meet a man here, but they didn’t give me any specifics.”
“We’ve talked on the phone,” he said, trying to persuade her he was who he said he was.
“Give me a detail only you would know,” she demanded. “Or I’ll blow your head off.”
“Okay. I was minding my own business last year in Costa Rica when my old friend, Chad Hunter, got himself in a bit of trouble. I helped the two of you clear his name.”
Sirena smiled and pulled an empty hand from her jacket. Then she stepped over to him and gave him a big hug, following that up with a kiss on both of his cheeks. “Sorry about the misunderstanding,” she said.
“Is this guy a friend of yours?” Jake asked, his head shifting toward the knocked out man on the sidewalk.
“Unfortunately. Agents of Spanish intelligence I’ve been working with recently. I hope you didn’t hurt him too much.”
“Dislocated elbow,” Jake said. “Maybe a broken jaw.”
“Again, I’m sorry.”
“I could have killed them, Sirena.”
She nodded agreement and then spoke in Spanish into an unseen mic. Then she grasped Jake by the arm and turned back toward the café. “Come on. I’ve got people coming to get him. I’ve turned off my mic. We can speak freely now.” She studied him quickly with her dark eyes. “I thought you would be taller.”
“I get that a lot,” he said. “And I thought you’d be.”
“Careful, Jake.”
“Less chic?”
“Nice recovery. Now, what can I do for you?”
“I understand you’re on loan to the Spanish government.”
“CNI,” she said. “National Intelligence Centre Spain.”
“Why’d they need you?”
“That’s classified.” She hesitated. “You know how that works. Let’s just say they needed an outsider to try to infiltrate a group of radical sleepers.”
“Someone with Arabic language skills.”
“And Spanish,” she said.
“Are you done with them?”
She shrugged. “It’s a process. I’m getting close. What does the Agency need? I thought you weren’t working for them anymore.”
“I keep getting pulled back in.”
“I know the feeling.” She stopped and looked him directly in the eyes. “What’s up? They wouldn’t send the great Jake Adams unless the shit was about to hit the fan.”
“Have you heard about the medical relief workers kidnapped off the Canaries?”
“Yes. Very briefly. Just news reports. But the media seems to have moved on to the new shiny object.”
“That’s because no government wants to take the lead,” Jake explained. “I’ve been hired to form an extraction and rescue team.”
“And you want me?” she asked with a smile. “Why me?”
“Actually, you were recommended by our benefactor just this morning.”
“A private operation? You know I can’t do that. I work for the federal government.”
“It’s been cleared at the highest levels.”
“Who has that kind of pull?”
“The same guy who knew you were here and set up this meeting.”
“I got word from Spanish Intelligence to meet a man in a leather jacket at this location. What private citizen could make that happen?”
“Carlos Gomez.”
“The Spanish billionaire?”
“Yep.” Jake went on to explain how the man had recruited him, including the use of his jet and the funding.
“Let’s see,” she said, “infiltrate potential radical Islamic terrorists here in Spain? Or go rescue fifteen kidnapped relief workers, taken by known Islamic terrorists? That’s a no brainer, Jake. When do we leave?”
“Right now.”
“I’ll need to stop by my hotel for some clothes.”
“What kind of gun are you carrying?” he asked her.
“Glock Seventeen.”
“Same here.”
“Good. We can share ammo and magazines. I take it you have a ride close by.”
The two of them walked back to the car. Just as they got there, the priest arrived carrying a number of large plastic bags. Jake introduced Sirena to Father Murici, and the priest shifted bags to shake her hand.
While the driver helped Father Murici put the bags in the trunk, Sirena pulled Jake aside and whispered, “What’s with the priest?”
“I thought we might need some divine guidance,” Jake said. “I’ll explain later. Let’s get you your clothes.”
7
Berlin, Germany
Just as darkness started to settle in across the capitol of Germany, Alexandra did a final comm check with her intelligence crew who had eyes on her from a fake media tower high above Unter Den Linden Strasse. Pariser Platz on the east side of the Brandenburg Gate was packed with more than 50,000 protesters chanting their anti-immigration slogans. On a small platform near the monument, a woman spoke into a microphone, reminding the people to be peaceful in all their actions.
Alexandra kept close to a group of neo-Nazis she had infiltrated in the past week. They were mostly harmless, she thought, but the German government was in no mood to placate their actions. The current chancellor was trying to paint the entire anti-immigration movement as Nazi sympathizers. But Alexandra knew better. Whereas they had sent her to prove the positive, she was about to do just the opposite. She’d make no friends in the German government this week.
The neo-Nazi group were just opportunists. They numbered in the dozens, and only a few had been arrested in the past. Why? Noise violations. These were good little Nazis, she thought with a smile.
Now the others marching and chanting might be another story. When she had first been brought in the crowds were no more than 15,000 strong in Berlin. Dresden and Leipzig had similar crowds, but those could not be seen and heard by members of the Bundestag in the nearby Reichstag Building. Parliament liked order. Now, the protesters had increased in size and influence. And these were normal Germans, she thought. The same people who filled football stadiums. Soon the German government would not be able to dismiss the crowds as simply a few ra
dical elements wishing to go back to a long-lost era. It had become abundantly obvious to the average German that open borders were hurting their country. They were losing their identity. Losing their faith. Losing greater Deutschland.
She heard something over her earpiece, but couldn’t make out what was said.
“Say again,” she said.
Nothing.
Alexandra glanced around and felt a shift in the crowd pressure—like a strong ocean wave was coming and about to knock her over.
“Repeat,” Alexandra screamed.
The crowd suddenly burst into various screeches and loud protests.
“Get out,” came a voice in her ear.
She swiveled around to try to see any danger. Again, the crowd seemed to be swelling. Without another thought, Alexandra pushed and shoved her way to the south edge of the Pariser Platz. She climbed up to a one meter wall and got a better perspective of the scene. A massive group of Polizei officers in riot gear had pushed their way into the Platz from the direction of the Reichstag Building.
“What the hell are the Polizei doing?” she yelled into her mic.
“Not sure.”
Then the unthinkable happened. An explosion near the Brandenburg Gate, followed by a bright flash of light. A flash-bang, she thought. Then came another. And another.
The crowd went from a gentle push to an all-out panic. Everyone shoved and rushed toward the east, down Unter Den Linden and away from the explosions.
She knew these flash-bangs were innocuous, but the panicked crowd must have simply thought terrorist attack. Maybe that’s what it was, she considered. The result might be the same.
The screaming and rushing crowd was like a herd of animals trying to escape a pack of wolves. Her heart sank as she could simply watch in horror as people were trampled and left laying in the street motionless. Once she was able to move, she hurried to try to help those left behind. Some would survive, she knew, but others would not.
Alexandra got to a young woman laying on her back. She was no more than 20-years-old. A college student perhaps. The woman was still alive, but barely. Blood seeped from her nose and mouth. Alexandra lifted the woman’s head and she tried to say something. But all that came out was bright foamy red blood. Her expressive blue eyes locked onto Alexandra’s eyes, as if somehow this perfect stranger could save her from her fate.
Within seconds, though, the woman gave one last breath of air and her eyes stayed open, fixed on Alexandra.
Alexandra closed the woman’s eyes and then she gazed out at the scene in front of her. Dozens were splayed out on the cobblestone Platz. Some writhed in pain. Others were limp. Dead.
For the first time in ages, Alexandra cried out loud while she held the dead woman’s head in her lap.
In the distance, sirens sounded and started heading toward her location.
“Alexandra, are you there?” came a voice in her ear.
She couldn’t answer. Not now. Her crying turned to sobbing, and she wiped her face on her right sleeve.
“I’m here,” she finally said. Then, severely pissed off, she yelled into her mic, “I want to know who threw those flash-bangs. Tell me you got the video.”
“Somebody must have. We’ll collect all video.”
Alexandra gently set the woman’s head on the hard surface and started off toward the next victim. If they were dead, she would leave them. If they were still alive, she would do what she could until help arrived.
She replaced her tears with resolve.
There were only a couple of explanations for what had happened, she thought. Either the Polizei screwed up royally, trying to push the crowd back from the Brandenburg Gate, or this was truly a terrorist act. But the blast wasn’t powerful enough to have come from terrorists. So that left just the Polizei. And she knew that they would do nothing without government approval.
As she checked the pulse on a young man in his late teens or early twenties, her mind couldn’t comprehend the fact that this had been done on purpose. The young man was barely breathing, his pulse weak. Someone would pay for this. She would make sure of that.
8
Gibraltar
It was closing in on ten p.m. when the Gulfstream G500 swooped down low over the Mediterranean and set down in this semi-autonomous British enclave. Gibraltar was so small that the road, the border crossing, from Spain had to be temporarily closed with gates when a plane landed.
Jake had ordered the pilots to make a quick stop here on their way to the Canary Islands. He had a hunch and he needed to follow it.
He told the pilots and the lone flight attendant to find a hotel for the night; the three of them would do the same.
Since they had not expected to land in Gibraltar, there was no car waiting for them. Instead, Jake, Sirena and the priest took a taxi to downtown, getting out at the end of Main Street, a pedestrian area of restaurants, bars and high-end shops.
“Now we’re talking,” Sirena said, as she got out and saw the shops ahead.
“They’re probably mostly closed by now,” Jake said.
They had left their bags on the jet, but Jake and Sirena both had their Glocks hiding under their respective leather jackets.
A cool breeze cut to Jake’s exposed skin and swirling clouds indicated rain was likely soon.
“What are we doing in Gibraltar?” the priest asked as they walked down the street. He had also changed into normal street clothes.
“I need to see a guy,” Jake said.
“Anyone I know?” Sirena asked.
Jake didn’t answer. By now they had reached an open square with many restaurants and coffee shops around the periphery. Although Jake had only been to Gibraltar once, and that was six months ago, he guessed where he might find the man he sought. There it was to their right, a British pub.
“Good, I could use a beer,” the priest said.
Jake took the lead, entering the dark bar with a raucous crowd. To the left was a long wooden bar. A few tall pub tables sat on the right, followed by a number of booths with tall backs and leather chairs that ran the rest of the way down the narrow establishment. The bar stools were completely occupied, as were nearly every other chair in the place. Others stood with beers in hand. The place had to be more than a hundred years old, Jake guessed.
Once Jake’s eyes adjusted, he finally saw the man sitting in a booth. His hair was much longer than the last time they had met, but Jake knew it was him. Sitting across from the man was a woman who looked like a biker chick—a haggard fake blonde with tattoos filling both arms, and breasts nearly spilling out of a tight, low-cut linen shirt.
The man, Jake’s old friend and colleague, had his forehand planted firmly on the wooden table, with a half-full beer keeping his hair company.
Stopping next to the booth, Jake shook his head as he tapped his friend on the arm. He didn’t want to startle the man, since Jake knew how dangerous he could be, even while drunk. Probably more so while drunk.
“Who the fuck are you?” the woman said, her cigarette stained teeth highlighting her British accent.
Jake grasped his old friend’s hair and lifted his head.
“Sinclair,” Sirena said.
Glancing to his right, Jake said, “You know Tucker?”
“Of course.” Sirena pushed past Jake and helped the man by pulling his shoulders and getting him up to a sitting position. Then she sat down in the booth next to him. “Wow, he’s piss drunk.” She leaned next to Sinclair Tucker and whispered into his ear.
“Hey, bitch. Leave the bloke alone. I plan on shagging that bastard once he wakes up.”
“Oh, Lord,” the priest said. “I need a beer. Does anyone else want one?”
Tucker’s eyes opened. “I’ll have a beer,” he said, his British accent slurred. “You buying, buddy?”
“One each, padre,” Jake said. “Except for our friend here. He’s had a few too many.”
The priest went to an open spot at the long bar.
“What about
me?” the biker chick asked.
“Piss off,” Sirena said.
“You want a go at me?”
Sirena gave Jake a glance that asked for help.
Jake waved for the woman to get out of the booth. “Let’s go. The party’s over.”
“Screw you.”
Tucker laughed. “She’s a feisty one.” Then his eyes concentrated on Jake and Sirena. “Hey, I know you two. Why are you together?” His head bobbed with each word.
“Get the hell away from my man,” the rough woman demanded.
Sirena got out of the booth and sat next to the blonde. When the biker chick tried to take a swing at Sirena, the Israeli parried the woman’s fist and simply elbowed the woman in the face, knocking her out. But she caught the woman’s head before it hit the table, and she gently set her face against the wood.
Jake got in next to Tucker and the priest showed up with three half-liter beers, taking a seat in the booth next to Sirena.
They clinked their glasses together and took long drinks. When Tucker tried to drink more, Jake quickly moved the man’s glass out of reach.
“Why didn’t you tell me we were going to meet Sinclair Tucker?” Sirena asked.
“I didn’t know you knew him,” Jake responded.
“Is this like an intervention?” Tucker asked. “If so, you can both piss off. I’m fine.”
Until six months ago, Sinclair Tucker had been an officer with MI-6, the British Secret Intelligence Service. Jake had flown from Italy to Gibraltar just as Tucker retired, and the two of them had sat in this very booth for a couple of nights trying their best to drain a few kegs. Since then, Jake had only heard from Tucker by the occasional ranting e-mail, saying he had probably retired too early and didn’t know what to do with himself. Tucker had retired to Gibraltar, but only because it reminded him somewhat of his native London, with the benefit of Spain’s Costa de Sol a short drive away.