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

Nikola saw that Bridger seemed oblivious to the assassin behind him. Nikola raised his pistol and pointed it at the back of Bridger’s head.

Then he felt the cold metal of a gun press against his temple.

Taube sat in a cushioned chair much too large for his small frame drawing hard on a thin cigarette glowing red with each inhale. He was tired, and it was late, but he was expecting the call.

When his phone beeped, he still flinched. He looked at his screen and saw two text messages from Nikola. He smiled.

The first text contained a picture taken from behind and to the left and clearly showed a man on the floor in a pool of glistening liquid. The body seemed to be wearing a dark leather jacket—the same one, Taube was sure, that Bridger had on at dinner.

The second text also contained a photo—this time from the side and closer. Taube recognized Bridger’s face. Blood streaks had run down from his forehead over his pale cheeks and chin. He could clearly see an entrance hole in the side of Bridger’s head behind his left ear. Blank death was the expression in his eyes.

There was no doubt in his mind Bridger was dead.

13

Chaos is Good for Business

Novi Petrivtsi, North of Kyiv, Ukraine

Viktor Bondar always enjoyed killing.

This attitude made him one of the richest, most powerful, and feared men in Ukraine.

Ordinarily, he displayed his keepsake Tula TOZ-8 Bolt Action .22 caliber rifle in a special walnut case behind his desk. He brought his lucky Tula with him from his Kyiv apartment office to get some pleasure shooting in before the morning meeting—shooting sharpened his focus.

Standing in a firing lane of his ultra-modern underground shooting range, Bondar chambered a cartridge, pointed, and fired at a target in the total containment collection area one hundred meters away.

The climate-controlled shooting range was located in the lower level of his compound, secluded along the Dnieper River north of Kyiv. Containing a brick mansion, stables, and dock, the area was surrounded by walls and members of his personal mercenary army, the black-clad Bondar Battalion-1. Ira, his daughter and advisor, convinced him to purchase it for more money than it was worth as a symbol to his peers and enemies of his status.

He hated the place, except for the shooting range. Bondar preferred his spacious apartment on the top floors of his flagship bank building in central Kyiv. Recent events dictated that he come to the country for the enhanced protection and wait for the calls.

The first one had come several nights ago, just after the Kirkwood executive fell to his death.

“Any problems?” he asked.

“None,” said the voice.

“Then deliver the package as planned.”

As Bondar anticipated, the second call came soon after. That conversation scheduled the “urgent” meeting that was to take place in a few minutes.

Without looking where the bullet struck the target, he turned, took off his protective earmuffs, and set the Tula down. He made a mental note that the rifle needed to be cleaned—a task he would do himself. No one touched that rifle but him.

He tucked his rare Makarov 59 EG, the classic Soviet Cold War Pistol M, into his belt in the small of his back, walked up winding steps, and through French doors leading to the dining room.

The smell of warm fruit-filled varenyky dumplings wafted through the air. Ira was sitting in one of eight metal and wood chairs that surrounded a long oval glass table. Plates of breads and pastries were spaced among other cereals, fruit, pitchers of fruit juice, and carafes of coffee. A crystal vase of fresh-cut flowers sat on the center of the table.

Bondar had not eaten that morning. He picked up a warm varenyky and popped it in his mouth.

He looked the part of the powerful oligarch. A suit and tie in public. For variety, he sometimes went with an open collar. Average height. American-style crew cut of dark auburn hair. Black eyes above a nose made crooked by one too many fistfights. He wore his trademark three day's growth of rusty-colored beard.

“They just passed the guard station,” Ira said, placing her spoon into an empty bowl.

“Are you prepared?” he asked.

At thirty-three years old, Ira Bondar was known by her business associates and the general public as gorgeous and ruthless. Ira used her blonde hair, sky-blue eyes, accentuating attire, and rapier brain to her complete advantage. She favored blood-red lipstick and nail polish as an accent color.

Bondar sat at the end of the table, picked up another dumpling, and stuck it in his mouth.

“Do not worry. They are coming to us because they are in a weak position.” He smiled.

Out of the large windows, he saw a hazy central European late spring sky. Thick granite-colored clouds backlit by the sun flowed above in waves as the trees bent with punches of wind. A light drizzle began to spray.

Ira’s phone rang. She answered and listened. “Escort them to the dining room.” She set the phone down. “They are coming to us.”

They both stood as two men, one old, the other Asian, entered the room behind a muscular man dressed in black military tactical pants and a black pullover long-sleeved shirt—the casual uniform of the Bondar Battalion-1.

Anton Vlasenko was well beyond old age. His baggy wool overcoat hung on speckled crooked limbs branching out from the core. Thin white hair over eyes that once made men shrink with fear. His life-long defining feature, pointy protruding ears, now looked like two large dinner plates embedded on each side of his head.

Age was shrinking his mentor, Bondar thought. But he was not fooled by Vlasenko’s appearance. This oligarch was still mentally sharp and dangerous.

“Dobryden, Anton Vlasenko,” Bondar welcomed the man with a hug and a pat on the back.

“Pryvit, Viktor Bondar,” the man said in a nasal-tone scratchy voice. He turned to Ira. “Ira, you are as lovely as ever.” He took her hand and kissed it.

“Thank you,