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

Demon let his arms go limp. Nikola’s head hit the thin indoor carpeting with a thump.

“Oops,” Demon said.

“You are a bad person,” Beast said with a smile.

“Takes one to know one,” Demon replied, as he grabbed the man by the wrists. They carried him to the center of the abandoned shop and dropped him on the floor.

Beatrice took a brush from her large solid-sided bag and handed it to Bridger. He combed his damp blonde-brown hair.

“How long do you need to make him look dead?” he asked as he handed her the brush. “Remember, it doesn’t have to be perfect. No one should be getting too close to him. We are dumping him in the street. Goran will keep the area clear.”

Beatrice looked incredulously at Bridger. “Not perfect?”

He shrugged.

“Sorry.”

“Now that I have seen him up close, he will be a deader-than-dead corpse in a little over an hour. Especially since jackass has already started the process,” she said.

“I heard that,” Demon said.

The mysterious events on Lomina Street led the news stories the next day, as Bridger and Beast discovered as they watched the coverage. It was front-page news in the papers they had scattered on the table.

The internet and social media piled on with conspiracy theories and rumors. It was an important person from the Serbian mafia. A clan. Arms dealers. Drug deal. A government official, or a relative of the president. No one knew.

On the morning of the second day, photographs and videos appeared on digital bulletin boards from anonymous sources. One image clearly showed a sheet over a body in the street. A video recorded a body being put into an ambulance. Press sources revealed that a Zastava CZ 99 pistol with its identifying markings rubbed off was found at the scene.

The Serbian Police deflected inquiries to the BIA. The BIA did not comment. The U.S. Embassy stated it had no knowledge of a U.S. citizen involved in any incident.

From his home, Taube knew the identities of both men. It was evident that once Nikola had killed Bridger, his Spy Devils killed his man in retaliation. Losing his security team leader was a slight inconvenience, but one of Nikola’s men was ambitious. He had already volunteered to take his place.

What bothered him to sleeplessness was not knowing who had Bridger’s phone. Would Bridger’s alleged incriminating video suddenly appear in the press? If someone had it and planned to blackmail him, it hadn’t happened yet—but it could at any time.

Taube had tapped his sources inside the police department. They knew nothing. His BIA contacts were clueless, too. That was some comfort. Perhaps Nikola was able to destroy the phone. Or he had somehow gotten rid of it. It had vanished nonetheless—as had the immediate threat posed by Bridger.

He felt the pressure of the clock ticking. He had to proceed with his plans.

He picked up his phone and dialed his first call. When it was answered, he spoke immediately.

“We are on schedule,” he said confidently.

“Are you sure?” the voice asked with a note of caution, “The Lomina—”

“There is no connection. I have no knowledge of that. Do you have any information?”

“No. I made discreet inquiries, but no one in government knows anything,” the brother of the President of Serbia answered.

“If you want to complete what has been agreed to by all parties, then we need to meet—as arranged. It would look very bad if the president backed out now.”

“We are not changing our position. My brother is committed to this—activity.”

“Good. Tomorrow night.”

Taube cut the connection before the man could reply.

The second call was short and all business. They would be at the meeting.

The third call required no effort as the Ukrainians were eager to complete the transactions. They would call in to avoid anyone noticing their presence in the country.

16

Dream Career

Kirkwood International Headquarters

What the hell am I going to do? How am I supposed to find a briefcase somewhere in Ukraine?

Peter Schaeffer, Senior Director, Corporate Intelligence and Insights, Strategy Office, Kirkwood International Industries, had been continually asking himself those questions since he left the meeting in the boardroom three days ago.

He hadn’t eaten or slept much since then, which worried his wife, Janelle. She kept asking if she could help. He told her there was nothing she could do—and for that matter—maybe he couldn’t do anything either.

He rubbed his temples with his fingers trying to release the tension as he arrived in his office early the morning after the meeting.

Clutter was his office décor. Books. Magazines. Mounds of unopened mail. Pictures of his family. Fantasy Football championship trophies. Yellow sticky notes, charts, and PowerPoint slides of motivational quotes he liked covered his walls like fish scales, but he knew exactly where everything was.

Something felt wrong—and his feelings were never wrong. There was more to this than they were telling him. But right now, his feelings were irrelevant. He had to make some progress on this, or his ass was toast.

MacBride had already sent him a text: Working on this? We are ALL counting on you.

The clock was running fast. Patience on the 10th floor would run thin like it always did. The heel of his right foot started to piston up and down with anxiety. A family tick handed down through the DNA of generations to the point Peter stopped realizing he was wiggling.

He took pride in being the guy who always could find the answer, or at least get pointed in the right direction. He won a scholarship to Northwestern University. Graduated with honors and applied to the Central Intelligence Agency. He survived a lengthy interview process, and a few months later, to his joy, he was offered a position as a trainee into the CIA’s Clandestine Services Career Trainee program—the spy school.

After a few four-month rotational training assignments in various departments, fate stepped in.

His dream career as a CIA employee ended before it fully started due to a series of gut-wrenching family medical crises. His mother had a stroke and died. She was