Excerpts

CREDIBLE THREAT

 

The trill of his cell phone pulled him out of a dream. He swiped it open and pressed the box to his ear.

“They hit Brussels,” said Carver’s deep voice.

“Damn. How bad?”

“Thirty one so far. The airport and metro. Couple hundred injured.”

“Connected?”

“Paris. Brussels. Al Qaeda & ISIS. We’re next.”

“How good is the intel?”

“Speculation at this point. A cell in Turkey set off a series of bombs last week. Now Belgium. We know there’s a network here.”

Brill sat up in bed and slipped his feet into running shoes. He stood and stretched, loosening up sore muscles tired from overuse.

“What do your alphabet boys say?”

“They know,” Carver sighed. “Officially their hands are tied.”

“Until something drops.”

“Right. Then FBI takes the ball on domestic, CIA grabs up outside the borders, NSA on Overwatch, all coordinated through Homeland.”

“That’s a ton of chefs in the kitchen.”

“That’s why they called us.”

Brill settled into a warrior yoga pose, easing the tension in his hamstrings and lower back. He couldn’t perform the full motion with the phone in his hand, but it helped. Years of abuse, more bullets than he could count, and being blown up a couple of times had taken it’s toll on his body. To be honest, he hadn’t expected to live this long, so each day he woke up now, there was a new pain and a new found sense of gratitude. If he had died in his twenties as he thought he might, he would have missed smartphones and robotics and yoga pants. Of course he would have missed the war on terror too, though he supposed he had been fighting that since he was eighteen. The names of the gangs changed, but terrorists were just gangs using fear tactics to get what they wanted. Common thieves and criminals preying on the weak. Bad men.

If he had died in his twenties, he would not have killed many bad men.

And he enjoyed killing bad men.

“Put the package together,” he told Carver. “Get the plane ready and I’ll meet it when I’m done here.”

“I’ll call the billionaire,” said Carver.

A one time job several years ago turned into an act of kindness that evolved into a working relationship with one of the world’s most popular billionaires, a mogul many times and many industries over. He took a liking to Carver even though Brill was the one who did the deed, and offered the use of his private plane gratis in perpetuity.

There was something to be said about having a Gulfstream at your disposal nine times out of ten. It certainly made their contract work easier. Otherwise Brill would have to fly commercial which presented its own unique set of problems. No weapons and a chance of burning one of his false id’s, plus popping up on video monitoring. Carver had worked with his alphabet contacts to get the Interpol records scrubbed, but Brill operated in a lot of places, so there was always the chance of facial recognition software bouncing a hit that would bring in authorities.

“This should take two days,” said Brill. “Maybe three. Is that enough time to assemble the boys?”

“We’ll be there,” Carver assured him.

“See you when I’m done,” Brill disconnected the call.

A quick trip to Belgium to find a lead that would bring him back to the US. If American allies worked the way he did, the trip wouldn’t be necessary. They could get the information he needed, share it with their US counterparts, where it would find it’s way to Brill and he could get the job done. The Geneva conventions prevented agencies from those actions.

Truth be told, Brill was glad for the restrictions.

He had been on the receiving end of the lack thereof on more than one occasion. The conventions were put in place to moderate civilized behavior. The men they were fighting against were not civilized, and refused to abide by rules. That’s why they attacked soft targets like airports and metro stations, where normal people just tried to live their lives.

Brill was not normal, nor was he civilized. He slid out of downward facing dog position that stretched his lower back and into a shirt. He could catch five miles and a shower before making the plane.

He wore the trappings of civilization, but could slide out of them and back into the Darwinian rules of the jungle that made him as easy as slipping in and out of the shirt.

Brill checked the monitors by the front door that gave him views of the front walk and streets leading up to his townhouse. All clear. He locked the door behind him, tucked the key into a pocket and went for a run.

 

The billionaire had his plane at the Executive Airport near downtown Orlando in front of a hanger when Brill arrived. He parked his pickup truck next to the hanger and locked the door.

The pilot was fresh faced and smiled as he approached.

“We put a deliver for you in the cabin,” he said.

Brill thanked him and climbed on board. He grabbed a bottled water and buckled into the plush seat as the pilot and co-pilot secured the plane and prepared for takeoff.

“It’s a nine hour flight,” the pilot called to him.

Brill held up a tablet from the package Carver sent.

“The seats fold down into beds, if you want to rest.”

The pilot closed the door to the cockpit.

Brill leaned back and reviewed the tablet. Carver had put several files to be read, including clippings from the newspapers. The Belgian police were conducting intense investigations, but so early in the game they were still playing catch up.

There was a name though. Carver had done some digging and found out who the local NOC was for the CIA. NOC meant non-official cover, a designation assigned to covert operatives who worked outside the confines of traditional spycraft. Brill had worked as an NOC for several years before slipping into private contract work.

This name was familiar.

Embeth Davis. Brill had worked with her before in Czechoslovakia to unravel a mystery from WW II. He had been on assignment in Prague to do some corporate intelligence and crossed path with the feisty auburn haired operator fresh out off The Farm and doing undercover work as an Attache. The adventure was memorable and now she was working in Brussels.

“Small world,” he muttered and twisted the top off the water as the plane leveled off. He eased the seat back and closed his eyes. There was still a lot to know, but once he met with Embeth they could build a mission plan from there.

 

 

“Who’s Carver?” she asked as he dismounted the stars from the G6.

Brill cracked a tiny smile. No hello. No how have you been. Just straight to the point like they had just seen each other last week instead of almost a decade ago.

She hadn’t changed much. Sure, she’d be pushing the edge of thirty five now, a lifetime in the espionage game and there were lines around her eyes that hadn’t been there before. But they still sparkled and the creases around her mouth indicated she laughed a lot.

Not an easy thing to do when you worked in her line of speciality. Human trafficking.

“You can call him my handler,” said Brill and held out a hand to shake.

She pushed it aside and hugged him, ignoring the flinch as he tensed up from the uninvited touch. After a microsecond, he relaxed into it. She could feel him patting her waist, hands moving quickly as they turned the hug into a pat down.

“Shoulder holster,” she whispered into his ear. “Glock 17.”

“I’m dry,” he whispered back. “I was hoping you could help me with that.”

She pulled back and looked at him.

“You’ve lost weight,” she announced.

“I started running long distances.”

“Who was after you?” she led him back to the non-descript Fiat resting in the shadow of a hanger.

“I lost count,” he opened the door and slid into the surprisingly roomy interior. Fiat’s always looked small on the outside, but there was some deal the automaker made with quantum physics that allowed for more room on the inside than it appeared.

“I didn’t think you’d get a handler,” she said and worked the car through the gears as they exited the airport.

She drove like he remembered. Deliberate and careful. Just three miles above the speed limit. She was sharp.

“Carver and I went into business together five years ago,” he told her. “We ran into each other in Florida.”

“Is that home now?”

“Are you tasked with the mess going on here?”

She nodded. He was going to keep details close to his chest. She would ask again later.

“I was working a ring bringing in women and children from Moldova and Ukraine. They put them on a train in Lviv and run it straight through Poland to Prague then here.”

“Was working?” he asked.

He had to double check. Assignments were fluid and even if rescuing girls was her passion project, it didn’t mean that her Uncle Sam couldn’t decide she would do better service after different targets.

“Still,” she confirmed. “My scope has expanded. They bring slaves in from East, and run pharmaceuticals from the Netherlands back. The network is really expansive and making inroads into the US.”

“Why did Carver pick you?” he asked aloud, even though he was thinking it to himself.

She had intel he needed, otherwise Carver would have hired a local driver to move him from the airport to the neighborhood in Brussels where he could get on the ground and find answers.

“Maybe if you tell me why you’re here we can connect the dots.”

“The bombings set off some bells over on the other side,” he answered. “We’re getting chatter of something big being planned on home soil. I’m here to ask some questions and find out who is making the plan.”

She nodded and concentrated on a knot of traffic they encountered on the road. Once they were through she slowed down and pulled into a neighborhood with narrow winding streets. One road ran along a dirty canal. The University of Brussels squatted in a park on the banks of the canal and she pulled off into an empty parking spot.

“We’re about three kilometers from the Muslim neighborhood where the police are concentrating their questions,” she told him.

She ran her hand through her hair and sighed.

“My guy runs girls from the East, but he also runs boys from the MidEast. He’s big on refugees.”

“Muslims don’t do drugs,” Brill said and caught himself.

“But they’re big on sex slaves. The fanatics take over the towns, use the women and girls and then sell them to my guy.”

“That’s the connection,” said Brill. “I’m going to need him.”

She sighed.

“I don’t have enough from him yet.”

“How high on the food chain?”

“He’s not the apex, but he’s a damn big alpha.”

“What’s his name?”

“He’s got four bodyguards, plus a driver,” she said but she knew that wouldn’t dissuade Brill.

“I need him,” she pleaded. “I’ve got to move up one more layer so I can unravel and stop this.”

“What happens if he’s gone?”

“Another bottom feeder moves up.”

Brill reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. It was the tips of his fingers but she could tell he was trying. Or pretending to try, she wasn’t sure.

“There’s always someone ready to move up,” he said.

“But if I can stop the pipeline,” she stuttered.

“We can’t,” he told her. “We ran into this in Prague. If it wasn’t this one it would be another. I know you want to slay this giant, but it’s a windmill.”

“It’s a fucking giant,” she snapped. “He mistook the windmills for giants and Pancho let him have his delusions.”

Brill nodded.

“I know.”

“I’m not delusional.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I can make a difference.”

“You are. Every girl you save thinks you’re a superhero.”

She puffed up her cheeks and blew out the air.

“Viche,” she said. “His name is Viche. What are you going to ask him?”

“Journalistic questions.”

“Then I need a quid pro quo,” she said.

“I’m not a lawyer.”

“You get your intel from him, and get me the name of the next guy up.”

He smiled again. She shuddered as he reminded her of a shark.

“I can do that.”