London Calling, page 3
part #1 of Beta Force Series
That jab struck home. Zeke and Phoenix both noticed the man's face ripple with worry.
"I'm sure you'll be fine, though," Zeke continued. "You look like a strong guy, capable of handling himself in a fight."
Phoenix stood up and started for the door, but Philipe stopped him. "I want a guarantee."
The two agents froze and looked back at the prisoner. "What kind of guarantee?" Zeke asked.
Philipe stared down at his hands for a moment, pensive as he considered his next words. "I need you to guarantee that my daughter will be safe."
4
London
The weary mobs shuffled along the packed London sidewalks as commuters made their way back home or to the pubs after a long day of work.
The waning sun in the distant sky cast streaks of orange and pink hues across the atmosphere, pushing away the gray clouds to the east. It was a gorgeous sight to behold this time of the year, usually appearing more frequently during the late spring early fall.
Jordan Bradley stepped out of the fading sunlight and into a dimly lit pub called the Dancing Fern, identified by an old iron sign depicting a fern leaf that hung over the sidewalk.
He'd always thought it interesting how pubs could take even the brightest of days and make it feel like it was deep into the night simply by stepping through the doors.
No one seemed to notice him as he passed the bar full of patrons washing their worries away with pints of ale and lager. Some were munching on the obligatory fish and chips, though others were dining on a more elaborate fare of meat pies, corned beef, cabbage, potatoes, and roast chicken.
Standing at six feet four inches, Jordan towered over many of the pub's occupants. He was easy to spot, though his cold, calculating gaze unnerved anyone who accidentally locked eyes with him. His dark brown hair was cut high above the right ear and swept to the left, locked in place by pomade or perhaps some cheap hairspray.
His gray trench coat was probably a bit much for the warm summer's day. While London rarely reached intolerably high temperatures, it was certainly a day for shorts and a short-sleeved shirt.
Jordan only wore summer dress when he was at the beach, and those were rare times. He was a man closed off from the world, living on his own island in a rented apartment a short walk away.
Such was the life of a man like him: a killer, a hunter, a mercenary.
He had no friends, and likewise no enemies save for those he was hired to abduct, kill, or question. Even they weren't technically his enemies. They were merely his means to an end, pawns in the high-stakes game he played. It wasn't personal. Ever. He simply did his job with ruthless and cold efficiency.
Jordan scanned the room with an almost imperceptible flick of the eyes. Taking inventory of any space was second nature to him, a habit forged in the fires of both his training and his experiential mistakes from the past. One such error had nearly cost him his life in the early days of his new career, but he'd learned from that experience, telling himself that what didn't kill him had to make him stronger and better at the job.
From the looks of it, the people in the pub presented no real threat. There were a few grunts at the bar. One guy had a dark brown beer that nearly matched the color of his hair. He was portly, and from the fleshy jiggle of his flabby chin, it was clear he spent much of his free time in that very seat.
A thick golden chain dangled from the man's neck and stretched down to a chest that was covered with thick, curly black hair. Jordan imagined the man was probably a local lowlife, a criminal who'd made a success of himself despite an obvious lack of intellect, intelligence, or physical prowess.
Jordan caught a whiff of stale cigarette smoke combined with perspiration and high-end cologne. It was an odd mixture and one that caused Jordan's nose to twitch.
Just as Jordan passed by the man's left shoulder on his way to the back of the room, the guy turned to him.
"Looks like we got a pretty one here, Merl," the man said into Jordan's back.
The guy next to him was hunched over a pint of amber liquid, his graying curly hair dangled halfway down his ears. His long, reddish nose loomed over the glass.
"Oy?" Merl said and twisted to look at Jordan as he continued to glide toward the back.
"I guess he doesn't want to chat," the first guy said.
Merl shrugged and went back to his glass, taking a long swig. He set the pint down on the counter and went back to staring at it.
When it was clear Jordan was going to give no attention to the instigator, the man snarled, waved a hand, and then went back to his drink.
Jordan found his appointment sitting in a booth in the rear corner to the left.
The man extended a hand toward Jordan, inviting the newcomer to have a seat across from him.
Leopold Bannister was an older man, but Jordan couldn't guess his age. In his eyes, Jordan could see the decades of experience. The hair on Bannister's head was thin and white, revealing a few spots from being in the sun too long, probably on his fifty-million-dollar yacht. He wore a navy-blue suit with white pinstripes and a gray tie over top of a white shirt. The exposed cufflinks on the man's wrists were pure gold and embellished with large diamonds. Jordan assessed the gems to be worth at least ten to fifteen thousand dollars each.
The moment Jordan eased into the seat across from Bannister, a server shuffled to the table and asked what the newcomer wanted to drink.
"Water. Thank you," Jordan said.
The waiter looked surprised. His black mop of hair jiggled as he turned to Bannister. "Would you like another MacAllan, sir?"
Bannister lifted the glass, eyed the last bit of scotch swirling around in the bottom, and nodded. "Sure, Timmy. I'll have another. And bring my friend one, please."
Timmy nodded and rushed away toward the bar.
"I don't drink on the job," Jordan commented. "But I do appreciate the offer. I assume you're drinking an 18?"
The right eyebrow on Bannister's head rose slightly. Long wrinkles stretched across his forehead, and his ears pricked back. "Eighteen? Why not 25?"
Jordan cocked his head to the side and then let it roll back to center as he shrugged. "You can afford it, obviously. But it's not always about the best and biggest for you, Mr. Bannister. Despite those rocks on your sleeves"—he nodded and pointed at the cuff links—"the Breitling on your wrist, and what I have to assume is a fairly expensive tailored suit, you don't waste money merely for the sake of being able to spend it. You appreciate the best. In my opinion, the MacAllan 25 is a little overdone, especially for the price. And while it's certainly a tremendous scotch, I would assume a man of your taste and cunning prefers the 18."
Bannister inclined his head, sizing up the man across from him as Timmy delivered the two drinks. He set one in front of Bannister and the other near Jordan. "MacAllan 18, sir."
Timmy bowed as he stepped away, and Jordan smirked as he eyed the drink.
"That's why you're one of my best," Bannister said. He finished the first glass and raised the second.
It was Jordan's turn to arch an eyebrow, though he said nothing, letting his expression do the talking.
"Fine. The best." He motioned to the glass in front of Jordan. "Cheers."
"I don't drink when I'm working, sir," Jordan reiterated. "I need to stay sharp. And while I appreciate you choosing a seat in the back with a direct line of sight to the front door, I need to keep my wits about me."
Bannister's head bobbed in several directions, and then he relented. "Fine." He pulled Jordan's drink to his side of the table and left it next to the empty one.
"When are you not working, Jordan?"
"Never."
"Ah."
"Men like me are always on alert. Even when not on assignment, we're still acting as though we were. It never switches off."
Bannister sighed. "Sounds exhausting."
Jordan shrugged.
"Well, I have an assignment for you, speaking of."
"Oh?" Jordan leaned forward.
"Yes. One of my men failed to…apprehend a particularly important asset earlier today."
"How important?" He already knew the job. That answer was given away in the statement. Get the guy who got away. Now the question was who.
"He's a hacker. Pretty good one, actually. He's been responsible for quite a few troublesome jobs in the past. The authorities could never keep up with him, though. They never had enough to pin him for anything." Bannister's voice switched to a lower volume, though still maintaining the same gravelly sound. "I need him."
"Looking to do a little hacking yourself? I wouldn't think a man in your position would need someone like that."
Leopold Bannister was a mystery wrapped in a scotch-infused enigma. The man's history was scrubbed to the point that it read like a blank page, and finding any real details about his past was an episode in tedious futility. There simply wasn't much to unravel about the man, which meant he was hiding plenty.
Jordan had dealt with men like Bannister in the past, or so he first thought. He made it a routine part of his job to investigate the person paying him every bit as much as he delved into a mark or a location. Never, though, had he been so thwarted at every turn to uncover intel on an employer—and that was unnerving.
In Jordan's experience, the sketchier the backstory, the more dangerous the employer. No backstory at all, though? It took an immense amount of effort and resources for someone to be completely off Jordan's extensive radar. That meant Bannister wasn't just wealthy; he was extremely powerful.
"We all have our hobbies," Bannister offered coyly.
Jordan replied with a snort, his head rocking back for a moment.
"I need him," Bannister continued.
"Who is he?"
The older man reached down to the bench at his side, and for a moment Jordan tensed reflexively, anticipating a weapon being drawn. He had to consciously push that aside, knowing that Bannister would not kill him for asking a question.
Bannister's hand reappeared with a black file folder. He set it on the table and shoved it toward his companion.
Jordan eyed the file suspiciously but drew it to the edge of the table with two fingers. He flipped it open.
"Philipe Gaston," Bannister whispered, his tone nearly drowned out by the tumult in the pub.
Jordan scanned the document and the images provided. He ran through the list of confirmed jobs the man had done, pausing to consider several before he sifted through the remaining two pages of the dossier.
"If you wanted a new hobby, this is your guy," he said and closed the folder. "Doesn't look like the type to do something big, like a heist or a data scrape. Just some punk getting their kicks."
"Yes, I'm aware of his qualifications and his résumé."
"Then why do you want him? Someone of your means could get a real pro, not some hobbyist do-gooder or prankster. Those guys are out there, not too hard to find them, either." His English accent turned almost twangy at the last sentence.
Bannister's lips twitched, and Jordan knew he'd struck a nerve, and that was something he wanted to avoid. Still, he needed to know why someone powerful enough to be as invisible as Bannister was would be so desperate for a two-bit hacktivist.
"Perhaps, if you succeed, I will fill you in on all the details." Bannister's steady tone unnerved Jordan, and no one unnerved him. This was a man that was accustomed to pulling strings, lots of them, and it was clear that no one ever told him how. Who was he? More importantly, what was he? Jordan had the feeling that if he wanted to know, it was going to cost him, perhaps more than he was willing to pay.
For now, he needed to get paid. Jordan was close to his goal. Thirty million, and he was out of the game. If he figured this man correctly, the job he had on offer might be the one that put Jordan over the top.
"I don't care what you do with this guy," Jordan said. It was only a half lie. "He's important to you, and you want him. My only question is—"
"Two million. In your account the minute you drop him off with my men."
Jordan's heart nearly stopped. He'd tuned his reactions over the years to the point that no one could tell what he was thinking or feeling. If he played poker, he'd have been stellar at it. In this moment, however, he caught himself blinking rapidly, his breath caught in his chest.
"That…will suffice," he managed.
"Excellent. Take that file," Bannister said as he downed the remaining scotch with disturbing ease. He slid out of the booth and straightened his suit, smoothing out any wrinkles that had made their way into the fabric. "I'll send you the rest of the details soon."
"Thank you, sir," Jordan said.
Bannister took a step toward the front of the pub and paused when he was next to his guest. He placed a palm on Jordan's shoulder and looked down at him with cool, calculating blue eyes. "Oh, and Jordan...take out the two agents who intervened earlier. No loose ends."
With that, Bannister strode to the entrance and walked out onto the sidewalk, disappearing a second later into the streaming mass of people.
Jordan took a deep breath and looked down at the folder again. Two million dollars? That would put him well beyond his goal of thirty. This was it. This would be his last job. After that, he could go anywhere, do whatever he wanted. Beaches, golf courses, mountains, whatever.
All he had to do was bring in this Philipe Gaston, a lowly hacker. That would be easy enough. People couldn't hide from Jordan forever. He always found his man. That reputation was why Bannister had hired him.
Jordan caught himself nearly salivating at the thought of the big payday. He scooped the file off the table and started to get up when he sensed someone behind him.
He sighed. Getting into a bar brawl wasn't on his to-do list for the day, but he knew there was no way around it.
He looked over his shoulder at the fat man from the bar.
"Hey, again," Jordan said with his best fake smile. "I'm fine, thank you. Timmy took our order earlier."
"Get up," the man growled.
"Actually, I think it's rather comfortable here. I may stay a bit longer if it's all the same to you."
The hairy-chested man turned to his associate, who stood behind Jordan's chair. He motioned with a flick of the head, and the man clapped his hands onto Jordan's shoulders in an attempt to pry him from the seat.
One second, the henchman's hands were firmly gripping Jordan's shoulders; the next, Jordan grabbed both of the man's wrists and jerked him forward. Jordan blindly drove the top of his skull into the man's nose, using momentum and a quick jolt from his legs to shatter the bone within the appendage.
Blood gushed from the henchman's nostrils, and he screamed a sound that was more like a young schoolgirl who'd fallen off the monkey bars. He grabbed at the wound as Jordan spun from his seat and grabbed the man by the back of the head. Then Jordan smashed the man's face against the table, and the assailant went limp, all while his employer watched in horrified amazement.
That stunned look on the guy's face swiftly turned to fear the second Jordan put his gaze to him. It didn't, however, keep the man from putting on some false bravado.
"You shouldn't have done that," the guy said, whipping out a switchblade from his pocket.
The metal gleamed in the dim pub light as he tossed the weapon back and forth, letting it dance between his hands in a show of what the man must have thought was skill.
Jordan didn't have to look around to know that most of the patrons had eyes fixed in a perpetually curious gaze, unable to tear them away from the two men. It was clear no one in the room intended to intervene.
"What's your name?" Jordan asked nonchalantly, as if meeting a new friend for the first time.
"What?" The man looked perplexed.
"The other guy, the one who's knocked out on the floor, he said your name was Merl or something. That right?"
"That's none of your concern, boy."
"Actually," Jordan said, "it is. I like to know the names of people I intend to humiliate. Adds to the enjoyment."
"Oh, that's it. You're a cheeky one, aren't you?"
Merl lunged forward, leading with the tip of the blade.
His attack was sloppy, which is precisely what Jordan expected. The man stumbled as he surged toward his target, the knife wiggling back and forth clumsily.
The man's intent was to kill. Jordan knew that if the guy had the skill, he would have spilled Jordan's blood right there and then hired some goons to come in and take care of the issue, including what he figured would be bribes to all the witnesses.
A simple sidestep allowed Jordan to dodge the first attack. The man clomped by, holding on to the knife as he would have the reins of a wild horse, and barely managed to stop himself before running headfirst into the wall.
"Seriously, if it's Merl, I'll just go with that," Jordan said.
The man spun around, renewed anger brewing in his eyes.
"I'm gonna gut you now, boy!" he roared as he lunged toward his target.
Jordan rolled his eyes and took one short step toward the attacker. As the man stabbed straight ahead with his knife, Jordan easily twisted his torso to the right, grabbed the man's wrist and forearm, then pressed the back of Merl's elbow to the base of his own.
When Jordan pulled back quickly on the wrist, an audible snapping sound echoed sickeningly through the pub. More than a few patrons lost their desire to keep watching, suddenly overcome by nausea.
Merl howled in agony, unleashing a string of obscenities unlike Jordan had ever heard.
"My arm!" he screamed, followed by more expletives.
Jordan spun the man around, kicked his legs out from under him, and dropped him to his knees as he deftly wrapped his left arm around the man's neck. He bent down as he squeezed, crushing the assailant's windpipe.
"I'm not going to kill you, Merl. Too many witnesses. And I may have use of you in the future. So, the next time I come in here, try to be a little nicer. Okay?"
