Net Force--Kill Chain by Jerome Preisler (e book reader txt) 📕

more. “I admit, your offer’s perversely tempting,” she said. “But I have four shows at the club. Friday and Saturday night...”

“I can pick you up right after your last set. I’ll bring sandwiches.” He paused. “I make primo sandwiches.”

She looked at him.

“Question, Bry...how long have you had this worked out?”

His smile broadened. “Four days, six hours.”

Candid, guileless, clueless, and very precise. She sat looking at the virtual island shoreline. “Bryan and Natasha’s Great Adventure,” she said. “It does have a ring.”

“You’ll love Chacagua,” he said. “And you could help with mom’s research there. It ties in with what we do at Net Force.”

“Wait. A minute ago you told me Annie retired.”

“She did. Officially, anyway. But she’s still kind of involved. Also, I want to introduce you to something.”

“Something.”

He nodded.

“Not someone.”

He gave another nod. Natasha looked at him.

“OK, I’ll bite,” she said. “Something as in...”

“The Internet of Trees,” he said, and smiled his broadest, most openly enthusiastic smile yet.

Chapter Two

Gibraltar, the Iberian Peninsula

April 6, 2024

Aurelion Braithwaite had arranged to meet his client—or prospective client—at a tavern off a dusty secondary road between the city center and the Catholic parish at Europa Point. The owner of the place, a passive-aggressive old goat from Oviedo, did everything but duck under the bar to avoid his customers, or glare at them from behind it when he couldn’t hide. But there was always good beer on tap, and the servers were mostly Aussie blondes on work visas.

Which made Braithwaite feel right at home.

He sat at an outside table under the front canopy, waiting with a mug of ice-cold Estrella Damm. The place didn’t attract many tourists, their loss. Sitting on the flat southern tip of the peninsula, it shouldered right up against the Rock and gave an unrivaled view of the upper promontory and coast. On a clear night, Braithwaite could gaze across the strait at the Andalusian and Moroccan shorelines and see the light of the moon washing down on two continents.

This was just such a night. Mild, clear, a pleasant breeze coming from the southwest. Lovely.

He checked his wristwatch. It was 8:35 p.m. Urban should have arrived five minutes ago. He would give him exactly ten more minutes.

Braithwaite drank his lager, savoring its clean, sweet-spicy taste. He could spend hours looking out over the water and making flirtatious remarks to his waitress. But he viewed lateness as a sign of disrespect, and that could not be tolerated.

8:38 p.m. He saw a silver Mercedes Clase B car pull into the parking area on the north side of the pub and guessed it was his man. The Clase B was the go-to luxury rental at the airport and a perfect match for a high-level executive in the Kremlin’s SVR RF. Its Spanish plate number was another giveaway; Gibraltar International was just across the border from Spain, and Mr. Urban would have walked there directly from the terminal for pickup.

Braithwaite would be unable see him exit the wagon from his vantage. Entry to the front court was through the pub, and he would come into the place through a side door facing the lot. Then he’d walk around past the bar and dining room and out the front entrance, where he could scan the outdoor seating. It would take him two to three minutes to push through the small crowd of people inside.

8:43 p.m. Tall and thin, wearing a black leather jacket, Urban stepped out the door and spotted him under the canopy. He had a big ugly bruiser for company, no shock there. Braithwaite wouldn’t expect him to travel without protection.

He came straight over to the table, a rather formal march, his hefty underling a couple of paces behind him.

“‘Evening.” Braithwaite regarded him without getting up. “I’ve been here half an hour. But I won’t blame you for my punctuality.”

The Russian ignored the remark. He nodded to his companion, and they took the two empty seats.

“Shall I order?” Braithwaite said. “The beer ain’t too shoddy and our waitress is a looker.”

Urban nodded.

“That would be fine,” he said. “Thank you.”

Braithwaite waved for their server and ordered a pitcher of the Estrella. He watched her turn back toward the bar with a sway of the hips between the tables, following her with his eyes, nodding appreciatively. As she pushed open the door, he heard clinking and shuffling inside, brassy snatches of music from the juke. Then the door swung shut and things got quieter again.

He looked at Urban. “Are we doing pleasantries? I can ask the usual drivel about your flight. You’ve traveled a long way for what could have been done on a video conference.”

The Russian’s face was sharp as a blade. The sort Braithwaite fancied would be used for dissections.

“We’ll have our drink,” he said. “Then business.”

Braithwaite silently admonished himself for being too talkative. His self-imposed exile to Gibraltar after that nasty bit in Munich with the CIA—and the woman called Outlier—had led to more solitude than he preferred.

The waitress returned. He watched her move around the table, set out their glasses, and pour carefully from the pitcher. The heads of beer stayed thick and frothy and didn’t overflow.

“You’ve got the touch,” he said to her, and then nodded at the Russians. “My friends are impressed, can’t you tell?”

She smiled with minimal eye contact and left. The tavern owner’s attitude had rubbed off on her, Braithwaite thought. He reached for his beer.

“Cheers,” he said.

They raised their glasses and drank. Braithwaite waited.

“I’m here at the direction of Koschei,” Urban said.

Braithwaite knew that was meant to impress him. “Isn’t he pretty much behind everything at the Kremlin these days?”

Urban ignored him. “Your agency is highly regarded. We see the recent lapse in the Carpathians as a blip.”

Braithwaite looked at him.

“I work with freelancers. That means I can’t stop them from shoehorning other jobs between my assignments. Braithwaite Global wasn’t involved in any lapse.”

The Russian was silent a long moment, his face neutral. Then he shrugged.

“We want you to retrieve an asset,” he said in a