Tom Clancy Firing Point

by Mike Maden

  “It will just be a moment.”

  She saw the number. Part of her wanted to ignore the call. But part of her wanted to hear his voice. She didn’t know why.

  “Hola, Jack.”

  “Hi. Sorry to bother you. I was hoping we could talk.”

  “Sure. I have a few minutes.”

  “I mean, I want to meet you somewhere.”

  She glanced over at her father, who was staring at the distant sea, pretending not to listen. She lowered her voice.

  “Why can’t we speak on the phone?”

  “I’m not sure it’s safe.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. I checked at your office but they said you had left for the day.”

  “I’m not feeling well.”

  “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  She sighed. She really wasn’t feeling well, and she didn’t want to leave her father. But Jack needed closure, too. It would be nice to be the one to deliver the good news in person.

  “Okay, I’ll text you an address and I’ll see you there in thirty minutes.”

  “Thanks.” He hung up.

  “Who is Jack?” her father asked.

  “An American.” She texted the address of a restaurant. “I’ve been trying to help him.” She hit the send key.

  “What is his full name?”

  “Jack Ryan.”

  “Ryan?” His eyes widened. “You can’t trust this man.”

  Brossa frowned. “Why not?”

  Ernesto leaned over, wagging a finger.

  “Because he is a spy!”

  Brossa’s heart sank. So much for turning a corner. She sat up.

  “And why do you think he is a spy?”

  “Because I worked with him when he was in Brussels, at NATO headquarters. I was a translator there with the Spanish Defense Ministry.”

  She patted his spotted hand. “I don’t think Jack was old enough to work with you in Brussels. In fact, he wasn’t even born yet.”

  His face fell. “You don’t believe me?”

  She stood, picking up her empty coffee cup. He rose on unsteady knees as well.

  “Yes, of course I do. I believe you believe it. But perhaps it is just a coincidence of names.”

  “Is he handsome?”

  Brossa pursed her lips, thinking. She didn’t want to feed his fantasy. But she could never lie to her father. “Yes.”

  “And is he young, about your age?”

  “Yes.”

  “And does he have blue eyes?”

  How would he know that? Well, he couldn’t. It was just another crazy coincidence. She hated to confirm that fact to him because it would feed his dementia, convincing him he didn’t have it.

  But a good daughter never lies to her father, does she?

  “Yes, Jack does have blue eyes.”

  “You see! It’s him! Un espía!” His eyes beamed with pride.

  She touched a hand to his bearded face. She smiled outwardly, but inwardly wept with pity. “Thank you, Papa. That is good to know. I promise I will be very, very careful with this espía.”

  “I have my pistol. I’ll get it for you.” He turned toward the house but she stopped him with a gentle tug on his elbow.

  “No need. He isn’t dangerous. And besides, I carry my own, remember?”

  “Of course I remember. I’m the one who taught you how to shoot when you were just a little girl.”

  “And you taught me well. I won’t be gone long. Perhaps an hour, no more than two. I will call the nurse.”

  “Nonsense! I have my fútbol. Barça plays Granada today. I’ll wait here by the television for you.”

  She hugged him. He wrapped his long arms around her.

  “I love you, Papa.”

  “I love you, too. Stay safe.”

  “I will. Always.”

  50

  Jack and Brossa sat at one of the window-side tables near the entrance to Els Quatre Gats—the Four Cats—in Barri Gòtic, waiting for the server to bring their coffees and bombas.

  “Do you know the history of this place?” Brossa asked.

  “Picasso displayed his first painting here at seventeen. The original owner discovered many other great artists. You could call it the birthplace of modernism.”

  “I didn’t know you were an art scholar.”

  Jack shrugged. “I read it on the menu.”

  She glanced around at the stained-glass windows, brass fixtures, and period artwork.

  “It can be touristy at times, but when it’s quiet like this, I find it quite charming. Very fin de siècle. Something old and, yet, something new. It is very Catalonian.”

  “Thanks for suggesting it. And thanks for coming down. How is your father?”

  “He’s home watching soccer. He’s a hometown fan, of course. Thank you for asking.”

  “You said you have good news for me?”

  Brossa sat up, beaming. “You saw the news yesterday about Brigada?”

  “Yeah. All killed. Is it true?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I was there.”

  “You were the woman they showed charging that house before it blew?”

  Brossa lowered her eyes, embarrassed by the attention. “Yes, I suppose so. I didn’t see the actual broadcast.”

  Jack reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, of course. No big deal.”

  “The newscast said they blew themselves up and tried to take you all with them.”

  “That’s exactly what happened. You should be happy.”

  “Why?”

  “Because those terrorists are all dead, and your friend has her justice.”

  “Did you get my text? With the photo?”

  “The man with the hazel eyes? Yes, of course.”

  “Did you check the farmhouse? Was he there?”

  “We couldn’t get through the wreckage. It was too extensive. It’s still being dealt with. The bodies are at the coroner’s office at the Guardia Civil and being identified. That will take some time. A week, perhaps two. The remains were scattered by the blast. If he’s there, I will let you know.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Brossa frowned. “I thought you’d be happy to know that the case is closed.”

  “I am. I just hate loose ends. I’ll be completely satisfied when the guy is found and identified.”

  “Like I said, it will take some time.”

  The server arrived with their coffees and bombas.

  “Gràcies,” Jack said.

  The college-age server smiled. She was cute and gave Jack another look as she walked away. Brossa saw this. Jack didn’t.

  “Well, your Català is getting better, I see.” She lifted her cup. “To Renée. May she rest in peace now.”

  “To Renée.”

  They sipped in silence for a moment. Brossa cut her bomba with a fork.

  “Do you know why they call this a ‘bomba’?”

  “It means ‘bomb,’ doesn’t it?” Jack really hadn’t thought about it.

  “Yes. It was invented because of the civil war. The round potato croquet is the bomb, and this little bit of garlic aioli cream on top is meant to be the fuse, and the hot red sauce is meant to be like an explosion in your mouth.”

  Jack cut his with a fork as well. The tine crunched through the lightly fried potato, revealing the ground beef interior. He suddenly wasn’t sure if he wanted to eat it. Yeah, it was a piece of culinary history, and delicious as hell. But Renée . . .

  He set his fork down. “What if he wasn’t at the farmhouse?”

  “Then I’ll find him. I promise you that. You know I will.”

>   “I won’t feel like the case is closed until we find him.”

  Her voice lowered. “Until I find him. You need to go home.”

  “But—”

  “Do you want to get me in trouble? I’ve already brought you too deep into this case, as a favor to you. Please don’t put my job at risk. It means too much to me.”

  “I’m not trying to put your job—”

  Brossa’s phone rang. “It’s my father. I need to take this.” She snatched it up.

  “Of course.”

  She spoke with him in a calming tone for a few minutes, but Jack could hear the rising anxiety in her father’s voice over the phone’s earpiece. Jack couldn’t understand what they were saying, but he could read the emotions.

  She rang off.

  “Jack, I’m sorry, but I must go. My father is very upset and he—”

  “You don’t need to explain anything.”

  “Thank you.” She reached for her purse.

  “Forget it, it’s on me.”

  Jack pulled out his wallet as they stood and peeled off several bills, leaving enough for the food and an overly generous tip. Brossa started to leave. He stopped her.

  “Let me walk you to your car and say a proper good-bye.”

  She nodded. “Of course. Forgive my poor manners. Thank you.”

  “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  —

  They exited through the Gothic-styled archway and onto the narrow, paved walkway, heading east on Carrer de Montsió—hardly a street, save for the small delivery vans that navigated the pedestrian path.

  It was crowded with people, including some tourists. But mostly locals, Jack saw, many of them with their independence flags draped over their shoulders like capes, as he’d seen before.

  Another protest.

  “We must hurry. My car is across Via Laietana.”

  Jack knew the four-lane boulevard well. It was one of the main arteries in the old town. It had been the site of previous protests, judging by the melted street signs and burned trash cans that the city government hadn’t yet replaced.

  The pedestrian walkway changed its name to Portet where it widened into a two-lane thoroughfare, picking up more and more protesters as they went. A blue police van was parked at the end of it, fronting Laietana.

  Jack and Brossa were carried by the flow of flag-draped bodies surging around the van and onto Laietana, which was now a river of humanity. The cars were completely stopped in all four lanes. Most drivers were smiling and pointing, and many honked their horns, all in support of the march. Signs called for liberty, freedom of speech, and justice for the jailed politicians. Not many called for independence, Jack noticed. He supposed the independence flags with the white stars were loud enough.

  “These things happen so quickly, like a flash mob,” Brossa said, smiling. “I’m so proud of my people. Do you see? No violence! Only hope.”

  “Which way?”

  “Right, down to the traffic circle, left on Cambó.”

  Jack took Brossa’s hand as well as the lead, guiding them both through the swelling masses. People were laughing and shouting, and blowing whistles, too. Jack even heard a couple of trumpeting vuvuzelas, like at a soccer game.

  Jack was half a head taller than most and broader shouldered but he still felt suffocated by the boisterous crowds and the people bumping into him as they squeezed past. It wasn’t possible for Brossa to walk next to him. Bodies surged around them, propelling them forward, but trapping them as well. He felt her shifting back and forth at the end of his arm like she was a fish on the hook of his hand.

  Jack kept his head on a swivel, glancing left and right as they marched, glad to be holding her fingers in his, knowing she was right behind him. He felt a sudden pang of sadness, knowing that in a few moments he’d put her in her car and likely never see her again. If he stayed around for a while, he knew they’d be good friends. Who knows, maybe even more.

  And she was right. It was her case, and she’d be the one to finally close it once she found Crooked Nose, dead or alive. He only wished he could be there when she did.

  What neither Jack nor Brossa realized was that the hazel-eyed man with the crooked nose—Bykov—was very much alive, and only a few feet behind them.

  * * *

  —

  “Jack—”

  He barely heard Brossa’s voice above the din, but it broke sharply, like a cry. A second later, her hand released, and Jack instinctively grasped it harder, only to feel the sudden weight of her body pulling him backward.

  He turned around just as her body hit the pavement, her paralyzed arms unable to cushion her fall as her head thudded like a melon against the sidewalk.

  Bykov leaped over her body and lunged at Jack, thrusting a handheld jet injector like a rapier at Jack’s bare throat.

  Jack let go of Brossa’s hand as he lunged backward, bumping hard into a shorter, broad-backed Spaniard, built like a stevedore, in a tank top and jeans.

  The Spaniard shouted in protest and whipped around, knocking Jack aside just as Bykov thrust the poison-filled injector at Jack’s face. The spring-fired device dumped a massive dose of nerve agent—Novichok—into the Spaniard’s beefy arm. He yelped in painless shock and grabbed his wounded biceps as Jack hammer-fisted Bykov’s extended arm, forcing him to drop the lethal cylinder onto the pavement.

  All of this happened in the span of a couple of heartbeats. The Spaniard’s last, it turned out, as the Novichok began its merciless work, killing his nervous system, destroying the connection between his brain and muscle tissues.

  In eight more seconds, he’d be dead.

  Bykov turned, and pushed his way back into the oncoming crowd, swimming upriver against the flow of bodies now surging around Brossa convulsing on the pavement. A young brunette knelt down next to her, feeling for a pulse.

  Jack glanced back at the Spaniard, who was now crumpling to his knees, his watering eyes wide with terror, bowels and bladder loosed, his breathless mouth open in a silent shout, spilling with vomit.

  Jack started to reach out for him, but his subconscious told him the Spaniard was beyond help.

  He turned and chased after Bykov, pushing past the crowd gathering around Brossa’s body twisted on the pavement, her now lifeless eyes open to the sky. Jack filed away his grief for later.

  But not his rage.

  * * *

  —

  Powerfully built, the young Russian operative dodged and stutter-stepped around the people he could, and bowled through the ones he couldn’t, even tossing a few down behind him to slow Jack’s pace.

  Offended parties reacted to Bykov’s rough treatment but not quickly enough to hurt him, let alone slow him down. In fact, it was Jack who suffered their wrath, as they seemingly blamed him for Bykov’s behavior by reaching out with their hands to grab and slow him down. A few threw kicks and punches but the glancing blows didn’t stop him.

  Jack kept saying lo siento!—I’m sorry!—to people as he bulled his way behind Bykov, who somehow was threading the needle like a fullback on a broken tackle run, and pulling away fast.

  Jack’s only advantage was his height, and he was able to catch a glimpse of Bykov ducking off Laietana and onto an unmarked side street.

  Jack powered through the surging protesters, ignoring the shouts of anger and fear behind him and the sound of a distant siren.

  He finally made the turn into the narrow alleyway, but Bykov was gone.

  Jack slid to a halt. Shit! Where did he go?

  The stone-paved alley bent into a gentle curve, a narrow, shadowed path between four- and five-story buildings, leading to a cross street two hundred feet ahead.

  Jack charged forward, eyes scanning recessed doorways and alcoves, racing for the intersection.

  A glint of steel swung out of the
shadows. Jack turned, raising his forearm, blocking the downward strike of Bykov’s arm.

  But Bykov’s momentum drove the two of them stumbling across the narrow alley into a niche crowded with garbage cans overflowing with the wet, fetid refuse of a Chinese restaurant.

  The two of them crashed into the cans, bowling them over. Jack and Bykov fell between them, Bykov on top of Jack, his knees buried into Jack’s thighs, pinning him to the filthy pavement.

  Bykov raised his combat knife with one hand and grabbed Jack’s shirt in the other as he plunged the serrated blade at Jack’s heart.

  But Jack snatched up one of the dented garbage can lids and raised it like a shield. The razor-sharp drop-point blade plunged into the aluminum lid up to the hilt, the knife’s serrated edges catching in the metal.

  Jack twisted the lid before Bykov could pull it out, wrenching Bykov’s wrist with the torque and toppling him over in the same direction. Jack thrust his hips up and over, using the leverage to accelerate Bykov’s fall, tossing him onto the greasy stones.

  Both men sprang to their feet.

  Both eyed the blade still stuck in the lid.

  Jack lunged for it but wasn’t fast enough to avoid the kick to his ribs from Bykov’s boot, driving him backward into a wall.

  Jack grabbed his rib cage as Bykov dove for the knife.

  The Russian stomped a boot on the lid for leverage and ripped the blade out of the dented metal. He whipped around with the knife, going low and planting his rear foot to spring into a lunge at the big American.

  As Bykov swept into his turn, Jack’s fist plowed into his lower jaw, cracking his teeth.

  The Russian dropped the knife, stunned. It clattered to the pavement. His face darkened with confusion and then disbelief as he grabbed his jaw with his hand.

  He glanced up at Jack and flashed a smile at him through gritted teeth.

  It was a smile Jack had seen before.

  The big Dutchman, van Delden, had flashed the same fuck-you smile.

  The hairs stood on the back of Jack’s neck.

  Bykov’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he tumbled to the ground, his strings cut.