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

“Relax.” Bridger looked over at Demon and gave him a nod. He turned back to Oleksandr.

“One more chance, Olek. Tell me about the banker, his contacts in Kyiv, and where the case is.”

“You can go fuck your one more cha—”

Oleksandr did not have time to scream. Demon was on him in a blink. He picked Olek up and bounced him on the floor like a basketball with enough force to knock the air out of the young man’s lungs. A few seconds later, Oleksandr felt the Mediterranean night air against his damp skin. Something was wrapped around his waist, and then, in a few more seconds, he was weightless.

In a hood, disoriented, and his hands still secured behind him, Olek tumbled like a coin tossed in a wishing well. He hit the water and began to sink.

Oleksandr gulped mouthfuls of the warm Mediterranean water, desperate for air. Water poured into his nostrils. The only sounds were the bubbling of the sea in his ears and the panicked choking of him drowning. Kicking his legs and thrashing his body in complete terror, he managed briefly to find the surface.

The hood stuck to his mouth and nose. He couldn’t breathe. Although he had only been in the water for five seconds, terror made it seem as though he was close to death.

Olek’s body jerked like a fish on a hook. Then he realized he was being pulled through the water.

“Hey, are there sharks in the Med?” Demon asked, as he kept his finger on the switch that activated the electronic winch. It controlled a cable that ran from the yacht’s side to a harness that he had secured around Oleksandr’s body.

“I’m not sure. I didn’t think about it. Maybe?” Bridger shrugged.

“I hope so,” Demon said.

The sling dug deep into Olek’s armpits as he slammed against the side of the boat and was dragged along the hull at the waterline. He clawed at the slick hull with his feet, hoping to catch something to get back on the yacht.

Demon released the switch, stopping the rope with a sudden jerk. Oleksandr hung suspended just overboard of the rear sun deck, shivering with terror, like a fresh catch on a sportfishing boat. His shorts were lost in the darkness of the Med. His linen white shirt was ripped open and sticking to his skin.

Olek’s momentum caused him to swing out from the hull and slam back against the side with a thump and a groan.

“So, where were we?” Bridger yelled over the side at the kid.

Oleg looked pathetic. Blood was flowing over his shoulders from cuts somewhere under the hood.

“I—I—” Oleksandr stammered through chattering teeth.

“Drop him,” Bridger ordered.

“No!” he screamed.

“What is the name of the person in Ukraine? How do we contact him? Where is Hillcrest?” Bridger waited. “I guess you enjoyed your drop into the water. Fine.”

Bridger looked at Demon and made a motion for him to activate the winch. As Demon moved his hand, he was interrupted by screams.

“Don’t. Don’t. Don’t!” Olek screamed. Then he whimpered through his hood. “Please?”

“Either tell me, or you’d better grow some gills because I’m cutting the cable.”

“Pav-lo! His name is Pavlo! In Kyiv! In the basement of the bank. He is Ira’s person. That is all I know. I swear. The banker—the banker will know everything. Believe me. PLEASE!” With each pleading word, his head ricocheted off the rocking hull.

“I believe you now, Oleksandr,” Bridger said loud enough so Olek could hear him over the rushing water.

“Tha-nk…you.” Oleksandr’s sporadic sounds were barely audible as he lowered his head in relief.

“Lucky for you, I also believe in catch and release.”

“What?” Olek screamed.

Demon reached into his pocket, pulled out a knife, flipped open the blade, and started cutting the tape binding Olek’s wrists. Bridger pulled the ring that inflated a fluorescent orange flotation tube around Olek’s waist and hit the cable release. Olek’s shrill scream turned to a gurgle when he hit the water. Bridger saw the safety tube's reflection in the glow of the aft lights, then Olek disappeared as the boat crawled away.

With a last look in Olek’s general direction, Bridger picked a radio out of his cargo pants pocket and keyed the talk switch.

“All yours,” he announced.

He replaced the radio, then flipped open a box on the wall between the sundeck and lounge. He reached in and put an on-board phone to his ear. “Captain Andre? Yes. You can return to the marina. Thank you.”

The engines increased power. The bow of the yacht turned to point in the direction of the lights of Cyprus.

Behind the yacht, another set of engines roared from the darkness. An oval circle of light hit the surface of the sea, swinging back and forth in quick searching arcs until it found an inflated orange tube supporting a hooded head.

“Help! Help!” The weak voice pleaded against the sound of the engines.

The grey SAB-12 Class patrol boat, marked by the blue-and white-sign identifying it as Marine Police, followed the beam and maneuvered near the floating man. Beast, dressed in a police uniform, extended a hook, caught Olek under the armpits, and hauled him up onto the deck like a tuna. His skin was pale, and he shook uncontrollably.

Beast untied the mask and yanked it off. Olek vomited water, dinner, and drugs across the deck. He wretched and gasped, then vomited again. This repeated three more times until he was empty.

“Greetings, my friend. I am Chief of Police Cristos Zacharias, and you are under arrest for possession of narcotics,” he said politely, as he steadied himself in the swaying boat. “You will be pleased to know you will be spending much time as a guest of the people of Limassol in our modern facilities.”

The boat turned and followed the distant lights of a yacht that was cutting through the water in the direction of the marina's lights—in the direction of Bridger’s next victim.

32

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Nicosia, Cyprus

He felt the playful tug on his ear. He wiggled