by Scott Blade
Farmer stood back up and swiped his brow of sweat as relief overcame him. Which it had. Tenfold, if he was being honest with himself.
He had been feeling extreme stress because only a moment ago, they’d navigated deep under the surface of the North Atlantic through a cluster of US ships.
At this depth, and without breaking silence, he waited until his go-to submariner gave the all-clear from the scanning equipment of the US ships. Then he walked back to the captain’s chair and dumped himself down.
He said, “Mister Kegler, you may take us back on course. We need to get there within the next few hours. Can you manage?”
“Why else would you have brought me along?” Kegler, the man at the screen, asked sarcastically. Sarcasm was a trait of many sailors that he had known in a past life.
Farmer had never been a sailor. He wasn’t pleased with the sarcasm, but he ignored it anyway.
“Good. I’m leaving the command to you,” Farmer said.
It really had been up to Kegler to begin with, since Farmer’s knowledge of helming a submarine was limited to what he had seen in movies.
“Where are you going?”
Farmer didn’t answer him, not directly. Instead, he sat back in the chair for a moment, and then got up. He waved at the redheaded guy to follow him.
They walked over to Captain Karpov and stopped.
Karpov had one black eye, swollen shut. Not from a fist, but from the butt end of the redheaded guy’s MP4’s stock. Two vicious blows to the face. Same eye. Within the same minute. All because Karpov had refused to instruct his crew to follow their orders over the intercom system onboard the boat.
But like many of the enemies that Farmer had made in the past, the captain eventually gave in.
It did surprise Farmer that it took them shooting his second-in-command and then beating him with the rifle, and then threatening his third-in-command. Who had been identified by Kegler, not just their submarine expert, but also their expert on all things Russian military.
Karpov giving in to this threat told Farmer everything that he needed to know about the captain. The way to get him to comply with demands was simply threatening someone else.
How noble? Farmer thought.
In a way, he was excited about the next person that he would threaten to Karpov—his own daughter.
“Let’s go,” the redheaded guy commanded.
Karpov stayed quiet, but moved away from the wall where they had put him and started to walk ahead.
“Stop,” the red head ordered.
Karpov stopped.
Farmer said, “Take us to your quarters.”
Karpov did not argue or speak. He started walking and they followed.
CHAPTER 31
OUTSIDE ON THE SIDEWALK across the street the man in black sat on a motorcycle, not one of those known as “hogs” from Harley Davidson, but a faster model from a Japanese brand.
The man was dressed in bikers’ attire, no leather, but all black. A cotton-polyester blended jacket, black slacks, and a biker’s helmet, with a tinted shield pulled all the way down. It was not used for blocking out the sun, as there was no sun, not in the late-night hours.
The man in black also had a brown satchel that did not match his fashion ensemble. It hung tight with one strap around one shoulder, the satchel part draped down the small of his back.
The satchel did not match because he had taken it from Edward’s apartment. Only because he needed to take Edward’s laptop and smartphone and various memory sticks he’d found lying around.
Perhaps there had been records or notes leading the police, or whoever else, to Edward’s connections to the CIA and, eventually, to the man in black and the person he worked for.
The bike’s engine hummed and purred underneath him. The low, deep vibrations rattled through his thighs and bones. The bike was well made, but it wasn’t made for idling. It was made for driving, fast.
Right now, the bike was like a horse indicating to its rider that it was ready to move, that it was getting restless.
The man in black ignored the bike and waited, but he too, felt the restlessness. A major part of his job was waiting. He didn’t like this part, but it was necessary.
He was anxious because he had taken the stairwell in and out of the apartment building, disabling the security camera at the bottom of the stairs before he entered, of course. This wasn’t a hard act to do since the damn security was a joke.
Normally, he might’ve killed the guard behind the desk, but only if there was threat of the guard being an eyewitness. In this case, there had not been.
The man in black kept his eyes on the entrance to the apartment building and his hands on the bike’s handle bar, gripping the clutch, waiting.
He was about to take off after he walked out of the stairwell because the stairwell’s ground entrance led straight to a fire door that opened out onto the other intersecting street, perpendicular to the entrance.
On his way out, he noticed a couple standing around the corner, chatting near the entrance to the apartment building.
He only caught a glimpse of them. He decided to stick around and see if they came back out.
More than just the coincidence of their being there at that late hour was that he saw a bulge in the small of the man’s back, a bulge that indicated a gun, nine times out of ten, anyway.
Under the man in black’s coat, inside pocket, was an expensive, simple piece of equipment that he used in his job, from time to time, a razor-sharp wired garrote with two stainless steel cylinder handles.
A tool that was built for only one purpose, murder. Not just any kind of murder. The garrote is a stealth weapon. It’s not as fast as a sharp knife to the throat or a bullet to the head or heart, but to the man in black, it was a hell of a lot more satisfying than a gunshot to the temple from a silenced gun, like the one he had in his pocket.
Normally, it was a shiny, clean weapon. At that moment, it was wiped clean, but still had stains of red, thick blood dotted along the wire and some spray on the handles. It needed a deeper cleaning, which the man in black would give it at the appropriate time.
This was not that time.
He had only been given one target so far to take care of, but it had been relayed to him, that there were to be no witnesses left alive. This gave him carte blanche to remove the couple as he saw fit.
Just then he saw them step out, which made their presence more than a coincidence. However, they did not qualify as eyewitnesses, not the kind that could identify him. So far, they had not seen him.
They may have discovered the crime scene. Not cause for panic, not to his mission. After all, it was going to be discovered eventually. He intended for it to be found.
Edward was dead and there was no trace of his involvement or indication of who Edward worked for in the apartment. He’d made sure of that.
The first thing that the man in black noticed about the couple who came out of Edward’s apartment building was the thing that the man was pretty tall, taller than he had noticed before. Probably because the man in black’s first instincts were to check for weapons on anyone and everyone knew who came across his path, a call back to his training.
Even if this guy had no weapons, he still would be hard to take down, at least in a fair fistfight. But the man in black was not accommodating of the rules of engagement when it came to fighting. He wasn’t a fighter. He was a killer, which is not the same thing. Snipers aren’t trained to engage in hand-to-hand combat. They’re trained to shoot and kill their targets with one shot, from a distance. Sure, they’re trained to fight up close if need be, but that’s a last resort.
The man in black wasn’t only an assassin, but this had been the focus of most of his training.
Which was why he felt pretty stupid that he’d failed to notice the woman first.
His instincts had led him to be a little misogynistic because, naturally, he thought the man was the threat. However, he realized that this was not the case
after he got a good look at the woman.
The man he had never seen before in his life, but he knew the woman. And she was not where she was supposed to be.
CHAPTER 32
WIDOW STEPPED OFF the bottom step first and looked right, looked left. He noticed a black van parked across the street. Being black made it suspicious automatically. But what made it stick out to him was that it hadn’t been there on their way in to Edward’s apartment building.
He dismissed the van as nothing more than coincidence as soon as he saw the driver switch on the hazard lights and get out. The lights blinked, red in the back and yellow from the front.
The driver slid the side panel door open, revealing a steel setup with trays of plastic-covered food or baking ingredients, Widow couldn’t tell, that was stacked on sliding metal shelves.
The guy was delivering early morning supplies to the back entrance of a corner bakery across the street, opposite the convenience store.
Widow ignored it, checked the rest of the streets and corners.
Steam rose from a sewer grate, a nearby lamppost hummed with electricity from the bright light above. Small groups of pedestrians walked on both sides of the street.
He saw a black shape in the shadows off on the next street. A dark, silhouette that looked like a man on a horse to him, for only for a brief moment, until he realized it was a guy riding a bike. Only the bike wasn’t being ridden. It was stopped at the intersection. Nothing to raise the alarm in Widow’s head because the traffic light was red for the guy.
Even from the distance between them, Widow could hear the foreign engine teem and purr, ready to go, impatient by design.
The light turned green and the guy on the motorcycle paused a long beat, stared at Widow, or so it appeared. Widow couldn’t tell because the guy had a black motorcycle helmet over his head, with the shield down, which was the part that made Widow a little uneasy.
The primate part of Widow’s brain wasn’t sounding the alarms, but it was just below a code red. Caution was strictly enforced.
Widow kept his eyes on the guy. Even though he couldn’t see the guy’s eyes, he was certain that the guy was looking back at him as well.
After another long second, the light was still green and the motorcyclist was still there, staring. Then he looked right, looked left, and turned left, headed away from Widow and Eva.
Eva asked, “What now?”
Widow watched the motorcyclist ride away, and turned to her. Looking at her, it hit him why the guy on the motorcycle was staring so hard. Eva was still in that little dress, shivering, even with Widow’s sweater over her. Although, there was no way the motorcyclist could see the display on top, it was all covered, but he could see her legs. And these were no bony stumps.
Eva’s legs looked as if they were strong enough to allow her to leap over parked cars. If she had been taller, she could dunk a basketball, easily.
So of course, the motorcyclist was staring at them, there was something to see.
Widow said, “We need to get some new clothes.”
“New?”
“Different. Anyway. You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m shivering.”
She said nothing to that.
“Besides, the guys from the hotel will more likely describe us from what we are wearing. Best to change out of these clothes.”
Eva looked him up and down and said, “You think they’ll describe you by what you’re wearing?”
“No. But you they will.”
Just then it seemed to dawn on her. She was noticeable. She knew that.
“Where are we going to find clothes at this hour?”
Widow shrugged.
“We could go to my apartment. It’s far though.”
“Where?”
“Brooklyn.”
Widow thought for a second.
“Nah. We can’t go all the way to Brooklyn. Besides, whoever killed Edward probably knows where you live. We should avoid that for now.”
“I wouldn’t have any clothes for you anyway.”
Although Widow did not know the exact time of night, he knew it was late, or very, very early, depending on your point of view.
“What time will your handler be in her office?”
“Probably, eight a.m., at the latest. But why?”
“I think we should have a talk with her. We can do it in the morning. We can stop and buy some clothes on the way. There’s bound to be a department store opening somewhere by then.”
“Widow, I can’t go to her.”
He stayed quiet.
“I’ve been gone for two days. Don’t you think she’ll want to know why?”
“Then we tell her.”
“I can’t tell her that I was held against my will.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
“I am trying to defect, remember?”
“You don’t need to tell her that part.”
“What exactly do I tell her?”
Widow said, “We can figure that out. At least I don’t see any other choice. Unless you know where to find Farmer, I think we are out of options. Edward is dead.”
Eva shook her head and said, “I don’t know where to find him.”
Widow nodded, changed the subject, and asked, “You like coffee?”
“American coffee?”
He shrugged.
“Not really.”
“I’m sure they’ll have coffee from south of the border.”
A confused expression came over Eva’s face.
“South of the border? New Jersey?” Widow smiled and said.
“I like Turkish coffee.”
Widow thought back to the last time he was passing through Istanbul. It had been a mission, like so many others. Undercover. And it included a stint sharing a hotel room with a pair of SEALs that he never met before, never seen since. They were doing something. Waiting for something. Passing the time with small talk deep enough to be interesting, vague enough to keep their anonymity. All three had used names that were aliases, but Widow couldn’t be sure about that. He knew for a fact that he had given them a fake name. He figured that they had done the same.
He wasn’t there to investigate them, but they all had had the same mission. And they were all told to keep it secret.
While in Istanbul, he had had the local coffee. He remembered they had to boil it in a pot. That was how it was made at home.
It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good. To him, it was okay.
Maybe it was better at a café. He wouldn’t know because he never made it to any local cafés.
“Not sure we’ll find that at this hour, but we should find somewhere. Get some breakfast and some coffee.”
Eva shrugged.
“Let’s get away from here.”
“Lead the way.”
Widow turned inland, left foot first, right foot followed.
Three paces forward and Eva reached out, took Widow’s hand. Hers was cold. He felt that and immediately figured she was trying to warm up. But he wasn’t sure. Maybe she was trying to blend in. Her training might’ve kicked in and told her that they should act like a couple.
By the end of the block, he was more confident that was her reasoning because she lifted his arm and ducked underneath it and came up on the other side. His arm draped over her, thick and hanging too long like a gorilla hugging a spider monkey.
CHAPTER 33
THE MAN IN BLACK sat on the motorcycle, a couple of blocks away from where he had driven after he had seen the large stranger that he didn’t recognize and the woman that he did.
His helmet was off, under his arm. The bike’s engine still hummed idly and he was still sitting on it. It was on the side of the road in an empty parking space with a meter that still took quarters. Not something that was found too much in the city anymore because New York had started to pull up those old metal meters and replace them simply with a sign and a five-digit number intended to work with a smartph
one application that allowed the commuter to open, type in the number and the amount of time that he wanted to purchase. Then the app would charge a preset credit card for the amount.
The man in black did not use such an app, nor did he have quarters for the meter. Nor did he intend to park there.
But he could see the couple walking together in the distance. He was close enough to see them, but far enough back to avoid their detection, should they look in his direction.
During normal business hours in New York City, he would’ve lost them, easily enough. But during this time of night, on this side of town, he could keep up with them with little effort.
He set the helmet down on the fuel tank of the bike, in front of him, and unzipped his jacket. He reached in, right hand. He brushed past a gun in a shoulder rig, no silencer attached, but he also had one squeezed into a tight pocket on the chest strap of the holster rig, in case he needed to be silent.
The jacket had two inside pockets. One was velcroed shut, made to hold a cell phone.
He unzipped it and jerked out his phone.
It unlocked as he pressed his thumb down on the home button and called the only number that he had used since he’d arrived in New York.
The phone rang and rang. The person who owned the number was asleep. So, he knew it would take a minute before he got an answer.
On the fourth ring, he heard a groggy voice answer.
“Yes?” the voice said, not upset about being woken up, but calm and collected. Still, with surprise because the call was unscheduled and the man in black was known for being punctual and methodical. He was a by-the-book sort, if there was a book on killing people in a coldblooded fashion, and one did exist. He knew because he had been taught from such a book, back in his days of training and statecraft.
The man in black said, “Sorry to wake you.”
“What’s happened?”
“I’m not sure, but she’s out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Karpov.”
The voice on the other line paused a beat.