The Spy Devils by Joe Goldberg (top rated books of all time .TXT) 📕

“No good,” she declared, her head shaking.

“I am sure it is delicious,” Bridger laughed. It was good to be…home. “I will be downstairs.”

“I have food for you,” she said with a slightly disappointed look on her face.

“Later, I promise.”

He turned and walked down a hall and entered a well-equipped workout room. He moved to a panel on the wall and flipped it open. He simultaneously placed his hand on a glass pad as he let the biometric reader scan his face. A section of the wall popped open with a click.

Bridger descended a few carpeted steps and entered into his control room. The air was crisp and fresh, as air conditioning and filtration systems kept constant circulation in the space. He flipped a switch, and a dozen LCD screens attached to the two walls to his left and right powered to life. Stacked behind a glass wall opposite the door were racks of servers. In the middle of the room was a circular desk with several computer workstations on top. Recliners faced the LCD monitors mounted to the walls.

Bridger sat and logged into a secure cloud storage file-sharing server. The files from his production company, Atlas Multimedia, of Bend, Oregon, were waiting for his review.

“The Death of the Dragons” was the fifth in a series of YouTube news segments documenting the capture of the MSS assassins by the mysterious Spy Devils. It showed tired-looking men with red eyes sitting around a table confessing to being assassins and the recent footage of the Taiwanese para-military storming a vehicle outside the Presidential Palace.

The segment ended with a black graphic with red letters that displayed “Greetings from the Spy Devils.”

Bridger sent a coded signal that the file was ready. In fifteen minutes, the material was sent to numerous secure management systems. They were posted and re-posted to the other popular Spy Devil social media outlets—Facebook, Vimeo, Reddit, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, WhatsApp, LINE, VKontakte, and dozens of regional networks.

Bridger sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his neck to hold up his still tired head. Soon the story would be picked up by more traditional news media—and intelligence services—worldwide. It would trend on Twitter in less than an hour.

Bridger had perfected the art of pointing the omnipresent eye of social media on foreign intel operations, drug cartels, human traffickers, and the rest of worst his Spy Devils operated against. It was crippling. Unstoppable. Viral. It caused more long-term pain than any bomb or bullet. Exposure and shame may not kill, but it was close enough for Bridger.

It worked. Dozens of targets around the world were no longer in operation.

The Spy Devils were famous and feared.

After securing the control room door, he began his workout routine with an hour of Krav Maga and hitting the Muay Thai bag.

After a shower, he fired up the UTV and drove to his shooting range. Pistol, rifle, and shotgun maneuvers on a 20-target course. Glock-19. AR-15. Remington Versa Max shotgun first, then the Benelli M4.

After an hour, he was satisfied enough with his progress to move to his real passion.

The reclusive Trowbridge Hall had hired the world’s best golf course architects and green’s keepers—under strict non-disclosure agreements—to build exact replicas of some of the most difficult par-3 holes in the world. Tucked away in the middle of Abaddon, they molded the terrain and used the river and ponds to reconstruct the 12th at Augusta National. The 17th at TPC Sawgrass. The 7th at Pebble Beach and a half dozen more.

He just wanted to have a place to go—in his rare free time—to do something he enjoyed. Golf provided the skill and discipline to maintain the focus and strategy he used to construct his complex espionage operations.

Bridger had hit his first tee shot on his replica 12th hole at Augusta National over the green into the azaleas. A challenging second shot was next. Too hard, and the ball would scoot across the green into another sand trap, or worse, the pond. Too short, double bogey was a definite possibility. He needed to identify, plan, and execute the precise shot immediately.

Then three electronic chirps interrupted Jimmy Buffet’s “One Particular Harbor” playing on his earbuds. He ignored them.

He knew who it was. Only one person called this number.

With determination, he stood over the ball to complete this shot. He knew it was a mistake. His concentration was blown, and he rushed his swing. He topped the ball. It scalded through the trap, across the green, and into the pond.

Three more chirps. Then three more.

Sighing, he dropped the club.

His shoulders sagged in defeat as he sat down on the fresh green grass and clicked the button to connect the call with the last person on the planet he wanted to talk to.

“Am I catching you at a bad time?” May Currier asked.

“I’m on the 12th at Augusta National.”

“I am glad you have time to play with your toys.”

“Hello to you too, May. Can I call you back?” he said, knowing that it was hopeless.

“We both know the answer to that question,” she said.

“Then I guess I have the time.”

“You need to get to Serbia—right away.”

“Serbia? You’re kidding, right?”

Silence was her response.

“Serbia? Why? No, don’t tell me. Serge.”

“The details are in the Dropbox. Get it done. Oh, and happy birthday, son.”

She terminated the connection.

He stood and stretched. Soaking in the warmth of the day, he reached into his pocket for a ball to replace the one he hit into the pond. Instead, he pulled out a worn brass stem ball marker. It was the size of a quarter. Blue block letters on a white background surrounded a blue crest. OLD COURSE AT ST ANDREWS. Bridger rubbed the smooth metal between his fingers like he had done a thousand times.

The marker was a gift from his father. He died suddenly a few weeks later. Bridger was seven.

He stuffed it deep into his pocket.

7

Find the Devil

Taipei, Taiwan

As day turned to twilight,