Jack Be Nimble: A Lion About to Roar Book 4

by Ben English

  “She created the team,” Alonzo corrected. “She was an instigator. A provocateur.”

  Ian leaned back in his chair, visibly relaxing. “Toria liked to pick fights. She always made sure we won.”

  Allison looked at Alonzo, expectantly.

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay. But to explain it the right way, I’ve got to tell you about the first time.”

  “I thought the Iranian desert was the first time.”

  From the corner of her eye, Allison saw Ian lace his hands behind his head and lean back He took a deep, slow breath.

  “Hell, no,” he said.

  First

  Alonzo always figured the last time would go something like the first time, and the first time went pretty much like this:

  He was done with the Navy, and it hadn’t ended well. Not borne homeward on his own shield, not in a sandy grave in a warm country, and most certainly without a fusillade of bullets. He was out. Into the valley of death rode the six hundred . . . without him.

  Washing out of a military career wasn’t the most difficult thing in the world, and Lieutenant Junior Grade Alonzo Noel had mixed feelings as he started back toward the U.S. and civilian life. He felt the opposite of young.

  The disciplinary review board was gracious enough to offer a choice: a quiet, general discharge or a Big Chicken Dinner. This was military slang for a Bad Conduct Discharge, the punishment awarded to a sailor who has committed a serious infraction of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Also more akin to a public mauling. He’d chosen the least noisy route, provided they grant him enough personal leave on the way home for a side-trip to Paris. Alonzo needed to get reacquainted with a boyhood friend who’d somehow fumbled his way into the moviemaking business, and make amends for missing his wedding.

  Jack and Victoria lived in a rented house north of the city. A simple place, but there was enough space for Alonzo, his seaman’s bag, and a case of Pilsner beer they’d bought just for his visit. He was dying to ask Jack about Iran, but manners dictated he’d suffer the equivalent of two beers’ worth of small talk before demanding explanations. Didn’t want to wear out his welcome on the first day of his last leave.

  Jack wasn’t much of a beer drinker.

  Unlike most of their high school classmates, he didn’t seem to be expanding gently into soft, spongy adulthood. Alonzo found this personally encouraging. There were no kids yet, but he figured they’d come soon enough. Jack had the money to back that venture, and he confided in Alonzo that he’d begun buying real estate in different parts of the world. There was an apartment building in Paris he wanted to purchase, originally a manse, supposedly full of secret Resistance passages and other idiosyncrasies from the Nazi Occupation, and would Alonzo give him a hand looking into it? Afterwards they could check out the Fields of Mars, and Alonzo could tour the nearby hospital, the one where old soldiers go to die. He found the idea darkly fascinating.

  “Wait until you see Napoleon’s mausoleum. The flags from the armies he beat still hang in the chapel, some with blood and gunpowder stains. You’ll get a real kick out of it, you two have so much in common.

  “As military genius about to conquer the world?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of height and shoe size, but you might actually be taller by a hair.”

  Later, Alonzo would be unable to recall exactly what they were talking about when Toria burst into the room. Likely a continuation of one of the bottomless discussions leftover from childhood: time travel, pirates vs. ninjas, life after death. One of those conversations that would never really be concluded. Alonzo was just about to open his first beer when Toria entered at a full run.

  Jack’s wife. Her mere existence posed another set of interesting questions for Alonzo. He figured Jack must really love her; he always fell hard and shallow for blondes, which Toria was not.

  Jack was playing against type. Alonzo suspected a rule had been broken.

  Every man or boy, upon reaching a certain age, locks in to a certain type of woman. He’s drawn to a particular combination of features or personality (mostly the former, let’s be honest) and afterward usually lacks sufficient imagination to seriously pursue someone outside that combination.

  Which was fine. From what Alonzo could tell, every woman he ever met fit somebody’s type, and there were enough hilarious fixations to go around. Funny thing was, he always expected Jack to be terminally distracted by a Swedish milkmaid. But Jack went and actually married the opposite. Hell, Toria herself could very well be proof that Jack was in love with her.

  The term Black Irish included hair, eyes, and temper. He bet her freckles would vanish underneath a tan. As an added bit of flair, she’d grown up in the Philippines. English was her third or fourth language. She claimed her parents were diplomatic attaches (in Alonzo-speak, this meant spy, but after seeing her with a large knife at dinner, flensing the flesh off a ham with the same general shape and mass as his head, he was more inclined to think Irish mob).

  Toria entered the room holding her cell phone like a samurai warrior, flushed.

  “She’s kidnapped. Anna was visiting his school friends in Amsterdam and she was kidnapped. His schoolmate saw him pulled into a van near Utrecht.”

  The mangled pronouns should have tipped him off. Later, after he’d gotten to know her better, Alonzo would come to realize just how close she was at that moment to blind panic. A unique souvenir from spending her childhood speaking the languages of the Philippines, whenever Toria became excited she tended to drop all gender distinctions in her use of pronouns. The letters P and F sometimes switched places. It was a Filipino thing. This propensity did comical things to her French and drove her conversational English right to the edge of hilarious incomprehensibility. It was rare. Fortunate for communications’ sake, Toria almost always maintained her cool. This not being one of those times.

  “He’s all alone, Jack! Anna’s cell phone is off and so I can’t find him with the GPS.”

  Good thing he hadn’t gotten much of a start on that beer. Alonzo gathered enough to realize that someone he’d never met, barely out of her teens, was missing. A few minutes' worth of listening and further back-translation told him that Anna was Toria’s god-daughter, visiting Europe for the first time, and due to arrive in Paris the day of Alonzo’s departure. She had a newly-minted engineering degree from the University of the Philippines, no husband, and was in full celebratory tour of both of these facts, visiting cousins and aunts across the Continent and up and down both sides of the U.S.

  Jack and Toria seemed to forget their guest for a moment, and Alonzo set down the beer and tried to follow the conversation, but ran into another linguistic snag: His hosts both lapsed into Tagalog.

  At first Alonzo couldn’t believe Jack was really speaking a language other than English. Tagalog was pretty to listen to, with rounded, lyrical consonants and uncomplicated vowels. He could even pick out the Spanish bits, but they weren’t anything like the language he’d learned growing up. The Spanish components of the Filipino language were either four generations old or fused and fragmented with other languages, apparently at random, as though some horrific head-on collision had taken place on the linguistic superhighway.

  He’d never be able to recall the actual moment he decided to go with Jack, or even if Jack asked him to come, but a few minutes after Toria’s breathless entrance the two men were driving hard and fast on the A15, the city behind them. Rural France at night was absolutely identical to rural anywhere at night. Dark, flattish, and very green. They had a laptop, a cell phone, and a bag of energy bars. Later Alonzo would figure they traveled north, both of them without any form of personal identification. A mental image flashed by of himself and Jack, stopped by a fortified roadblock of one sort or another, raising their arms confidently like Chevy Chase and Dan Ackroyd in a movie they’d loved as kids. “It’s okay. We’re Americans!” Followed immediately by the sound of dozens of rifle bolts ratcheting into position.

  The car
was painfully small, the back seat an afterthought.

  Jack drove at first, keeping up more or less a steady phone conversation with Toria, who was by that time sitting at the center of an enormous and deep-reaching web of intelligence-gathering power similar in scope to that maintained by both superpowers during the height of the Cold War, although far more efficient and based completely on extended Filipino and Irish family members currently residing in Europe. By the time they crossed into Belgium, the two men had minute details of the most recent days of Anna’s life, including the address of the street corner in Utrecht where she’d been bustled into a van, the probable contents of her purse, and several unnecessarily frank particulars about Anna’s preferred brands of feminine hygiene products.

  Belgium. Wonderful. A comically inept version of France, somehow more effeminate.

  The girl was taken along with three of her friends, also new arrivals in the Netherlands. “The other girls came over on entertainment visas. Filipina singers are popular in Amsterdam.”

  And the pieces started to fall into place.

  Jack and Toria spoke over a speakerphone, sometimes in English for Alonzo’s benefit, but often in Tagalog. This was a new Jack, but not really. Alonzo marveled at how none of this felt out of the ordinary. They were right on the rails, he and Jack, felt right on target. Blazing across Europe in the dead of night, this was somehow what they were supposed to be doing, what they were built for.

  Alonzo felt right with himself for the first time since joining the Navy. Hadn’t even finished a single beer.

  Listening to the constant stream of intel from Toria gave him a bit of time to work his head around Tagalog, too. He wasn’t a linguist, but it seemed to Alonzo that anything of interest that existed in the Philippines before the colonizers showed up had a native-sounding word attached to it (dirt, rock, tree, woman), while everything that the Spaniards had contributed to society had at least a Spanish root (gun, execution, church, taxes), and those items of cultural significance the Americans had brought over were pretty much in English (basketball, television, bikini). There were even a few Chinese words in the mix (noodle, gold, pawn shop). Later conversations with Jack would confirm that this theory was pretty much on the money. Filipinos were the Irish of Asia, some of history’s greatest adapters and storytellers. Language adaptation and historical exposure to external cultures were almost perfectly linked in the Philippines. With one exception. To hell with the Japanese.

  Alonzo drove at one point while Jack rested his eyes and argued with a third person over the phone, in a language Alonzo didn’t understand and which Jack apparently didn’t speak all that well, because he kept repeating himself, always the same words, spoken at the same calm, quiet volume.

  Abruptly he turned to Alonzo. “Do you know anything about the Georgian Mafia?”

  Alonzo didn’t know anything about the Georgian Mafia.

  “That’s okay. At least we’re not dealing with the Chechens. You mess with their women, they think you’re going after the drugs, weapons, and counterfeiting operations, too.”

  They stopped the car outside of Antwerp, in a cold little semi-valley where the night air pooled, deep and clean and cold, cold. Waiting for them under a streetlight, a long case in his hand, stood one of the largest, darkest men Alonzo had ever seen. His suit was a natty tweed. Had a bright red tulip in his boutonnière.

  He shoehorned himself into the back seat and hunkered down, the long case across his knees. “I don’t seem to have a seatbelt? Well.” He extended a huge hand. “Solomon Keyes.” They shook. Looking into the other man’s open face and smiling eyes, Alonzo had no doubts. Sniper.

  His voice resonated in the tiny pocket of warmth and light offered by the car. “Hanneke and Jos are on site. She’s having a time keeping her temper under control.”

  They drove on. While Jack chattered away on the phone, Solomon Keyes kept up a counterbalanced narration, speaking mostly to Alonzo.

  “The last time we did this, we weren’t very fortunate. Most of the women said they fell down stairs. Either that place had the worst-maintained stairways in the world, or the women were being punched, beaten with bats, and administered electric shocks.” He paused. “In Prague the girls were cut with razors to make them submit.”

  Alonzo nearly pulled the car over at that point, intent on demanding more information, but Jack handed him his phone. “Talk to whoever answers. Please tell them Jack is going to need some live-work visas, and probably a dentist, by noon tomorrow.”

  They parked the car in a narrow alley in what Jack referred to as “The Hoboken”, and met up with a pair of matching blondes: a man and woman, the man carrying gas for their car—so as to avoid any record of their presence at a gas station, Alonzo guessed (correctly, as it turned out). Also: the woman wearing a coat full of guns. She was really quite lean underneath all the ordnance. Jack took a Glock for himself, along with a few other things, and Alonzo helped himself to a Kimber .45 ACP. The solid stainless steel weapon was heavy and warm in his hand. Most of the weight lay in the barrel, which would minimize muzzle lift and hold the slide in the battery longer, increasing accuracy. Alonzo hadn’t had any coffee in hours, but was sure he’d be overcome at any moment by a case of the twitches.

  Jack moved quickly within a tight, efficient space of calm, carrying himself with an economy of movement Alonzo had seen only once before, in Iran, that dusty afternoon in the Kavir desert.

  They filled the car. One massive interlocking collection of human limbs and steel weapons. Lord, the woman had huge teeth; no, just a broad smile. She fairly shone with angry anticipation.

  After a few more minutes of driving, Solomon and Jos disappeared with the empty gas cans and Solomon’s not-empty gun case. Jack, Alonzo, and Hanneke took a stroll around the block. It was a high-traffic neighborhood, rebuilt in stark modern style after the Nazis tried to shell the advancing Allies back into the sea. Gummy, blue-green bits of glass clung to cracks in the sidewalk.

  They stopped on Falcon Square, near Antwerp’s red light district, in the dark doorway of a store full of cheap Russian goods. Across the street, a big LCD sign announced “New Girls Every Week!” in pink English. High, wide windows fronted the entire first floor, and music spilled out along with the thin, bloody light.

  Alonzo cleared his throat. “Just the three of us?”

  Hanneke smiled largely. “Jos is with Solomon, as his spotter. My man doesn’t do well in the close-and-dirty.”

  For the first time since they left Paris, Jack looked at him, intently. Gave Alonzo his full attention. He was probably about to ask a question or say something profound, but before he could do so Alonzo shook his head and stepped off the curb.

  The lobby was seedier than it looked from the outside. Couches, a bar, and even a few board games on the low tables. Place looked like a coffeehouse out of an American sitcom. Three heavies near the front door (two with handguns under their vests), half a dozen customers, and one long-haired Turk on a stool at the bar, watching everyone and everything. The girls were evenly divided between light frocks, skimpy red dresses, and glow-in the-dark Spandex pants. Most were Asian, some were Eastern European. The girl dancing on the bar was from West Africa. Nearly all looked like they belonged in a junior high school choir.

  Crossing the threshold, Jack’s demeanor changed completely. He smiled broadly, stared around appreciatively at the scenery (grinned at the security cameras) and drummed his fingers on his pockets.

  He walked right up to the Turk at the bar and asked if there were any new Filipinas available. The man grinned, showing two gold teeth in the place of canines, right where you’d expect bloody fangs to be.

  Things slowed down for a moment. Hanneke was talking casually with one of the guards near the front door, making a crude joke by the look on his face. Two flexible-looking women watched Alonzo from a backless couch. They reminded him uncomfortably of Toria, aside from the fact they wore only a few lacy triangles, strategically placed here and th
ere, and Jack—

  Jack stood there, beaming widely at the owner. Had to be the owner. He had the set and posture of a man who works for himself. And Jack had his complete attention.

  “Filipina? Three new dancers, upstairs. Very, very sweet. They cost you, though. Brand new, so you should take your time. Best get warmed up first with a girl who knows what she is doing.” He tipped his head toward one of the women, but his eyes never left the grinning American. “Natasha yatashi!”

  Later, Alonzo would learn this was the new Turkish mating call. ‘Natasha, jump into bed!’ The actual name of the woman in question was Olena, and she had three loose teeth since her first and only attempt to assert that fact.

  More pleasantries between Jack and the enormous Turk. Tactically, things weren’t looking good. Lots of moving civilians. Multiple fields of fire. Even if the big guy was a sniper, there’d been no real planning, no clearly defined scenario.

  A plan would be a good thing.

  There was a SEAL squad stationed on Bata’an; in a recent life Alonzo frequently joined their mission briefings. Navy SEALs worked off a branching mission structure, taking into account contingency after contingency after contingency. Their whiteboard discussions were as convoluted and complex as Toria’s family tree. Tonight, watching Jack operate headlong without real mission planning, felt like riding a mustang down a staircase at full gallop.

  A trickle of sweat slicked down the small of his back.

  No idea how many exits there were from this place, had to be at least two more heavies close by (the cameras fed somewhere). And where was the bartender?

  Alonzo moved to Jack’s three o’clock, near the bar. Studied the labels on the bottles. A hard man in a grey suit passed through his field of vision carrying two glasses of something, and as his posture shifted, Alonzo realized he was ex-military. Not too far ex, however. Probably a cop. Definitely armed. And he’d noticed Alonzo, as well.