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

out in sentry positions, as two teams broke off to their right, went up the steps to the lower-level training wing, picked the lock, and went in to secure the floor.

Around back, three teams entered the back door and moved up a narrow set of stairs to the sleeping area. Once in position, they moved into the room and shot each man in the head while sleeping. Men carrying twenty-liter jerry cans poured gas on the bodies and throughout the rest of the room.

A moan came from the darkness.

“This one is still alive. Tough fucker,” a man reported, raising a pistol to finish the job.

“Wait. Leave him,” the team leader said. When his team was clear, he took out a flare, lit it, and tossed it on one of the gas-soaked beds.

They disappeared into the darkness of the streets as flames illuminated the night sky behind them.

The moment she entered her apartment, Anna Malinov went to her kitchen, found a bottle opener in the back of a drawer, grabbed one of three bottles of wine from her cupboard, a locally produced sparkling white, and started to drink.

Two hours later, she tilted her head back as far as it would go, opened her mouth wide, tipped the glass, and in one swallow finished the last drops from the third bottle. She stood up, wobbled, then fell to the floor, where she passed out. The empty wine glass was still in her hand when she hit the floor. It shattered in her palm. Blood spread from under her fingers.

Still unconscious hours later, she didn’t hear the lock on her door being unlatched, hear the door open slowly, or see two people, a man and a woman, quietly slip inside her dark apartment. They each pulled a mini red LED flashlight from their pockets and clicked them on. The rays flashed around the room. Expecting her to be in bed, when the beams found her on the floor, they stood shocked and motionless for several seconds over the body.

The woman reached down and felt for a pulse. She looked at the pool of dried blood under her hand.

“She’s alive.”

The man pointed his light on the empty wine bottles.

“She is drunk. Passed out drunk,” he said with a chuckle.

“At least she enjoyed herself.”

They each reached under an arm, lifted her, and dragged her toward the balcony. Her feet caught the rug, and they gave a little extra effort to free her. They stood briefly on the balcony and looked at a fire burning in the distance. They eyed each other and smiled.

The pair of intruders grabbed her legs and tipped Anna over the edge like they were dumping out the garbage. They heard a soft thud a few seconds later.

They calmly walked out of the apartment, took the elevator to the third floor, then used the stairs the rest of the way.

Exiting by the back door, they heard shouts echoing down the street.

Reclining on a sofa in her bedroom lounge, Ira received the call telling her both missions were successful. She leaned over to a side table and picked up a champagne flute. She raised the glass in the air and thought of an appropriate toast.

She took a sip, enjoyed the taste and pleasant feeling of the bubbles in her mouth, and set the glass down back on the table. Traces of blood-red lipstick remained on the rim of the crystal.

Here is to me, the only real Bondar left.

24

The Capital Grille

Lombard, Illinois

At 11:45 a.m., Bridger sat at one of four tables in the private State Room dining area in the Capital Grille restaurant, located in the western Chicago suburb of Lombard. The decor included English riding club mahogany, accented by hues of reds and greens, oil paintings, and racks of wine bottles behind glass doors. Bobby Darin’s Beyond the Sea filled the air, mixing with whiffs of meat, bread, and money.

Patrons huddled in hushed discussions in dimly lit rooms. Leather chairs and couches were on top of plush carpets. It offered discreet three martini dining surrounded by small lamps on cloth-covered tables—and Bridger was craving a genuine medium-rare slab of American corn-fed beef.

Movement in this peripheral vision distracted him.

“I’m Peter Schaeffer. Are you…Mr. Palmer? Arnold Palmer?” Bridger looked up to see a man who looked a few years younger than himself. Bridger chuckled inside when he saw him wearing a blue blazer, striped blue button-down, and khaki pants. Bridger felt a genuine friendliness radiating from his eyes and manner. Bridger also sensed concern and skepticism.

“Peter, so good to finally meet you. Glad you could make it. Call me Arnie.” Bridger stood and shook his hand like they were old friends.

Firm. Confident.

“Okay…Ar-nie,” Peter said in a skeptical voice.

“Here is my card.” Peter reached in his pocket, pulled out his Kirkwood business card, and handed it to Bridger. Bridger glanced at it. There wasn’t any information he didn’t already know.

“As for me," he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a black card with a red pitchfork and slid it across the table, “have you ever heard of the Spy Devils?”

Peter raised his eyebrows in total shock as he stared at the card.

“Spy Devils? You are with THE Spy Devils? Greetings from the Devil. That’s you?”

Bridger turned and nodded his chin to his chest like a Shakespearean actor acknowledging adoring fans.

“You’re telling me you are associated with the Spy Devils? The gang on social media who exposes all the criminals and spies?”

“We are not a gang, thank you very much, but I grasp your meaning and respect.” Bridger stopped, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and looked at Peter with deadly seriousness. “I lead them as we journey down into the lowest realms where the worst of mankind think they can act unabated.”

“Tell me—,” Peter looked around at the empty room, his voice lower, “—who are you? CIA?”

“There is a member of my team—you may meet him. He summed up who we are and what we do in