The Joe Brennan Spy Thrillers

by Sam Powers

  He worried that he’d made a mistake with Joe Brennan.

  The kid’s service record was frightening; for all his affable character when relaxed, his kill rate on missions was nearly flawless, his training and retest scores with weapons without peer outside some of the top snipers in the world. He’d taken fourteen different variations of martial arts training, beginning with tae kwon do at age six, earning his Poom – a black-belt for juniors -- by age eleven. Over the next twenty years, he’d used what time wasn’t spent in service honing his body and mind, training with masters in China and Japan, learning their languages and several others, taking a degree in military history at night.

  He’s a polyglot soldier with a conscience. If you let this kid go or fail him now, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.

  The protocol on field missions was clear; Lang was never expected to engage or attempt assistance. If that was required, other assets would be put into play. He hadn’t been in the field, really, since the late eighties, as a young operative in the South American bureau. His mother, who died while he was stationed in Germany, had been born in Guatemala and her family was originally from Costa Rica, and he spoke Spanish fluently. His familiarity with the region from childhood visits and his fascination with his roots had let to a two-year stint in the Colombian Embassy as a ‘cultural attaché.’

  He’d taken four more postings, including three years in Moscow, before eventually realizing his nerves could no longer take the continual risk of discovery, the anxiety of mistrusting everyone he met for the first time, and most on a continual basis. He’d loved tactics, and a job as a logistics officer had opened up in the clandestine service. It meant occasional field duty, but as a handler, not an asset.

  It also entailed some guilt. The men doing the dirty work were never what he’d expected, never what you saw in movies or TV. They didn’t employ psychopaths, or killing machines, or ex-criminals who needed a break. Instead, they were highly thoughtful, patriotic and intelligent men who, for reasons beyond Walter’s understanding, could turn off their emotions when it came time to get a job done.

  He knew the price they paid, also, the personal toll when they got back into society and rebuilt that lost empathy, then looked back at their choices. They may have understood the need, but they never got over the guilt they felt from enjoying being good at their jobs. Being good at killing shouldn’t provoke joy; but humanity, Walter knew, had a propensity for the inhumane.

  If he stayed in the car, Brennan was probably a dead man. If things had gone smoothly, he would have radioed in, probably have a name already, already be walking down the street, waiting for Lang to pull over and extricate. The old man had been alone for three straight nights, and from what Lang’s local fixer had gleaned from workers at Somchai’s firm, he was an introvert who did not socialize. Judging by the three cars, he’d not only had company, they’d stayed for a while.

  That meant at least three people, perhaps four or five. Either way, the shift in the odds meant a change of plans.

  He knew he had to make a call. The longer he waited, the more chance there was that Brennan would be killed. He checked his watch again, out of reflex, even though no more than five minutes had passed since their departure.

  Lang took the matchstick he’d been absently chewing while thinking and deposited it in the drink holder. Then he reached across the passenger’s seat to the glovebox, opened it and pulled out the Colt nine-millimeter, then reached in again and retrieved the two spare magazines. He tucked the pistol into the side pocket of his light summer jacket and got out of the car, looking both ways for curious eyes before heading toward the adjacent property.

  ***

  The pint-sized sadist leaned in with the scalpel, his breath heavy, reeking of ginger and tobacco.

  “What do you want to know?” Brennan said, the scalpel just inches from his eye.

  The man stopped, surprised by his calm. “You… think… I will… not… proceed?”

  “No, I definitely get the sense this kind of thing is right up your alley. What I mean is, what do you expect to learn from me? Because if I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell you, it’s hard for me to… you know...” He nodded toward the scalpel, “… discourage your hobby.”

  “I do not…”

  “What do you want to know, dopey!? Ask me a question.”

  He stood up straight and stared at his captive, looking uncomfortable. “You… just want… to give up?” He brought out the inhaler again and took another dose. “I… thought you… were trained to…. withstand any…”

  “Jesus H, buddy; would you get on with it? Shorter sentences, okay? No, we’re not trained to withstand any amount of pain.”

  “Ah! You do… work for someone… else!”

  “Yeah… startling revelation. So go ahead.”

  “Go… ahead?”

  “Ask me anything! Go ahead. I’ll go through the old memory banks, see if I can dredge up an answer…” Brennan was running out of anything resembling a reasonable stalling tactic. Surely Lang had to be worried by now, had to be checking on him?

  Or maybe that’s why it’s ‘deniable’. Maybe he doesn’t get involved. Maybe you should’ve checked how much help he’d really be before you agreed to take the mission.

  “Who… do you work for?”

  “I work for my uncle.”

  “And who… is your uncle?” Somchai took another hesitant step forward and crouched low again, reaching for his eye with the scalpel.

  “He’s a guy named Sam. You might have met him; I hear you were with the Colonel back in those days. We have something in common there.”

  This time, the little man didn’t back away. “And…what is that?”

  “You mentioned her yourself: Apache.”

  “Hue Phan.”

  “One and the same.”

  That really caught his attention. The little man straightened up again, the scalpel once again a safe distance. Brennan felt a bead of sweat running down his left temple. Oscar time, Joe, because you have no idea where this story is going, and if you don’t think something up fast, he’ll know it.

  As the smaller man waited for an explanation, Brennan pulled his bound ankles apart as discretely as he could, straining against the ropes. It was their one mistake so far, other than not killing him immediately: they’d bound him around the ankles, and he had boots on. That meant some play in the ropes, and a chance to slip free.

  Of course, getting out of the boots, in turn, was a problem second only to the strong nylon rope binding him to the chair. If help didn’t show up soon, he figured, all the bullshit and bluster in Bayonne wouldn’t prevent that little psycho from slicing his lips off.

  ***

  Walter made his way through the shadows to the home’s side window and found the reflective strip Brennan left in place.

  He’d also seen most of the occupants of the house leave, he suspected. And he didn’t know how much time he had.

  He looked around quickly for cover. A topiary hedge just off the gravel side lot was as good anywhere. I was never any good at sneaking around, anyhow.

  Then he opened the window, triggering the silent alarm, before scampering back to his hiding spot. Lang took out the pistol and readied himself. Sure enough, after about a minute, a burly giant with thinning dark hair and a goatee came around the corner, walkie talkie in one hand, flashlight in the other. He walked over to the open window and began examining it, turning on the flashlight.

  Lang crept up behind him quietly and placed the muzzle against the back of his head. “You really don’t want me to shoot you from this range.”

  “English?” the man said. “I don’t speak so good, da?”

  “That’s fine. Your security pass…”

  “On my pocket.”

  Walter reached around the man and unclipped the pass from his breast pocket, then attached it to his own.

  “Nobody think you are me,” the guard said.

  “They come and
go, though. Just you and a few others now, right?”

  The man was silent.

  “What, not talking?”

  “I not help you.”

  Lang clubbed the man across the back of the skull. Surprisingly, he fell to his knees dazed, but remained conscious. Lang hit him again and the giant collapsed face-first.

  He reached into his pocket and drew a plastic restraint, steel reinforced, negating any notion of using pressure to snap it. He tied the man’s hands and feet, then placed a strip of duct tape over his mouth. The man’s pockets bore little of interest: keys, a wallet with cash in it.

  Lang followed the wall to the back corner, then peeked around. If there was a guard on the backdoor, he was on the inside. Their limited surveillance had suggested one or two men full-time, at best. If Brennan had been captured, there was a good chance the man would not be at his post.

  The door seemed unmanned. He followed the back wall, staying tight to its shadow, looking for signs of security cameras or guard dogs. At the backdoor, he used the guard’s pass, holding it up to a metal reader. A green light clicked on and he pulled the door open, then stepped cautiously inside.

  ***

  “What… do you… know… about… Apache?” the breathless torturer demanded.

  “I know something you don’t. I know she wasn’t killed by American Forces.”

  “What?!?”

  “Yeah. I’ve seen the file, Top Secret clearance only.”

  “You… saw… Apache’s… file?” his usual breathlessness was accentuated by genuine surprise. Then he took on an angry tone once more. “Tell me. You… tell me… what you… saw.”

  He leaned forward and held the knife to Brennan’s throat.

  “I saw that the story about her death was a creation, a public relations fiction…”

  Somchai leaned back again. He still appeared doubtful, but there was something else there, Brennan could tell, an anticipation, a need to know something that might be incredible news.

  Brennan kept pulling the ankle ropes apart and had created just enough slack to turn one heel and push down on the other, as he pulled his right leg up and tried to slip it out of the boot. But he had to keep the man looking into his eyes, not paying mind to the small movements. “She did not die that day.”

  “She… survived?!?” He seemed agog, as if his most fervent wish had just become possible. “The Angel…of Death… is alive?”

  “No, she died not long after that, after being debriefed by our counterintelligence people. But it was unrelated to combat. A car accident in Pasadena, California.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah… I guess she was crossing the street – you know, one of our big, four-lane boulevards – and something distracted her, guy with a cute ass or something, and a city bus smoked her. I mean, just nailed her, like a Pearl Harbor hooker on VJ Day. Completely FUBAR.”

  ‘Fu… What? I don’t know this term…”

  “Fucked up Beyond All Recognition. It’s a term for how things generally go in the Navy.”

  The man was having trouble processing so much information in a foreign language, but also accepting what he was being told. “You.. are saying… Apache… was an American… spy?! You… are a lying… piece of…shit.”

  “I’m telling you dude: the number seven bus bound for Compton. Smoked her like a sardine in a potbellied stove.”

  The man’s face contorted with rage and he charged at Brennan, any notion of questioning him giving way to a homicidal desire for vengeance. He drew his arm back to slice his captive’s throat.

  Brennan used what little room he had, throwing his head back, then hammering the smaller man in the chin with his forehead as the other man stepped forward, the head butt so hard it made Brennan’s brain feel like it been shaken for just the barest of moments.

  Somchai’s eyes rolled back into his head as he lost consciousness and collapsed.

  It wouldn’t take long for him to wake up, Brennan knew. He yanked his leg upwards, stepping on the boot heel with his other foot, feeling tendons stretching in his ankle, bones bending to the breaking point…

  His foot popped out of the bound shoe, the force almost dislocating his hip. He winced, feeling something sharp and painful inside the ankle. Probably a small fracture. He ignored it, instead using his new-but-limited mobility to stretch forward, toward the scalpel that was lying on the ground next to Somchai. If he could pick it up with his toes, he reasoned, he could pass it to his opposite hand backwards, then use small wrist movements to slice the rope, at least enough to break it.

  His toes found the implement. Brennan tried to grasp the blade by its metal handle, but it was flat to the ground, difficult to even pick up.

  On the floor, the psychopathic executive groaned.

  The American’s big toe found the edge of the handle and flipped it up, and he grasped it between the big toe and next two, gently lifting it off the ground, trying not to change his grip pressure. Somchai muttered something, talking in his sleep. His active brain would take over soon, and the blackness would fade back into consciousness. Brennan reached his foot up and over his left hand. He only had twenty degrees of rotation at most, and he prayed as he dropped the knife that the end would fall…

  True, right into his grip. But it was facing the wrong way. He could only saw in tiny movements and the rope was below his wrist. He balanced the edge of the scalpel against his forefinger, then let its weight carry it over, catching it again between his forefinger and middle finger. It cut his thumb as he adjusted his grip again, sliding into place between his little finger and ring finger. He had less than an inch of play.

  Somchai began to stir. He shook his head, obviously awake but plagued by post-concussion fog. Then he sniffed through sore sinuses and pushed himself up to his hands and knees, muttering something in Thai.

  Brennan sawed at the rope, the first loop giving way. His captor rose, awkwardly. The American sawed frantically at the next loop and it sliced through… but the pressure change shifted his grip, and the scalpel clattered to the ground.

  Ah… Hell.

  Somchai turned and gave him a pained expression. “You… only… get… one… like that.” He took out his inhaler again and took a couple of puffs, then took a long, deep breath. “Now… you are going to… die, screaming, like your friend… Larry.”

  The little man reached for the scalpel again bending down just enough to be in solid range. Brennan kicked him in the face with all the force he could muster, the smaller man leaving his feet slightly as he went over sideways, his head rebounding off the cage bars with a sickening thump. Before the man could rise, Brennan yanked his other foot free, reaching out with his torso, stretching to grab Somchai around the neck with his ankles, drawing him near enough to wrap his knees around the man’s throat. The businessman began to kick and flail, trying to stab Brennan in the legs with the scalpel, but he was too small and weak.

  Brennan squeezed with all his might, feeling the man’s windpipe break, hearing the sickening gurgle as he tried to get air through his damaged throat, his fingers clawing at Brennan’s legs in vain, eyes bulging as his face turned red, then purple, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, arms flapping, forcefully twice, then less so until, finally, his last staccato breath was pushed from his lungs.

  The American released the man’s body and sat back up in the chair. He couldn’t see the blade but figured if he could roll the man over, he’d find it. All he needed was for the guard not to have heard…

  The door to the cell flew open, the giant jailer levelling his rifle at Brennan’s head.

  CHAPTER 9

  Lang crept through the lower floor of the house, alert for any signs of movement. But the place seemed deserted. The rear door led to a short boot room and hallway, which in turn split between the white-marble kitchen and the cathedral-ceilinged living area.

  He checked both rooms with his weapon at the ready. It was nearly silent, just the odd hum of the refrigerator and some under
-the counter lighting. The stairs sat at the back of the living room adjacent to a side corridor that extended from the open side window. He looked up and then down, trying to guess where they’d hold him. Probably the latter, for pragmatic reasons.

  What the Hell are you doing, Walter?! You’re not a field asset anymore. You’re a handler, a planner. You handle logistics. His nerves began to get the better of him as he took the stairs.

  He hadn’t shot anyone in decades. He’d barely passed his last requalification with small arms, hadn’t trained in hand-to-hand techniques in several years and hadn’t kept in physical shape. Prior to Bangkok, he’d been stationed in Dubai, where nearly all of the intel came in exchange for money, or favors, or both.

  But the kid had been his find, spotted after his spectacular takedown of a roomful of insurgents in a Bahraini Hotel, saving thousands of lives and doing it with such quiet efficiency that even the local press didn’t get a whiff… at least before they were ordered not to publish anything, anyway. That had been a DEVGRU operation. His cool efficiency in eliminating the targets despite heavy cover and poor odds allowed the rest of the team the time and space needed to diffuse explosives, timed to take out the entire tower.

  He was damned if he was going to let the kid down before he was even officially in the fold.

  Lang crept down the stairs, pausing at the landing level, crouching to look the rest of the way.

  He heard a crash, the sounds of scuffling. The guard halfway down the hall turned suddenly, fumbling with the lock of a steel door. Walter lined the man up in his sights. He hadn’t wanted this, to be put in the position of choosing whether someone lived or died. It was always easier from a distance. Maybe that’s why the snipers can do it; it’s separate from their reality, far away and over in an instant.

  The door swung open. The guard took a half-step forward then raised the FN machine gun to his shoulder and sighted along the barrel.

  He’s not going to be targeting his own men, idiot, Walter told himself. You have to choose.