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

proposal with you.” She stood and held out her hand. He didn’t move any closer to her. She dropped her arm and sat.

Bridger looked at her, then looked around the room. She was the only one inside. The room was exactly as Pavlo described in his debriefing. Lots of computers and racks of equipment. Monitors and workstations. The air conditioners hummed, but it was still warm in the room.

“Yes. Ms. Bondar. I have heard of you. And Pavlo here speaks very highly of you,” he said, trying not to react to her calling him by his name.

How the hell do you know so much, Ms. Ira?

“Yes, I am sure. Please call me Ira. And my apologies, as time is short and we need to discuss some important matters—however, I would like this conversation to be only for our ears. Perhaps—” Her voice trailed off as her pupils zeroed in on Pavlo—still in the same position and sobbing softly.

“Ah, I get it.”

Bridger raised and extended his Devil Stick. He flipped the thumb controls.

“Pavlo, get up.” The man didn’t move. “Get up, please. Pavlo, I’ve got chocolate!” Still no movement.

Bridger shrugged and touched the end of the Stick against Pavlo’s back. The stun gun setting let out a staccato electric pulse. Pavlo’s arms and legs flapped on the floor. Bridger moved his thumb one more time. He turned his head away, pointed it at the defenseless man’s snot, sweat, and drool-covered face. He pressed the activator switch. A fine mist shot out of the end into Pavlo’s face. In seconds, the man went limp—his relaxed neck muscles dropped his head to the concrete floor.

“That is amazing,” Ira said, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward to get a closer look at the unconscious man. “I had heard of this, but to see it used. Amazing.” Bridger could not help but notice the tips of a black lace garter clipped to the tops of her stockings.

When was the last time I had sex….?

He scolded himself for the lapse in his concentration.

“You have heard of this.” He waved the Devil Stick in the air as he asked her the question. “May I ask how that is?”

“Yes, but please sit. I will explain.”

She gracefully flicked her hand to another padded desk chair a few feet in front of her.

When Bridger didn’t move, she smiled in understanding. “Please. You are safe, since you are here and not dead. I ordered my security teams to allow you to enter. Our time is short. I would like to negotiate a deal with you.”

Instead of asking about the deal, he raised his nose into the air. Sniff. Sniff.

“I am catching a slight scent of a bouquet of flowers in the room.” His face took on the look of a man in full concentration. Sniff. “Let me think.” He sniffed once more. Then he slapped his free hand on his knee—the other still held the Stick—and said, “Ah-ha! I have it. Chanel No. 5!”

“Quite right!” Ira said with a laugh.

“I have a good nose.” Bridger raised his eyebrows and smiled. “I can sniff out scents that smell sweet, just as well as I can when I come across the odor of something that stinks.”

Your face tells me you got my meaning, too. Red is your color, Ira.

“How? I know what is in the public domain. How do you know so much detail about—?” he paused for a moment. At first his face showed concentration—then understanding.

“Oh, yes. Of course. I know of you from your presence on social media. I am a fan.”

“Thank you. We are coming out with a line of clothing soon.”

She paused for a moment with a bewildered look on her face. Then she smiled. “Yes. I see. I became aware you were searching for the case in Kyiv through a consultant who works for us. His name is Danforth Chapel. He seemed quite well versed in your professional skills and expertise. He highly recommends you.”

“Yep. Chapel. A recommendation from on high, but why not just give him the case?”

“Then I would not get what I want.”

“And what is that?” he asked, as he leaned his tired body back in the comfortable chair.

“I want you to rid me of my father.”

43

Take it to the Bank

Kyiv, Ukraine

Her words were spoken so calmly it actually made Bridger uncomfortable.

“Rid you of your father?” He repeated in a slight accent. “Rid? Do you mean to kill him?”

“I didn’t state I wanted you to kill him.” Ira corrected him.

“Okay. Explain it to me, then. I like hearing the ideas that roll around in the minds of the rich, powerful, and sociopathic.”

“Oh, Mr. Bridger. Please, it is a business matter. I am disappointed with how my father has been handling our businesses—poor planning and partnerships leading to the loss of assets. The American company is a problem only because he took their money to cover our losses. He never intends to pay on our debt. A recent setback in Serbia is his fault.”

“Serbia? What happened in Serbia?”

“He trusted the Chinese,” Ira continued. “A catastrophe that has caused more issues with our finances and stress with our relationship with the government.”

“You were working with Serge?”

Ira was shocked. “Serge? Yes. You know Serge? You know of the issues in Serbia?”

Bridger let a few seconds of silence be his answer as he fixed his unblinking eyes on her.

“What’s the real reason you want him gone, Ira?” Bridger finally asked.

“He—” she paused and swallowed as her eyes looked down, “—killed a man very close and dear to me—very dear to me.”

“Ah, well, so not only about business.” He faked a frowning face. “Everyone has a story, Ira.”

“Excuse me?” She was puzzled.

“What do you want me to do?”

She leaned in slightly, rested her white hand and red nails on her knee, and squeezed. Her face momentarily turned red. “As I said, I cannot kill him. He is my father.” She sat back. “I would like you to ruin and humiliate him, such as you do on social