The Joe Brennan Spy Thrillers

by Sam Powers

  He took a sharp intake of breath and squeezed the trigger.

  ***

  The sound of the gunshot was deafening in the cramped confines of the stone-walled basement. Brennan closed his eyes instinctually and drew in air, expecting that moment of shock.

  Instead, he felt nothing, and his brain quickly registered that the report was wrong, too high-pitched for a 7.62 millimeter FN shell.

  The guard collapsed to the ground. A moment later, Walter Lang stepped over his body and into the cell.

  He looked Joe over, then saw the man on the floor. “Somchai?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Did you get a name?” Lang walked over and began untying his wrists.

  Good to see you alive, too, Walter. “It’s more complicated than that. There’s a deal going down, an agreement to merge the Colonel’s organization with The Apsonsi. The woman I was hunting for, Amanda Sạkdi̒s̄ithṭhi̒…”

  “Let me guess: she’s one of the bad guys.”

  “She’s the bad guy, The Apsonsi herself, although I got the impression she likes all the confusion over whether it’s a person or an organization. Either way, she’s as ruthless as you suggested, and the two of them are teaming up. We have to get out of here and stop that from happening.”

  Brennan shook off the last of the rope and rose quickly despite his injuries. His head throbbed, but he didn’t plan on advertising a possible concussion to Lang.

  Larry Nguyen hadn’t hurt anyone, and for any of the reasons Lang might have raised, Brennan would’ve offered one better why they had to push on.

  “Hang on a second,” Lang said, grabbing his arm. “Slow down. First, we go back to the room, and we go over what we have. We figure out how to do this properly.”

  His instinct was to make a beeline for the Chiang Mai airport, but Brennan knew Lang was right. They might only have one chance to take down both the Apsonsi and The Colonel. They had to get it right.

  ***

  Lang had been making calls for two hours, and Brennan was getting impatient. He strode the hotel room tensely, with his arms crossed, while Lang sat at the bureau, the receiver cradled between his shoulder and neck, so he could take notes with his right hand.

  “Yeah, I get that… Mark! I know, calm down,” he was saying. “I’m not calling in the favor to get you fired; I’m not asking you to move a bird, I’m just asking you for a few quick shots on the next pass from something close.”

  Walter’s case had been simple: given a few hours, he could wrangle a satellite photo of Chiang Mai airport, give them positions and potential movement on the private planes and whether they have any significant fire support on hand. If not, they would consider the numbers and chances that Brennan might have a decent shot versus the risk of being discovered by the locals and causing a diplomatic incident. If they weighed anywhere near positive, they’d move ahead.

  But that had been two hours earlier and Brennan’s position was simple: she said she had a plane to meet. If she meant that night, then they had all of an hour left before it was over and, maybe, their chance of killing both drug lords before they could team up. Once the organization was a giant, its willingness to work with international terrorists could have that much more deadly fallout, and its product would be on every hard-bitten street corner in every big city, worldwide.

  “Okay!” Walter said. “Jesus Christ, Mark, I’m not asking for your first-born child! Take it down a notch! We never talked, okay? I mean, that went without saying but…”

  Walter stared at the receiver with sudden surprise.

  “He hung up, didn’t he?”

  “He did. But I have a little time still, and a long list of contacts.”

  Brennan looked unimpressed. “Fine, whatever. Look… I’m going to go down to the lobby store and get some smokes. You want anything? Need some replacement wooden matches for all the ones you’ve gnawed to death?”

  Lang shook his head. He dialed the next number on the list. It rang four times before the call was answered.

  “Tobin Schuler. And who could be calling my encrypted line from a number in Thailand? Let me guess…”

  “Toby. How are you, chief?”

  “Well as I live and breathe. The prodigal student decides to give his old friend and mentor a call. How long has it been, Walt?

  Lang smiled immediately at that. No one else called him Walt, not even his ex-wife. Everyone else thought he was too serious for that, he supposed.

  “A couple of years, sir. I believe.”

  “Then this is a rare honor. However, I suspect based on your locale that you’re not calling for a heart-to-heart.”

  “Well… yes and no,” Lang answered diplomatically. “I do have a request, but I thought it would be good to catch up, as well. And I do need some advice.”

  “I’ll tell you the same thing I tell my grandkids: you should call more often. People think retirement is all one long pursuit of your passions, but most of the people in your life, it seems, aren’t retired at the same time. They’re still busy, out there… Ah geez, I’m going on like an old man.”

  “Ptth! Old! As if. What are you… a hundred and six?”

  “Eighty-one, smartass. And I probably look fitter than you.”

  “That’s what that executive-level money will do to your midsection. Look, I don’t know if you have any sig ints contacts, but I need a looky loo from the nearest bird to Chiang Mai, Thailand. You think you could arrange something like that?”

  Schuler sighed. It didn’t bode well. It was the resigned sigh of someone who has to deliver a reality check.

  “You’re stuck somewhere, you’ve got a target, you don’t have eyes, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Knowing your usual line of work it’s off-reservation stuff, right?”

  “Again.”

  “When would you need it by?”

  Lang felt his pulse race a little. “ASAP. Yesterday.”

  But then there was a long pause and he had that sinking feeling again. “Ah… geez, Walt, you know I’d do anything for you; I let you marry my daughter, and that didn’t work out for shit. But I’d still get you a bird if I could. But my contacts… they’re not what they used to be. I may still have the pull, but it would take hours, schmoozing, old favors… Tonight? Nah, not tonight. But tomorrow?

  “Does me no good. Damn it. We may have to go in blind on this. It’s an airport meet, so getting eyes on it, given takeoff clearances to the edge of a property…

  “Yeah, puts you inside the fence, doesn’t it? Not a good idea for unofficial activity. You going to kibosh it?”

  “I don’t know, Toby, I really don’t. The kid I roped into handling this, he’s totally green to field work. He’s more a smash-and-grab type, ex-SEAL. But he’s taking this one really personal for a bunch of reasons.”

  “Never the best idea, but at least he cares.”

  “Yeah… but I still have my doubts. He got sloppy a couple of times. I had to pull him out of the last fire, just today. He lost track of a target he knew was in the room, let himself get dropped from behind.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t think I have to tell you of all people how important it is for consistent…”

  “Oh, balls, Walt! Listen to yourself! There’s no perfect espionage agent out there, no spying machine. But if you think this kid has what it takes, one screwed up first mission doesn’t change that.”

  “You figure?”

  “Of course! It’s like I taught you and like the professor taught me: the really good ones are rare indeed. There are all sorts of macho dudes who are attracted to law enforcement, all sorts of fellas who really just want to re-live the power they felt as high school jocks. Then there are the psychos who want a license to kill; and the uberpatriots with perspectives so limited that a decent interrogator would shatter their psyches within hours. But the ones who are too good to contemplate bad things? The ones who believe in self-sacrifice, and the greater good, and who kil
l as a distasteful-but-essential duty? They’re rare gems, the best of us in this trade. And when your guy has to decide whether people live or die, you want someone who cares making that call. You want someone behind that trigger who is cool enough to pull it, but won’t do so unless he’s out of other options.”

  “So you think we should move ahead.”

  “I didn’t say that! I don’t know the mission, the parameters, the rationales… but what I will say is that you don’t want to let him down right now. If he sticks with it, he’s going to face loneliness, isolation, danger, terror, even. And he’ll do most of that undercover in the field, feeling very much by himself. Better you find out now if he’s got the mettle you need. Better you lead him now, while he still gets the option of a leader.”

  He was right, Lang knew. He thanked his mentor and got off the call. When Brennan got back from buying smokes, he’d…

  Shit.

  Brennan doesn’t smoke.

  CHAPTER 10

  It had taken Det. Thornavansong twenty-four years to build his career to the point where it was both publicly lauded and privately lucrative, such was his care in separating his outer image from his inner corruption. Nonetheless, he found himself contemplating a permanent change of scenery.

  The American had called and given him just thirty minutes to accomplish his task, threatening once again to reveal his indiscretion. Thornavansong was left with no choice but to get dressed at nearly midnight and drive to Chiang Mai Central Police Station, check out a tactical rifle and deliver it.

  He hadn’t worked overnight shifts in years due to seniority and was unaccustomed to the lighter traffic, the near-empty sidewalks. It was raining lightly, and the wiper blades were the only other sound in the car aside from the engine.

  The American had insisted on meeting outside the Wat Pra Singh, an ancient Buddhist temple, just a few blocks from the Sun Dok Gate, the prominent portion of 13th century city wall that had been preserved. Thornavansong cursed his luck for being the particular corrupt cop the agent had chosen to prey upon; for becoming a cop at all, given his larcenous nature.

  It had seemed so sensible at the time: take a position where almost any indiscretion could be explained by the nature of the job or made to disappear with little chance of penalty. But over the years, each indiscretion had come with a cost. The mistresses cost him his wife; the suspicion of corruption cost him a move from the detectives’ room to management. The self-interest cost him his friends and the respect of colleagues… those who weren’t as bent as he was.

  Now, if caught or refusing to help, he stood to lose the few advantages being a gangster’s enforcer had provided. Or, alternately, he could try and kill the American, but risk having the tape of his revelation shipped to The Apsonsi.

  It all made him sweat more. As he pulled the car up the curb a few blocks from the temple, he retrieved the crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow and face. Maybe the American was bluffing; maybe there was no one else working with him, no one else to send out the tape if he were hurt or killed.

  He checked the rearview mirror and peered along the darkened street ahead, but saw no sign of another car arriving. Perhaps he was late or lost. Thornavansong felt emboldened. He withdrew his service revolver and checked the cylinder, making sure it was fully loaded. It had been a while since he’d had to draw it on duty. He watched the glare from the nearby streetlight glint off the chrome and wondered if the easiest solution wasn’t the most obvious.

  But it would be difficult. He’d have to catch the man unaware, perhaps hide near the vehicle – down the adjacent laneway, maybe – then wait until the American approached it, and walk up behind him…

  And pop. No more American. He peered at the double-wide entrance to the temple up ahead and across the road. The pointed spire of the majestic structure stood up above the wall. There was little chance of catching a face from that far away. He turned to check the rest of the street through the back window.

  A pistol rested against his seat’s headrest. “You might want to pass me your weapon,” Brennan said, “before I decide that any advantage you bestow is outweighed by your stupidity.”

  The detective closed his eyes and cursed inwardly.

  “Yeah, I imagine I’d be saying something like that if I was in your shoes, too,” Brennan said. “But we all make our choices in life.”

  “What are you going to use the rifle for, farang?”

  “Well now, for one, probably to shoot the next guy who calls me that.”

  “Oh. Okay…”

  “And for another, I’m going to kill your boss and her new partner, the Colonel.”

  The policeman appeared agog. “You… you cannot do that. There will be a war…”

  “There will be two dead Grade ‘A’ scumbags, is what there’ll be. Besides, you should be happy; with them gone, you’re moving up in the world. Right?”

  Thornavansong thought about it. It was crazy, of course. The man would never get close enough to do the deed.

  And yet… He might have a point.

  “I know what you’re thinking: that would leave ol’ Somchai as your boss, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Huh! Wrong again, pal. Yeah… he got something caught in his throat earlier tonight. Namely, my foot.”

  “He’s… he’s dead?”

  “Yup. Probably gives you a direct line to the boss, such as she is. We used to date. Don’t ask. It was a big thing.”

  The detective appeared stupefied. “Why are you telling me all of this?”

  “So that you’re clear that with a few trigger pulls, I can make it all happen – and that includes coming back here to deal with you. And if I need you for something here or even halfway to Pattaya, I expect you to jump to goddamned attention, or I guarantee you the entire world won’t need to find out about your lousy life; they’ll be able to read it in the obituary.”

  “Okay! Okay…” Damn, the farang made him nervous.

  “Where’s the gun?”

  “In the trunk.”

  “Keys. Slowly.”

  Thornavansong turned off the engine and passed the keys backwards.

  “Out of the car. And keep everything really slow and deliberate, please. I’d hate to find out how much kick this forty-four has, especially from so close a range. It would probably blow a large hole right through you, I’d imagine.”

  They both got out in slow-motion. Brennan took a few paces backwards, toward the rear of the car. He kept an eye on the policeman while his hand guided him to the lock. He inserted the key and the lid popped open.

  The snake jumped at him before he could react, sinking its fangs into his arm. He let the gun go out of reflex, the tendon seizing suddenly, the snake falling to the ground and fleeing along the wet pavement. Thornavansong was going for a pistol in an ankle holster. Brennan’s thoughts and movements were discordant; stupid, you didn’t frisk him running through his mind even as he dropped low to snatch the falling gun out of mid-air, cocking it and firing in the same motion as he fell to the ground, each shot catching the detective flush in his torso, kicking him backwards several steps like a marionette, the final bullet catching him in the shoulder, spinning him around as he tumbled to the ground.

  Thornavansong lay ten feet away in a pool of his own blood. The snake was nowhere in sight, but it had been black-and-white banded, probably a krait. If it was a Malayan, he probably had an hour, maximum, for antivenin to be the most help before survival became a fifty-fifty prospect, even with medical care.

  Brennan looked at the wound to his arm, a pair of large puncture wounds from impressively sized fangs. He couldn’t feel the venom yet, but that would take less than five minutes, and within thirty, he’d begin to feel weak and begin losing motor control. In an hour, his breathing would become labored as his nervous system began to shut down.

  He walked over to the detective and kneeled next to him. The man’s eyes were wide open and Brennan left them, unable to bri
ng himself to close them for him, as if it would matter. He found the bottom seam of the man’s shirt and tore a long strip off, then used it to bind his wound. Attempting to extract the venom manually would be hopeless, given the size of the snake’s fangs and the toxicity. They’d had kraits in Afghanistan as well, and the generic antivenin usually used for them was Tiger Snake. Probably every hospital in Asian had antivenin for both, he reasoned.

  And an hour was a long time.

  ***

  Lang kept his foot on the gas, slowing down at intersections to avoid being spotted by any police cars but still managing to cut his time across the city almost in half.

  Brennan would be somewhere at or near the airport. Lang’s cursory examination of the facility from an overhead photo online suggested there were several buildings within easy reach of a good sniper. And Brennan was very good.

  He followed the inner road around the airport’s perimeter, looking for Brennan’s rental, or any car parked somewhere it shouldn’t have been. Chances were good he’d use the flattest, tallest roof he could easily access. He was going for a pair of kills, two separate targets, and that would mean as much stability as possible with as wide a perspective.

  It was also something Lang had to stop.

  The Colonel had been a crucial regional CIA source since his days with the South Vietnamese Army, before his defection to Ho Chi Minh’s side. The truth was he played for whichever team he thought was most likely to win, and that included in the present day. They no more believed he’d team up with The Apsonsi to ruin that deal – which both paid him well and protected his business – than they believed he’d re-up for another tour of duty in his eighties.

  If he was lucky, he’d get there right after Brennan shot the woman but before he could take out the Colonel, as well. Chances were good the military man would be better protected. Lang knew he should stop the car, get a number for the man’s entourage and warn him.

  But that was a step that he didn’t have to take. There might be questions later about why he didn’t, and he could legitimately answer that he was handling an asset, and had to prioritize that, or that his older Motorola flip cell phone didn’t have great range. Instead, he would try to do his job, in person, and if Joe beat him to the punch…