Adrenaline

by Jeff Abbott

  Either I was lucky, and Nic had decided to sit near me—or Gregor had warned him and given him a description of me, and he’d come to see who the hell I was.

  I watched him from the corner of my eye and ordered another beer. I could see Nic pulling a smartphone from his pocket, studying it. He tugged nervously at the ponytail while he did so, thumbing through messages. He cursed quietly in Dutch and got up suddenly and headed for the bathrooms, which led into a hallway toward the back exit. He’d only drunk half his lager, so I followed him.

  He turned into the bathroom and glanced back. He saw me. Knowing he was just going to the toilet, I would have retreated back to the bar. But now I couldn’t.

  The bathroom was cleaner than the bar. Nic stood at a urinal, talking on the phone. I hate that. Don’t you think the other side can’t hear the crash of your pee against the porcelain?

  I washed my hands, threw cold water on my face.

  “I got the goods, the cops don’t know,” he said in English. He stopped talking. He finished and flushed the urinal and put the phone back in his pocket. Two of the Turks from the drunken table stood by the toilet stall, talking, smoking.

  And they moved to block his way out. Sudden tension. Nic murmured words I couldn’t hear in Dutch; the men moved, but slower than they had to. They left. Nic rinsed his hands; there were no towels so he dried them on his jeans. I followed him at a distance.

  He was already back on the cell phone when I got back to my pint. I was careful not to look at him, but movement caught my eye. The Turks at the far table were glaring at Nic, frowning, with a clear and ugly rage.

  Nic stayed on the phone, not paying attention. His voice was too low to hear over the surge of a bad Journey imitation wafting from the beer-soaked stage.

  Four of the Turks got up, headed toward Nic. Lost in his conversation, he didn’t see them coming. I finished my beer; you could sense the karaoke was about to be eclipsed as the entertainment and a glass is easier to use as a weapon if it’s empty.

  The four filled the bar space between me and Nic. I glanced at them, but no one had eyes for me. One man’s thick finger tapped on Nic’s shoulder.

  “Hey, you been ignoring me?”

  “Maybe,” Nic said. He closed the phone without saying good-bye.

  “You give a message to your friend Piet that’s he’s a piece of shit and I want my money.”

  “I told you, later. Later. Not now.”

  I hadn’t been the only one waiting for Nic, it seemed. “I got him his route. I want to be paid. Now.”

  I didn’t really want these Turks beating up Nic and breaking my chain. I set the glass down and got ready to move.

  31

  NIC SAID, “Did you not understand? I’m not his messenger. Tell him yourself.” A snideness—very much I’m better than you— undercut his words. He was a thin sliver of a guy and he seemed to notice, only after the snotty words hung in the air, the stocky strength of the gathered Turks.

  “No, you call him now. He keeps dodging us on the phone. Now. You tell him I got to know where the delivery point is to finish the arrangements. And I want my money.”

  “You agreed to the conditions. You don’t like the deal once it’s done, that’s your problem.”

  “He won’t be getting what he needs, then.”

  Delivering what, I wondered. This might be what Piet wanted smuggled into the States.

  “You’re crazy,” Nic said. “Go drink your beer and leave me the hell alone.”

  “I’m done taking the risks,” the Turk said. “You get me my money and the rendezvous point from him or I’ll break your goddamned neck.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Nic hissed.

  “You call him. Now.” The biggest Turk grabbed at Nic’s cell phone, and Nic jabbed it down into his jacket pocket, face reddening with anger.

  Hello, needle—I’m the thread. “Excuse me,” I said to the Turk. “Do you have a problem with this guy or with his friend?”

  “It’s no business of yours,” the Turk said, staring at me as though I’d been stupid enough to stick my hand in a pot of snakes. I am more lean than massive; the Turks were all my size or bigger, muscles and hands hardened from work.

  “But you’re beating him up to send a message to Piet?” My every word was a poke, a prod, and the Turk knew it. The most brutal bar fights erupt after whispers, not drunken hollers. A yell is a flail, a whisper is a fist. I readied myself to take the first punch and thought: every step is closer to Lucy and The Bundle, so you can take this, because you can’t let these bastards kill him. “Go find Piet yourself.”

  “What do you care?” the Turk said.

  “Because Piet already owes me, and I’m going to get my money first,” I lied. I love a good lie that acts like a miniature bomb. It shut them all up, shifted the tension.

  Nic stared now, unsure if I was just a loon or someone spoiling for a beating at the hands of a bored and drunk gang. I felt sure now that he didn’t know me. Gregor had kept his mouth closed tighter than a watch spring.

  The idea of someone getting payment before them raised the group’s temperature by about a dozen degrees. On the karaoke stage, the girl who’d flirted with me launched into Depeche Mode’s “Enjoy the Silence.” So I used it.

  “Listen to the song, dumbass,” I said to the Turk. “I’d really like to enjoy your silence.”

  “Why don’t I call Piet,” Nic started, “and we’ll just see—”

  I got hit. Hard, from behind, and even being ready my forearms slammed into the wood of the bar. I lashed out hard with a sharp kick that caught my attacker in the groin.

  Rule number one of a bar fight: you make it short. The brew of alcohol and machismo makes for a heady mix, and a fight can quickly draw in people with no connections, other than proximity, to the combatants. I did not want a ripple effect. I wanted efficiency, I wanted it over in ten seconds, and I wanted both Nic and me to be on our feet when this was done.

  My attacker went down and I took a step and powered the base of my palm twice into the face of the man next to him. He was bigger than me and he wasn’t expecting a frontal assault. Nose, throat, very fast, just as his fist grazed my jaw, and he reeled back, blood gushing from the fractured nose, gasping.

  One of the others seized me from behind, pinning my arms, and I twisted, trying to throw him off balance. Nic fought with the fourth Turk, slugging without grace or economy of action. He took a hard punch to the mouth and sagged. He wasn’t nearly as tough as his phone talk. Consider me unsurprised.

  My attacker rammed me into the bar. He slammed the front of his head into the back of mine and my head hammered into the wood. It hurt. A lot. I wasn’t going to be done in ten seconds.

  “I gonna mess you up so bad,” he hissed. Oh, so original.

  I didn’t answer because I don’t waste breath talking in a fight. No one is listening. A long-burning ember of rage exploded in my chest. These men were between me and Nic, and therefore between me and Lucy. I kicked away from the bar, planting both feet below its shelf, propelling myself and the Turk clear. He thought I was going to try and break free, so he tightened his grip. Stupid. Right now I wanted him bound up with me.

  We spun.

  I kicked off against the floor; now he was between me and the bar. I slammed him back into the wood. Threw my head back and cannoned it into his face while kicking back. Clutching me close, he didn’t have a place to dodge. He sagged on the fourth blow and let me go, so I grabbed Nic’s full pint glass and hammered it into the side of the man’s head in a spray of beer. The heavy glass didn’t break but he crumpled. Done.

  Three of the other four Turks sitting at the table approached; one stayed behind, watching, arms crossed as Nic’s man got the better of him, pinning him to the floor.

  The three threw themselves at me since I was open and available to dance.

  I leveled one with a kick to the throat, took two hard punches from his friends. I stumbled and then I parried the next
punch, drove a knee into the groin (you see how I prefer the throat and groin? They offer a substantial return on investment) of the next guy. He withdrew to the floor.

  Young Turk number three swung a broken beer glass at my face. I blocked it with my forearm, and with my other hand yanked a rag from the bar, whipped it over the mug. If you can’t take a weapon away you neutralize it. This isn’t rocket science. The move surprised him, and I powered the covered glass back into his own face. The glass didn’t cut him but it scared him, knowing the edge was jagged. Uncertainty is your friend in a fight. The guy stumbled back and left himself open; four hard, fast punches, to the eyes and the stomach, and he was done. Four to keep him down, and to make a statement to anyone in the bar eager to enter the fight.

  Nic was still grappling with his original opponent like it was first day of fight school. I seized the man, yanked him off Nic, and positioned my arm just so, his head caught in the crook of my arm.

  “I’ll break his neck,” I yelled in Turkish, and the slowly regathering Turks stopped. Seriously, there is no point in fighting if you do not have to. The man in my grip went very still and I could feel the panicked panting of his breath. The bar could see I meant what I said and I stood like a man with a knowledge of leverage. It got quiet. Even the flirt stopped singing and the Depeche Mode melody thrummed ahead in its lonely beat.

  “Let him go,” the bartender called in Dutch.

  I said, “You call the police?”

  The bartender’s gaze slid to Nic, and I saw Nic shake his head, ever so slightly.

  “No,” the bartender said.

  In Turkish I said, “Back off and I’ll let him go. Your friends started it. Not me. You saw him hit me first.”

  The Turks stayed put. Hands still in fists. Then one sat, and the rest of them followed.

  “Gggaaggghh,” the man in my grip said.

  I said, “Shhhhhh.” Then I yelled at the girl on the stage, “Start singing, please.”

  She stared and then her gaze caught the karaoke prompter. She mumbled and then broke into that last bridge of the Depeche Mode tune with a nervous, bright smile on her face.

  “Outside,” I said to Nic and, looking a bit stunned, he got to his feet and obeyed.

  I shoved the guy I was holding to the floor. I followed Nic into the cool of the Amsterdam night, the girl crooning about vows spoken to be broken.

  Nic waited for me. “Thank you,” he said.

  “You’re welcome,” I said, and I stopped by him to catch my breath.

  And then he put the gun in my ribs.

  32

  TAKE THE GUN DOWN,” I said. “You’ll get arrested in about five seconds.”

  He kept the gun under his jacket, me close to him. I didn’t pull away because I didn’t know if he’d shoot me.

  “Walk,” he said. “Just walk normally.” He kept glancing back to see if the Turks were surging out in pursuit—and yes, here they came.

  “You might point that at them,” I said.

  He lowered the gun and I grabbed the first Turk by the throat. There was a window with a hooker standing in it and I gestured, with a slash of my hand, for her to move out of the way. She got the message and bolted behind the red velvet curtain that was her backdrop. I pushed him through the glass and ran like hell. Because once the hookers are in danger, here come the police, and they closed in fast, talking into shoulder-mounted mikes, hurrying past me and Nic.

  “You put that gun back in my ribs, I’ll break you,” I said. “Let’s go talk. Someplace quiet.”

  Near Dam Square we found a quiet bar/café. No karaoke, no drunken Turks, no fights brewing.

  I had blood on the front of my shirt, and the bartender’s gaze widened slightly as we came inside. She was an older, brittle-smiling woman, and she started to shake her head no. Nic went to her, spoke softly in rapid Dutch that I couldn’t catch, and she nodded after a moment. We sat across from each other at a corner table, out of sight of the street in case the Turks kept roving, my back to the wall so I could see the entire room. But we were blocks away now, and I hoped they’d decided to drink away their anger and embarrassment if they’d dodged the police.

  He ordered us two beers from the waitress. She looked at me and I had blood in the corner of my mouth. She brought me a wet napkin and no questions. I cleaned my face. She set beers down in front of us, with a tall shot glass of clear liquid. “Kopstoot,” Nic said, pointing at the chaser. “It means a blow to the head. You’ll like it.”

  “At least it’s not a hole in the head,” I said. I wasn’t done with the fighting—I wanted to hit some more. I am not proud of that. But it is what it is. I used to prefer quiet nights at home, reading, watching good movies with Lucy, going to bed early and making love. Now I just wanted to hit fist against flesh, boot against jaw. The brutal dance of the fight shook awake a darkness slumbering inside of me. I tamped it down with a long draw on the tall shot—it tasted a lot like gin—before I even bothered with the beer. A drunken bar brawl; wow, I was really sliding into smooth gear here. I had to clear my head.

  “That’s backwards,” Nic said. “You drink the beer first, then the jenever. Do you do everything backwards?”

  “Huh?”

  “Usually you get to know a man before you risk your life for him in a bar fight.”

  “Those guys were assholes. I don’t like assholes. And you’re an asshole for sticking a gun in my ribs when I helped you.”

  Nic took a sip of his beer.

  “Forgive me. I am a cautious man,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “Peter Samson. My friends call me Sam for short.”

  “You fought like you are a soldier.”

  “I was, once. Now I’m not.”

  “Does Piet really owe you money?”

  “I don’t know who Piet is,” I said.

  He stared. “What, you just decide to—” he fumbled for the right English word “—insert yourself into a fight?”

  “I was bored. I don’t have a job to go to tomorrow.”

  He took a long hard sip of his beer and rubbed his jaw. He followed it by a sip of jenever. I saw his glance wander over to a family sitting a few tables over: father, mother, little girl about eight. He watched the girl laugh and take a bite of her mother’s dessert. Then, reluctantly almost, it seemed, he pulled his gaze back to me, as if he’d decided on his questions. “Where were you a soldier?”

  “Canadian Special Forces.”

  “You left them?”

  “They asked me to.”

  “For fighting in bars?”

  “No. I stole some stuff and sold it on eBay. Dishonorable discharge but no jail time once I paid them back. My commander wanted to avoid the embarrassment of me implicating him.” I shrugged. “I did it. I can’t blame them for giving me the boot.”

  “Well, a fighter and a thief. Aren’t I lucky?” He gave me an odd, crooked smile.

  “I prefer to think of myself as an entrepreneur.”

  “You said you don’t have a job. Maybe you want a job?”

  “What, fighting your fights for you?”

  He took the slap of the insult well. “I haven’t thanked you. Fine. Thank you, Sam. I could have handled them, but thank you.”

  “You didn’t pull the gun.” I’d missed wherever he was carrying. It must have been strapped on his lower leg. Nowhere had I seen a broken drape in his shirt or his jacket.

  “No, you seemed to eliminate the need to do so.”

  I didn’t say anything and I drank, slowly, the rest of my beer. He wasn’t very smart, to be a poor fighter and not produce the gun when threatened by an angry group. There was only one reason he might have hesitated: he did not want the attention. He wanted to stay below notice, and pulling a gun even in a rough bar would result in unwanted interest.

  Silence is my most powerful weapon. Most people literally cannot sit in silence with another human being around, especially in a café over drinks. We consider it odd.

  The quiet bot
hered Nic. “So. If you might be interested in bodyguard work, I might be able to get you a job.”

  “I don’t have a Dutch work permit,” I said. “I lost the paperwork.”

  “You wouldn’t need a permit. My clients are, um, very discreet.”

  “Um, like pimps? I don’t beat up on hookers.”

  “Oh, no. Much more high-class.” He lowered his voice. “But one of the perks is, you know, girls.”

  I kept my face still. “I think I ought to get a beer for each guy I downed.” I hoisted the glass. “You owe me two more.”

  A smile inched across his face, slowed, faded back to the solemn frown. “All right.” He was a busy man, he gave off an air of impatience, but he liked what he’d seen in the bar fight—he had to know I’d acquitted myself far better than he had—and he’d decided not to walk away from me. Not yet. He gestured at the waitress for another round, sans the jenever.

  “Where in Canada are you from?” I knew all this would be checked tomorrow.

  “Toronto.”

  “I know it well.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Did you ever eat at the Rosedale Diner on Parker Street?”

  “It’s on Yonge Street. Best hamburger in town.” I could smell a test.

  “Your parents?”

  “Dead.” I shrugged. “They left me a little money to see the world.”

  “Which high school did you go to?”

  “St. Michael’s College School. Then to McGill. Studied history, barely passed. But enough to get into Canadian Forces Officer Candidate School.” My legend as Peter Samson, Canadian scofflaw, had been built by the Company. Nic wasn’t going to be able to dent it. I was Peter Samson, from birth until now, and there were school records and credit histories and a Canadian military record to support me.

  Unless the Company had wiped out that identity. In which case, no records on Peter Samson would exist.

  “You know Amsterdam?” Nic asked me.

  I took another long drag of beer and stifled a belch. “Pardon. Not well. I know Prague and Warsaw and Budapest better.”

  “You’ve spent a lot of time in eastern Europe.”