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

covered, and his eyes closed, bright flashes of light seared into his brain.

Since he had taken ownership of the yacht three days ago, his new possession had not left the marina. Most of his time was spent on a combination of drinking, taking drugs, and indulging in the Limassol nightlife pleasures with Katya. This particular day started and ended at the Guaba Beach Bar, just a few miles up highway B1 east of the marina.

Oleksandr was in heaven. The beach bar was where the chic and wannabe chic went to party from early morning to the next early morning. Oleksandr did precisely that, paying out thousands a day for the fun that fueled his otherwise boring life.

“I said, get the hell up!” Demon grabbed the listless Oleksandr and, with little effort, lifted him off the wooden floor of the main lounge and tossed him four feet onto a trash-covered white L-shaped couch. Oleksandr bounced off the overstuffed cushions and landed on the floor between the couch and a low teak rectangular coffee table.

“Who—” A sharp sting of electricity on his shoulder made him jerk straight up, landing him back on the couch.

“What—” Another shock sent his body rotating along the couch like a top until he hit the other arm of the furniture. His breath was short, his skin was covered in sweat, and he felt nausea in this throat. He tugged his hands, but they would not give.

“Stop. Please.” It was a different voice. Calmer, with a tone of authority similar to the way his father always spoke to him. “Sorry about that, Oleksandr. I promise he won’t do that again. Understand?”

Bridger directed the command over his shoulder to Demon, who was holding the long black tube of the Devil Stick tightly in his right hand.

“Mr. Nice Guy. Mr. Pussy,” Demon said under his breath, as he positioned himself against the bulkhead. His muscles and Devil Stick were primed to strike.

Bridger watched the rhythm of Olek’s hood billow in and out with each hyperventilating breath. Bridger decided, for no particular reason, that he didn’t like Olek.

The feeling started after they arrived on the boat and talked to Captain Andre and the crew an hour before. They didn’t like their new boss, either.

Bridger found Olek already unconscious and lying motionless on the floor. His shoulders were rolled forward, turning him into a human comma. He was dressed in white linen pants stained with the night’s activity. No shirt. No shoes. His face was chalky white with gray and red rings circling his eyes. Dark veins in his neck and arms stuck out in jagged patterns.

To his utter disappointment, Bridger was dressed somewhat the same—beach bum style baggy white pants, sun-bleached blonde hair under a yellow sun visor, and Tommy Bahama flowery shirt.

“Sorry about the hood and securing your hands like that. I know it is disorienting, especially in your diminished state, but it is necessary. Now Olek, can I call you Olek?” He didn’t skip a beat waiting for an answer. “Olek, we don’t have much time.” He used his nice voice. “It’s late and we have a busy day. We need to have a little chat,” Bridger said with a short tone of compassion like a father explaining to a child why it was necessary to obey and take out the trash.

Bridger wished he could use the gas to interrogate this kid, but he couldn’t wait for it to take effect. This worried him. Speed was an enemy as dangerous as many of their targets. Speed caused hazardous patterns. Speed led to shortcuts. But the lack of time necessitated getting the intel he needed from the body crumpled in front of him right now.

Demon had begged to stuff the kid in a shoebox and ship it to Bondar, who Bridger figured would appreciate the schooling his son received. Lucky for Oleksandr, Bridger needed him in one piece—for now.

Bridger started wandering around the lounge. The kid had turned it into a dump. It smelled of cigarette smoke, sweat, food, and saltwater.

“This is a nice boat you have here. The design and decorating are spectacular. It must have cost you millions. I figure fifty for the toy. Add a few more for the crew, registration, and the marina.”

“Fuck you,” the words were slurred with contempt. Olek was trying to reposition his body on the couch.

“Captain Andre was nice enough to provide a tour when we came on board,” Bridger continued in an informative tone. “By the way, just between you and me, the Captain is not your biggest fan. Neither is his crew. They were more than happy to help us and are nice enough to take us out on this pleasant cruise.”

“Fuck you,” he repeated.

“This is quite a feast.” Bridger was leaning over the dining table.

A small dish buffet was mixed among a forest of empty champagne bottles, cigarette butts, drugs, and Cyprus brandy. Two dozen traditional Cypriot delicacies—air-dried cured beef pastirma, meat cubes of souvlaki, halloumi cheese, olives, and breads covered the table. Bridger reached down toward a plate, picked up a sausage, and flicked the meat into his mouth. His head tilted back as his face radiated a smile of pleasure.

“This Loukanika is fantastic! I love the hint of coriander. Don’t you?” He waited for an answer as he licked his fingers and smacked his lips. With a smirk, he strolled by Demon, who impatiently leaned against the polished wood of the bulkhead.

“Who are you?” Oleksandr said, his voice rough from smoke and fear.

Bridger turned quickly. Demon started to move toward the boy with the Stick poised to strike.

“No!” Bridger shouted.

Oleksandr panicked and blindly wiggled his body into the cushions as far as he could.

Demon stopped, shrugged, and returned to his position along the wall—the Stick still in striking position.

“Sorry, don’t worry about him.” Bridger patted Olek on top of his hooded head like a puppy. Olek flinched and turned away. “I won’t let anything happen to you. To answer your question—a good question—we have been retained to