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

protein bars for the past two days. I need some sleep. I smell. That’s how I am doing. Thanks for asking.”

“Well, that was quite informative,” she said tersely.

Bridger could tell she was annoyed. He felt better.

“What is actually going on, May?”

“Call me later.” She ended the call without another word.

Bridger didn’t know what to make of May calling, and he was way too tired to think about it. The long day had turned into two long days. Knowing there was a chance it might be ending soon invigorated him.

His Signal phone application identified a secure group call. He punched the speaker button.

“Beast is dead! Beast is dead!” Demon’s voice yelled out of the phone. “Shot dead in his room.”

There was a pause, then gasps and shouts as the other Spy Devils reacted to the news.

“Quiet!” Bridger shouted and shook his head. “How?”

Bridger jerked the Skoda across a lane of traffic and stomped on the brakes. It lurched to a stop. He jammed the transmission into park.

The Hillcrest case bounced off the dash and hit Peter in the face. He felt a trickle of blood roll from his right nostril.

“What the hell, Bridger?”

“What did you say? Say that again!” Bridger shouted.

“Dead. He must have six holes in his chest. It is hard to tell—it is a fucking mess. There’s blood everywhere, but—I don’t think it is all his. There is too much. Looks like some guy’s brains are splattered on the wall. Not his. Spent brass. Beast’s knife is covered in blood. I think he took out—three of them.”

Demon saw a small pulpy clump of flesh at his feet. He bent over, picked it up, took a close look, and rubbed it between his fingers. “I think he cut some guy’s balls off.” Demon flipped the mass on the floor like he was tossing a used tissue.

“No other bodies?” Bridger asked.

“Nope, and I don’t think any of them walked away. Hang on. I see something in Beast’s mouth. Hang on. There is a note. In his mouth.”

“A note? What does it say?”

“What the fuck?” Demon said.

“What does it say, Demon?” Bridger barked.

“It says ‘A gift for the Devil.’”

Bridger’s hands gripped and twisted on the steering wheel, causing a squeaking sound of flesh on plastic. He turned his head and looked out the side window.

“What?” Peter looked at Bridger.

Bridger waved his arm to silence him.

“Execute your exfiltration plans.”

“What about Beast?” Demon asked.

Bridger hesitated this time. Thinking was a struggle. He blinked hard once and let out a breath.

“I have to get rid of this case and talk to Chapel. Call the Olegs. They can help with Beast’s…body. And get out of here. I will contact you when we are moving.”

“We need to watch you! Let’s get the bots in the air. We can pull off and have them over the location in twenty minutes,” Beatrice shouted through her sobbing.

“No. Execute your plans. I want you out of here.”

“Fuck that,” Snake said, just before he hit the off button.

Bridger shifted the transmission into drive and pulled the car back into traffic. Peter wedged the case between his legs and grabbed the door handle.

Bridger had lost a Spy Devil, something he had never experienced before. They were built to be invisible. He had failed and didn’t know how or why. He wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.

The card in Beast’s mouth was meant for him as a warning. Payback for some operation, perhaps. But who knew the Spy Devils were there? Who knew anything about Beast being a Spy Devil?

It is a short list. A very short list.

The ding of Bridger’s phone interrupted his internal dialogue. He saw the bright letters D.C. contrasted against the black screen.

“It’s Chapel, finally.” The message contained only an address. “Look this up,” he told Peter, showing him the screen.

Peter punched the address into the navigation system on his phone.

“It’s in Lebedevka Village. Across and along the river. Looks like a thirty-minute zigzagging drive through mid-morning Kyiv traffic.”

Peter’s directions led to a narrow tree-lined road that paralleled the river. The address was the last house on the road—a three-story brick mansion with large windows on a wooded lot. A driveway, bound by low stone walls, snaked through the trees and came to an end at a set of red brick steps leading to the front door.

“Nice digs,” Peter said.

Bridger didn’t answer.

“I missed it,” he whispered, “I can’t believe I missed it.”

“What?” Peter asked. “Missed what?”

“Damn it! I was distracted by—. I lost my fucking focus,” Bridger said, with a pound of his fist against the steering wheel.

“What?” Peter shouted.

“This is an ambush.”

Bridger slammed his foot on the accelerator, causing the vehicle to fishtail on its worn tires. Suddenly, the road came to an abrupt dead-end at piles of tree stumps, dead brush, and construction debris.

A cloud of gravel and dust rose as Bridger hit the brakes, reversed, and backed into the driveway. He gunned it forward back on the road, finally pointing the Skoda in the right direction.

They didn’t see the car until it was too late, so they had no time to brace themselves.

The Renault Logan came out of the brush on the left side of the road. It smashed the Skoda like a javelin hitting right behind the driver’s seat. The car went airborne. The right-side back quarter-panel crushed into a tree on the other side of the road. It spun to the left and pivoted slowly on its nose like a ballerina on pointe until it keeled over and started a rapid slide on its left side down the hill toward the river. The momentum slowed as it pinballed off tree trunks and stumps until it stopped.

It was a total wreck. Steam hissed from the awkwardly bent radiator angling out of the engine. Fluids leaked. The familiar smell of gas mixed with the scent of pine needles. The wheels slowly rotated with creaking sounds.

Bridger couldn’t tell what was worse. The ringing in his ears? The pressure behind his eyes? The dizziness?