Assignment- Adventure A SpyCo Collection 1-3 Read online

  Assignment: Adventure

  A SpyCo Collection 1-3

  Craig A. Hart

  S. J. Varengo

  Contents

  A Free Book Offer

  Also by Craig A. Hart

  Assignment: Athens

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Assignment: Paris

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Assignment: Istanbul

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  A Free Book Offer

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  Also by Craig A. Hart

  The Shelby Alexander Thriller Series

  Serenity

  Serenity Stalked

  Serenity Avenged

  Serenity Submerged

  The SpyCo Novella Series

  Assignment: Athens

  Assignment: Paris

  Assignment: Istanbul

  Assignment: Sydney

  Assignment: Alaska

  Assignment: Dublin

  Copyright © 2017 by Craig A. Hart

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Assignment: Athens

  A SpyCo Novella #1

  Prologue

  The black BMW sat alongside the curb under an oak tree. The color of the vehicle, combined with both the shadows cast by the spreading boughs and the fact it was forty-three minutes past midnight, made it almost invisible to anyone who might look that way. Probing eyes, however, were scarce tonight, not only due to the late hour, but also because the car was parked on a rather deserted stretch of road on the outskirts of town. Only the occasional passing motorist disturbed the quiet night, and those who did were few and disinterested.

  The man sitting behind the steering wheel glanced at his watch and sighed. 12:44. A few minutes more and he would drive away. He took a comforting look at the briefcase lying flat on the passenger seat. He placed his hand, palm down, upon it, almost as if he expected someone to snatch it from him at any second.

  Five minutes later, he again checked his watch. Shrugging, he put his hand upon the key in the ignition. He had waited too long already. He turned the key and heard the engine purr. He put his foot upon the brake and was about to shift into drive when something red flashed in the corner of his eye. Taking his foot off the brake, he glanced to his right, but saw nothing. A reflection of his brake lights, he decided. He was about to start again when once more he saw the red flash and this time focused on it. A small, red dot had alighted on top of the passenger seat headrest and was creeping toward him. Glancing back, he glimpsed a dark figure through the glass of the rear window just before the red dot caught him in the eye. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away. The rear window shattered and something crashed into his head. The darkness of the night disappeared, and he was sucked into a void infinitely blacker.

  The figure behind the BMW stood still for a moment and then moved to the driver’s side. Trying the handle, he grunted with satisfaction to find the door unlocked. He looked with disgust at the mess he had made of the interior of the car, then leaned gingerly in and removed the briefcase from the passenger seat. He shut the car door and walked away.

  Once back to his motel room, he locked the door and pulled the shades over the window. Only after assuring himself there were no prying eyes did he turn on the bedside lamp and set the briefcase down on the tabletop. He set to work on the combinations and soon the latches clicked open. He lifted the lid and had enough time to glimpse the neatly arranged explosives before the bomb exploded in his face.

  1

  The chirping cellphone awoke James Reagan Burke from a deep sleep and a wet dream. Still in the mist of slumber, he thought it was his alarm clock and nearly beat it to pieces before realizing the mistake. He picked up the cell and croaked,

  “Hello?”

  “Catch you at a bad time, Tiger?”

  The code name jolted him awake.

  “You interrupted a decent dream, but at least I don’t have to pay the lady.”

  “I’m not sure what that means, and I’d rather you didn’t explain,” the caller said. “Willy is dead, and the briefcase has disappeared.”

  “What happened?”

  “Looks like he was pulling a double-cross on us. Environmental services were making their rounds about four and found him in his car, dead.”

  “And you’re connecting him with the briefcase's disappearance?”

  “He was the last one to have it. If he wasn’t changing hats, why would he be sitting out in his car at an ungodly hour, on a deserted street, with the briefcase? He was supposed to deliver it to his contact this morning at six. A simple swap. The contact waited at the dead-drop, but there’s only so long you can act casual. My guess is Willy was meeting someone else even earlier. A pay-off, probably. Only it didn’t work the way it was supposed to, and he got the double-cross himself.”

  “Karma.”

  “That doesn’t explain why we’re getting the shaft. That briefcase is now floating around somewhere and we need to find it.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Alert all your contacts, Tiger, and fast. To know about the briefcase, our agent friend must have the inside scoop on us. Therefore, he must be someone close to the organization, or at least have friends there. I’m hoping by placing an alert on all agents, we can stall the final delivery of the briefcase until we find out where it is and retrieve it. I don’t have to remind you how important this briefcase is to the security of the United States. It contains detailed plans concerning our covert operations both domestic and foreign, including the war on terror. We’ve got a mole in here somewhere and I won’t rest until we dig him out.”

  Within the hour, Burke had alerted his contacts and placed seeds of suspicion in the minds of everyone. It was just as well; it never paid to become trusting or comfortable with any one person in this business. Things changed too rapidly to get into a routine.

  He showered and pulled on jeans and a loose sweat
er, ran a comb through his hair, and grabbed his keys from the counter. He walked through the side door into the garage and turned to lock the door.

  A movement caught his eye.

  The garage had only two small windows and the early sky was overcast, turning the garage dim and gloomy. Burke stood still, trying to locate the source of the distraction, but saw nothing unusual or out of place. He shrugged, locked the door, and walked across the oil-stained concrete of the garage floor to his car. He slid behind the wheel and was reaching over his shoulder for the seat belt when she spoke:

  “You could at least say hello, Tiger. It’s been some time.”

  He whipped around, his hand sliding inside his sweater for the pistol sitting snugly in the shoulder holster.

  She sat in the passenger seat, shrouded in shadow, but Burke recognized the voice and let his hand fall away from the gun butt.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “About thirty minutes.”

  “Not to be clichéd, but what are you doing here?”

  “I came to talk to you. Did you think I came for a glimpse of your handsome face?”

  “I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

  “Still humble, I see. Can we talk?”

  “I was planning to grab breakfast. You're welcome to join me.”

  “You’re paying?”

  “Still cheap, I see.”

  “It comes from my Depression-era grandmother. But before we go, could I use your bathroom? I’ve been sitting here for half an hour and the thought of liquid refreshment is making me nervous.”

  Burke tossed her the keys. “It’s the small, brass key in the middle of the ring.”

  Lyndsey got out of the car and disappeared inside, reappearing a few minutes later. She got into the car and settled down in the passenger seat.

  “Thanks for waiting. I’m ready. Where to?”

  “Preferences?”

  “Anywhere with a corner booth and sufficient background noise to drown out our conversation.”

  They pulled up in front of the restaurant to find the parking lot full of cars. Lyndsey looked with ill-concealed skepticism at the large, neon sign above the building, “Greasy’s Diner.”

  Burke saw the look and chuckled. “Don’t let the name fool you. Their breakfast menu is world-famous.”

  The diner was crowded and loud. The tile floor was cracked, and the ceiling sported water damage in several places. Lyndsey’s skeptical look turned to one of disgust, but before she could speak, a waitress was guiding them to a corner booth on the far side of the room. They sat down and the waitress looked at them with jaded eyes. She dropped two grease-spotted menus on the table top.

  “Coffee?”

  Burke nodded.

  Lyndsey looked at Burke, her eyes wide and pleading. “I’m not sure I—”

  “You said you wanted a private place to talk. No one will hear you in here.” He looked up at the waitress who was waiting impatiently. “She’ll have coffee.”

  “Wonderful,” the waitress said, her monotone suggesting she couldn’t care less. “Cream and sugar on the table. I’ll be back for your order in a sec.”

  Burke motioned toward Lyndsey’s menu. “Go ahead. I already know what I’m getting.”

  Using only the tips of her fingers, Lyndsey opened the grungy menu and scanned the list. “These names seem rather…cryptic. The Morning Surprise, the Classic Egg Combo. What’s this? The Ham Heaves Breakfast?”

  Burke laughed. “That’s the Ham Heaven Breakfast. I’m sure the manager makes these menus himself in the back room on an old inkjet printer. There’s always a typo or two, although that’s the best I’ve seen yet.”

  The waitress reappeared and took their orders. They engaged in small talk until the food arrived and then ate for a few minutes in silence. Burke demolished his in short order while Lyndsey approached hers with undisguised loathing.

  “How can you eat this stuff all the time? It’s greasy as hell.”

  “If you’d lower your standards enough to taste it, you’d find it’s not too bad.”

  “You'll have a heart attack at fifty, eating all this grease.”

  Burke mopped up the last few stray bits of egg. “So, tell me. What’s so important you had to scare the shit out of me this morning? Don’t tell me you’re getting bored.”

  Lyndsey gave up on the breakfast and moved her plate aside. “You’ve heard about Willy, I assume?”

  “Yes. Moore called earlier this morning.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  “Not much. He said it looked like Willy was pulling a double-cross.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  Burke thought, then he shook his head. “Not really. At least, I don’t want to. I knew him well—never pegged him for a traitor. No one ever does, I suppose.”

  “But why would Willy do that? What could he gain?”

  “Money, I suppose.”

  “Oh, come on, Burke. He didn’t need the money.”

  “Neither do the world’s billionaires, but they always go for the extra buck.”

  “Willy wasn’t a driven, hard-nosed business tycoon.”

  “Mr. Silver Spoon himself.”

  “More of a playboy than anything else, although he was good at his job.” Lyndsey sighed. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Okay,” Burke said. “Let’s assume for a moment Willy was not pulling a double-cross. Why was he killed and where is the briefcase?”

  “All I’m saying is something isn’t right, here. We both have doubts about the validity of the idea Willy was a two-timer.”

  “Doubts don’t mean much, Lyndsey. We need evidence.”

  “Does it matter? He’s dead.”

  “But whoever conspired with or against him is not. This means they’re still a danger and need to be eliminated.” Burke sipped his coffee for a few moments. “Why did you come to see me, Lyndsey?”

  “We’ve worked together on many assignments, Burke. At one time, there was even something between us. You’re the only one I can trust.”

  “A touching, but dangerous attitude.”

  “I’m serious. There are concerning things going on in the organization.”

  “So why not do something about it?”

  “I need an ally.”

  “And I’m it.”

  Lyndsey gave him that pleading look he’d never been able to refuse. He decided a quick change of subject was imperative.

  “I take it you haven’t talked with the boss about this?”

  “No.” Her voice was flat, and she didn’t meet his eyes.

  “You don’t trust him either?”

  “I don’t trust anyone, Burke.”

  “Except me.”

  “You were the least of the two evils.”

  “Aw, I didn’t know you still cared.”

  Lyndsey laughed and, for a moment, old feelings stirred.

  The waitress appeared, breaking the spell. She slapped the check onto the table. “You want anything else?” Her tone suggested they’d damn well better not want anything else.

  “No thanks,” Burke said. “We’re stuffed.”

  The waitress wandered away.

  Lyndsey grabbed her handbag and slid from the booth. When Burke followed her, she waved him off. “I’ll grab a cab.”

  “I thought you trusted me.”

  “The lesser of two evils is still evil.”

  “And yet I’m guessing you expect me to pick up the check?”

  “Oh, would you? Thanks. I’ll grab it next time.”

  Burke knew he was beaten; he always was with her. She bent down and pecked him on the cheek. Then she turned and walked from the diner.

  Burke watched her go, aware his gaze drifted to her swaying hips.

  2

  By the time Burke arrived home, the gloomy sky had grown even darker, and the promise of stormy weather hung heavy in the atmosphere. The trees swayed back and forth in that deceptively lazy way they have before
a storm hits.

  He stepped inside and had both closed and locked the door before he noticed a small, white envelope lying on the floor. He bent and picked it up, taking care to handle it by the edges only. There were no distinguishing marks on the outside, no address or anything. The flap of the envelope was unsealed. He held it up to the light and saw nothing but a folded sheet of paper. He reached inside and opened the flap, gaining access to the paper inside. The letterhead was familiar: From the Office of J. Carlton Moore

  The rest of the sheet was covered by row upon row of numbers, in sets of seven, laid out in neat columns.

  “If the head of SpyCo is lowering himself to sending coded messages,” Burke mumbled, “it must be important.”

  He walked to his office, shutting the door behind him and proceeding to his bookshelf. He pulled out a leather-bound version of Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables, reached his hand into the aperture, and pressed a small, green button. There was a small, efficient click, and the bookshelf moved aside to reveal another room, this one less extravagant, but even more intimidating in its own way. Weapons lined the walls, everything from domestic, traditional handguns to even the most frowned-upon automatic weaponry. He walked to a safe in the corner and, bending to one knee, worked the combination. The door swung open, and he withdrew a small, electronic device the size of an iPhone. In fact, it looked exactly like an iPhone, and operated much like an iPhone, and one could be forgiven for assuming it was, indeed, an iPhone.