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

discomfort caused by the cattle prod setting of the Devil Stick. He did. He was a tough bastard and barely made a sound each time Demon jolted him.

Peng, on the other hand, wasn’t doing as well. He was gasping for air. It was already hot in the room, but an unbelievable cascade of sweat was rolling down his face. His clothes were soaked with sweat and urine.

“You know,” Bridger said as he leaned forward, “your man Shen, maybe you know him?” Bridger looked from Peng to Bai. “He only made it to setting four. Demon, how many volts is that?”

“It’s the amps, not the volts. And the answer is not enough. Can we get on with this?”

With his Devil Stick in his right hand, Demon stood behind the MSS men, irritatingly tapping it on the back of Peng’s metal chair. Cling. Cling. Cling. In his other hand, he was opening and closing the pliers with a metallic click click click.

Bridger grinned. He had to admire his devotion to duty. Demon had always been there for him—since he was a kid living in CIA-paid housing in a dozen countries. Teaching. Training. He was always larger than life to a young, fatherless boy. In many ways, to Bridger, he still was. Bridger would always be there for him, too. He loved the man.

“Now, on the other hand, I think Qiang made it all the way to six, but he lost a few fingernails in the process.”

He looked at Demon.

“Two. We are only at two,” Demon answered without being asked.

Peng whimpered.

“So, back to business.” Bridger smiled, leaned over, looked at the cookies, picked one up, and popped it in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed. “So much for that diet. Now, where was I? Yes, Fan, Ye, Dequan, and the others told us most of what we needed to know about the operation of Bureau X, with your fearsome Dragon Fire name.”

Bridger knew that was only partially true. They had been extracting some information from the Dragon Fire captives, but May had been sending Bridger real intel since the beginning of the mission. His prisoners didn’t need to know that.

“They became quite cooperative, eventually, and provided your mission, how long you have been active, your targets, and base and safe house locations. They also added detail on your leader. Li Chu, is it? Perhaps you can fill in some of the blank spots on this elusive Mr. Li Chu.”

Bridger looked from one man to the other. His eyebrows raised as a quizzical look appeared on his face. Peng looked at Bai, eyes wide in desperation. Bai didn’t look at him at all. He just returned Bridger’s gaze with one of his own.

“Gentlemen, you know how this will eventually end, right? In a day or two, no matter if you talk or not?” Bridger raised his arm to shoulder level. His index finger was out, his thumb was up, and the rest of his fingers were curled back in the universal hand position to look like a gun. He pointed at Bai.

“Bang!” Then swiveled and pointed at Peng, who flinched when Bridger shouted “Bang!” at him.

Bai’s expression of defiance dropped in the momentary realization of understanding, then went back to defiance. Peng started to moan.

“Oh well,” Bridger sighed and motioned to Demon to continue. Demon increased the setting on the dial, but before he could tap a shoulder, three electronic beeps came from Bridger’s phone. He reached in and looked at the caller ID on the Signal secure communication app.

“Are you kidding? Hang on, Demon. I have to get this. Sorry, guys.”

“Son of a bitch!” Demon scowled, dropping the Stick to his side and stuffing the pliers in his front pocket.

Bridger stood, hit the answer button, turned his back, and walked away from the men. He knew she didn’t call when they were operational in the field unless it was pre-scheduled or life-threatening.

He put the phone to his ear.

“Not a good time to chat, May.”

“When I call,” said a voice with a slight Western New England accent, “it is always a good time.”

4

The Devilbots

Taipei, Taiwan

“You should be close to the completion of this operation,” said May Currier, Senior Advisor, Special Projects, to the Deputy Director of Operations for the CIA.

“Yes, we are, so let us get on with dealing with the Chinese assassins.”

“Yes, that is nice to know, but I have two important issues I need to discuss.”

“Now? Don’t you have some paper clips to requisition or some other staff to terrorize?” Bridger said too loudly for the room.

“I have intel you are about to be ambushed. Did you know that?”

“Thank you, I do know. I am capable of spotting an ambush.”

“Well, I hope so, son. I taught you. Then have a nice time. Don’t forget to call me.”

For a moment, Bridger stood with his phone still at his ear when the line went dead. Then he dropped his arm and stuffed his phone into his pocket.

“Imp. What’s the status?” Bridger said, his comm system picking up his question.

“Status? You want the status? The status is I’m hiding in a car blocks away, hovering this toy on overwatch, while the others get to play bang bang.”

“Grow up,” Milton replied with a hint of Alabama in his voice.

“Be a good boy, Imp,” the soft voice of Beatrice contrasted with the hard sarcasm they transmitted. A few anonymous chuckles cut the tension.

“Beatrice, you can—”

“Stop right there,” Milton said, cutting Imp off.

Milton and Beatrice. The lovebird couple.

Bridger found Milton—named for the author of Paradise Lost—unsuccessfully flailing at pitching beyond comprehension start-up ideas to his alma mater, MIT. Scientific master of everything. He was twenty-nine but looked fourteen. Paper-thin. Red soup bowl-style cut bangs. One hundred fifty-five pounds, max. Wire-rimmed glasses over a freckled, ruddy face. A stereotypical egghead who spent most of his time in high school hiding in the science lab to avoid the daily beating by bullies.

Bridger got a lead on Beatrice—her code name was plucked from Dante’s Divine Comedy—through a talent agency