The Norse Directive (5 page)

Sean’s eyes stayed locked on the round metal coin. It was in remarkable shape, still with rounded edges and a distinct raised image on the flat surface. Due to the screen resolution, it was hard to make out what the lettering said, but the man’s face on it was clear as day. He had deep, weathered eyes and a long beard that stretched down past his neck. The face was staring forward and to the left at an angle, giving it a sort of three-dimensional appearance.

“My friend said it’s made from gold, but I’m not so sure,” Charlie said as he stood up from his desk. He walked over to a bar in the opposite corner of the room. It was the only piece of furniture in the room that looked like it had come from a retail store. It featured a drop-down door on the top and two standard doors on the bottom.

He pulled down the top door and removed a tumbler. “Want something to drink?” he asked in a friendly tone. Sean was still standing by the computer, trying to analyze the image of the coin.

“No. I’m good, Charlie. Thank you.” Sean was so mesmerized by the object on the screen that his answer was almost inaudible.

Charlie plucked a bottle of bourbon from the top of the bar and poured a few ounces of the amber liquid into the glass. After putting the bottle back, he took a long, slow sip and let out a deep sigh. “That’s more like it. Nothing like a glass of good whiskey after getting soaked in the rain.”

Sean ignored the comment and stood. “Why don’t you think it’s gold?”

His host had taken another sip and swallowed before responding. “Gold’s soft,” Charlie said holding out the tumbler to make his point. “It would have likely been through so much wear and tear through the years that the face on the surface would nearly be gone. Not to mention gold is a fairly rare metal. To make a run of coins like that would take a huge lode.”

He was right. Most of the gold coins Sean had seen were from the time of the great Spanish empire. Usually, the surface of those pieces had seen a great deal of wear. Occasionally he would find one that looked almost new, but those were extremely rare.

“And your friend didn’t tell you where he found this?” Sean pointed at the screen as he asked the question.

“Actually, he did. Said it was a family heirloom of sorts, passed down through a few generations. I guess he wanted to see if he could get anything for it, times being like they are.”

Sean thought for a moment. If the coin was something a person would send a professional hit man to kill for, it was probably worth looking into. The itch he’d been trying to ignore started to creep its way back into his mind. He thought about the life he’d adopted. He’d gone from the high intensity world of international government work to running a surf shop on the Florida panhandle. It was what he wanted. At least he thought it was. If that was the case, why did he always find himself plunging headfirst back into mysteries? Maybe it was an internal conflict he couldn’t explain. He hated the stress that came with being shot at, but he enjoyed the challenge of figuring something out.

Throw on top of it that Sean was good at what he did, and it seemed only natural he follow the breadcrumbs. “Do you think your friend would be willing to answer a few questions?”

“Sure,” Charlie rolled his shoulders. “I don’t see why not. You want me to call him, or do you just want to email him?”

“Actually,” Sean stopped his host, “I’m going to need to do this in person. Does he live far away?”

“Do you consider two hours to be far away?”

“Not when something’s piqued my interest. Where are we going?”

“We?” Charlie shook his head and set down his now empty glass. “I don’t feel like making that drive.”

“Well, it’s that or stay here and die.” Sean raised a playful eyebrow. He was only half kidding.

“Very funny.”

“Come on. It’ll be fun. You have someone to watch your store. You’ll have a good time. I promise.”

“You don’t even know where we’re going,” Charlie huffed cynically.

Sean grinned. “I’m going to guess we’re heading to Knoxville.”

Charlie stared at his guest with a hint of irritation. “Fine, Sherlock. We’re going to Memphis. You’re an irritating little cuss, you know that?”

“Yep. It’s one of the reasons you love me.” Sean’s childish grin caused Charlie to shake his head. “Well, I did save your life. So there’s that.”

“That you did. And thank you.” Charlie thought for a second. “Wait, how in the world did you even find me?”

Sean’s face scrunched as if he was keeping a secret. “It was dumb luck, actually. I was on the way to meet you and just happened to see you getting ushered to the car as I passed by. It was dumb luck that I arrived when I did.”

“Well I’m glad you’re punctual.” Something about his comment smacked of Charlie’s trademark lack of joy. There was another pause before he said, “What should we do with this thing? Ditch it somewhere?”

“I think I know just the place.”

Chattanooga, Tennessee

Nicholas Petrov clenched his teeth against the dull pain resonating from his hip and ribs. The car hadn’t been going very fast when it hit him, but when a human body plays chicken with two tons of steel, the body doesn’t have much of a chance.

He wondered if one of his ribs had been broken. His left cheek was also swollen, with a thin blood line across it, just below the jaw. He hadn’t seen what happened, but he assumed the man who’d struck him with the car also struck him with his boot. The thought sent a fresh surge of anger through his body. He swallowed hard and leaned his head back against the rear window of the pickup truck.

Getting out of the Cadillac’s trunk had been difficult. His hands were bound behind his back, and he couldn’t see much except for the glowing emergency handle dangling from above. He’d regained consciousness when the door had slammed shut. While still disoriented, he knew there wasn’t much time. Petrov wriggled around, contorting his body so he could reach the trunk latch and make his escape. He’d been fortunate that the car was still bumping along the old dirt road near the barn when he jumped out, pulling the trunk shut as he rolled onto the ground and disappeared into a ditch. He waited there in the rain for several minutes, making sure both men were gone. One was riding a motorcycle, but he hadn’t got a good look at him.

Cautiously, Petrov made his way down the country road until he found a small farmhouse with a giant red barn a hundred yards away. Inside the barn, he discovered a rack of tools, one of which happened to be a large set of fence cutters. After several attempts, he freed himself from the bonds on his wrists and peeked back outside the barn door. A beat-up old pickup truck sat in the gravel driveway, but all indications were that no one was home. He figured it was the family’s spare vehicle. Whether it was or not didn’t matter, so long as no one was home. The last thing he needed was some farmer’s wife calling the police. His mission was supposed to draw as little attention as possible.

He sprinted to the driver’s side door of the truck and was pleasantly surprised to find the keys conveniently left in the ignition. His eyes darted around, making sure no one was watching. All he heard was the rain falling on a canopy nearby. Even the birds had taken shelter during the deluge. With no signs of life, Petrov hopped in the truck and revved the engine to life. He would head back to the only place that he knew in the area: Charlie Fowler’s home.

Upon arriving, he saw the man who’d struck him with the car standing inside the garage turned home, conversing with Fowler. Surely the old man was telling this new guy all the details about what happened and what Petrov was after. He would have preferred to keep things less complicated, only pursuing one target at a time. No matter. He would make them both pay.

Petrov’s eyes squinted again. He had suffered worse pain before. He’d been shot a few times, stabbed once, and it wasn’t the first time he’d been kicked or punched. Still, anger boiled inside him. No one ever got the drop on Petrov. He gave himself a little slack because it had been pouring rain. There had been too many variables. But how had the man behind the wheel found them? It was a lonely backcountry road. He’d not noticed anyone following them. He tried to recollect anything strange about any of the few cars he’d noticed on the outskirts of the city. Nothing came to mind.

He winced again as he took in a deep breath.

His employer would be livid.

This was to be a simple assignment. Find the man who had put the picture of the coin on the Internet, question him as to the location of the coin, execute him, and then retrieve the object.

Petrov had performed much more difficult tasks when serving in the Russian military. And he’d done far worse than what he’d done to the old man. Now, that was going to change. He would make the old man suffer, along with whoever had struck him with the car.

During his time in the Russian army, Nicholas Petrov had earned a reputation for cruelty. He would put that reputation to the test soon enough. First, he had to figure out where his targets were going.

The huge Russian had never attended college, choosing to go straight to the military after finishing secondary school. While he didn’t possess academic intelligence, he displayed incredible intuition and street smarts. Something else he made strong use of was patience.

He sat perfectly still in the old truck as the late afternoon waned into dusk, watching the old man’s residence like a hawk eying a rabbit hole. Waiting was something Petrov could do for days. When his mind was locked on a mission, there was almost nothing that could take him away from it. Many men he knew in the army were big hunters. He remembered them talking about how they would sit for twelve hours at a time just waiting for a deer to come by. Petrov’s favorite prey was human.

Not surprisingly, he didn’t have to wait long for his quarry to reappear through the garage door. The man he didn’t recognize was barely visible through the passenger window as he drove the Cadillac, while Fowler jogged over to a black Mustang. Petrov didn’t know what year the car had been made, but from the looks of it, he assumed late 1960s.

The Mustang revved to life, and Fowler backed it out onto the quiet city street. The Cadillac pulled out as well and followed close behind, the two cars driving right by the empty pickup truck. At least they would think it was empty. Petrov had ducked out of sight, just peeking over the dashboard enough to see the vehicles go by. Fortunately, it had got a little darker, and he doubted they would notice him. He eyed the two vehicles warily as they rolled down the road, only turning on the truck’s engine when he saw them turn right at the next street.

Petrov revved the engine and whipped the truck out of the parking spot in a hurried U-turn. He was glad this part of the city seemed a little less busy. It might have been because it was a weeknight. Whatever the reason, he didn’t want anyone to notice him.

When he reached the street, he saw the two cars make a left at the next light. Petrov followed suit, careful to stay far enough behind so they wouldn’t notice.

Fifteen minutes went by as he played the game of cat and mouse. Eventually, his targets drove through an old gate in front of an abandoned steel mill. They had to be dumping his rental car there. Smart. He would have probably done the same thing if the roles were reversed. The rental company wouldn’t tell anyone who had rented the car, not that it would do any good. Petrov had procured the vehicle under a false name. He had passports and papers from four different countries, allowing him to easily hop around the world without being noticed.

He eased the pickup into a small parking lot next to a fast food burger restaurant and turned off the ignition. If he followed the two men into the steel mill, there would be no real chance for an ambush. Not to mention the fact that he was unarmed, something he would have to remedy in a hurry. A thought occurred to him as he considered what to do about a gun. Petrov reached over and opened the glove compartment. Resting inside was a short revolver. A quick check told him the gun was loaded. Six shots, he thought. Hopefully, he would only need two. Revolvers weren’t his preferred weapon of choice, but given the circumstances, he would take what he could get. Glad to at least have something, he stuffed the gun under his right leg and continued to watch.

Petrov only had to wait five minutes for the Mustang to reappear at the rusty gates. As suspected, the Cadillac was nowhere to be seen. He waited until his targets had got back onto the main road heading into the city before starting the truck’s engine. A few cars went by behind the Mustang, giving him a little cover as he guided the truck into the far right lane.

Despite being irritated at the surprise attack from earlier in the day, Petrov felt invigorated. He gripped the steering wheel tight as the truck rumbled down the road, following the Mustang onto the interstate. His ribs still hurt, and his hip felt like someone had hit it with a sledgehammer, but the pain began to drift to the back of his mind. He was on the hunt again, and that renewed his energy.

Soon, he would have his kill.

Paris

Dufort stared down at the two people, bound and gagged, sitting upright on the cold, concrete floor at his feet. The young brunette woman had a cut across her cheek. A smattering of blood stained her white night gown. Her smooth, tanned legs were scuffed and bruised. She’d clearly been through some kind of struggle; her eyes filled with defiance and anger.

The man next to her, a portly man probably in his midforties with a bald head rimmed by a thin layer of hair, was less defiant. Terror flowed from his eyes. He’d seen what his boss was willing to do to people who double-crossed him. Now he was about to face the same fate.

Caron stood nearby, holding a black leather clutch, his face void of emotion.

“Why would you think that I would never find out about your betrayal?” Dufort addressed the chubby man first. “Did you honestly think I would not figure out that you were talking to the authorities?”

The man tried to speak, but the gag in his mouth only served to muffle the words.

Dufort shook his head and wagged a finger in the air. “Shhh. Do not speak. You will only anger me further. As it is, I’m going to end your miserable life fairly quickly, like this common whore next to you.”

The words had no effect on the young woman. She simply stared up at Dufort, full of disdain.

Again, the man tried to speak, the urgency in his voice causing the muffled noises to grow louder in the enclosed space.

“I do not wish to hear your lies. My men tell me that you are a policeman. Is that true?”

The fleshy prisoner thought about his response for a moment, then shook his head. Dufort could almost understand the words, “No, I swear it,” coming through the rag in the man’s mouth.

“Careful.” He raised the finger again. “If you lie to me, I will make this much worse than what I’m going to do to her.” He paused and stared into the man’s eyes, into his soul. Dufort turned to Caron and removed a syringe from the leather clutch.

“This girl,” he said as he removed the cap from the needle, “tried to run away from me. While I can understand her distaste for the life I’ve given her, it must be understood that no one ever turns their back on me. No one ever betrays me. And no one ever threatens my way of life, or my business. Is that understood?”

The fat man nodded.

“Good,” Dufort said and squatted down. He held the needle close to the man’s face and waved it around slowly, taunting him with the pointed metal object.

In a flash, Dufort turned to the woman and smacked her across the face with his other hand. The force caused her to topple sideways momentarily. Using the momentum of his strike, Dufort forced the girl onto her face and yanked up on her bound wrists. In a quick motion, he stuck the needle into her arm and injected the clear liquid. A second later, he stood up and watched as the drug did its work.

The chubby prisoner also watched; his eyes filled with fear as the woman began to shake violently, rolling around on the concrete. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head. He turned away, unwilling to watch the scene play out, but Caron stepped over and forced the prisoner’s head back, making him observe the entire event. It took three minutes for the woman to die. She never screamed, never said a word, but her suffering was evident.

When the body went limp, Dufort returned his attention to the man on the floor. “Who did you talk to?” he asked as he yanked the gag out of the man’s mouth.

“No one. I swear it. I did not speak to anyone. I would never betray you.” The prisoner pleaded with tears rolling down his face.

Dufort made a clicking sound with his tongue. “My good man, do you honestly expect me to believe that you are innocent when I have it on good account that you recently spoke to an American agent?”

A sudden look of concern washed onto the man’s face. “American agent?” he asked. “I know of no such encounter.”

“Ah. I see. You do not recall meeting a woman at a bar a few weeks ago and rambling on about what you do and whom you do it for?”

A window opened for a second in the man’s eyes. It was a sudden moment of realization.

Dufort’s voice grew louder as he continued to press harder. “You were drunk. You told her whom you worked for and how if she knew what was good for her, she’d let you have your way with her or else I would put her to work like the other girls. Didn’t you?” He yelled the question so loudly, it almost hurt his own ears.

The man’s sobs drowned out the echoes of Dufort’s voice. “I didn’t know.”

“What did you not know?” Dufort leaned over the man, sneering into his face.

The captive shook his head back and forth dramatically. “I didn’t know she was an agent. I was so drunk. I just thought she was a common street walker.”

Dufort frowned at the response. “So you just mouth off to a prostitute about what we do here? Is that it?”

The man froze for a moment, realizing he was only digging the hole deeper. “No. She was the only one.”

“The only one you remember,” Dufort interjected.

“I swear. She was the only one. She kept asking so many questions. I thought maybe I could lure her back here as a gift to you. You could make her one of your girls.”

“Oh?” The wealthy Frenchman stood up straight and flattened out his jacket. “I hadn’t realized you were considering bringing me a gift. Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

“I meant to. Please, forgive me. Yes, she was to be a gift, but when I woke up, she was gone.” The man’s begging was quickly becoming severely irritating.

Dufort held up a hand, signaling for the man to cease his blabbering. “Tell me, my good friend. Do you know how to find this woman again?”

“Yes,” he said confidently.

“And you could tell me where to find her?”

The man nodded his pudgy face rapidly. “Of course. I want to. I will take you to her.”

Dufort half turned around and rubbed his chin. It was an old habit he’d picked up so long ago, he couldn’t remember. Whenever he had something important to consider, he would stroke the tip of his chin with his thumb. In this case, he wasn’t considering anything. He’d already made up his mind about what to do with the insubordinate fat man. His reckless behavior could cause problems, especially if the woman he’d been talking to truly was an American agent. Dufort knew exactly what he was going to do when he came down to the basement to dole out his brand of justice. The only reason for the inquisition was to find out if the man had talked to anyone else. The whereabouts of the woman in question was already known. Three of Dufort’s men were on their way to pick her up at that very moment.

He tilted his head back toward the man on the floor, whose heavy breathing had subsided slightly. “Thank you for being honest with me,” Dufort said. “And thank you for being so considerate to think of giving me such a wonderful prize.” He drew closer to his prisoner and gazed into the man’s eyes again, this time with a kind look.

“You’re very welcome. I knew you were a man of keen tastes, and I…”

Before he could finish his sentence, Dufort swung around and kicked him in the side of the head with his boot. The chubby man fell over onto his side, stunned from the sudden blow.

Dufort pounced on him before he could right himself. The needle sank deep into the man’s arm, causing a sudden look of horror to wash over his face.

“No!” he screamed out as loud as he could. “No! Please!”

It was too late. Dufort had already emptied the liquid into the man’s veins. The drug performed its work quickly. It was something they kept in the compound to make sure the girls were always too stoned to run away, but awake enough to please the men that paid for their company. What Dufort had given the two victims was an amped up version that would cause a horse to overdose. With a human, death was guaranteed.

The fat man’s yelling became blubbering, agonized moans as the drug began to toy with his mind. There was no telling what kind of hallucinations he was having. Some people claimed to see flames all round. Others said there were dragons being ridden by skeletons. By the time the body began convulsing, the hallucinations became more intense until the mind fried itself and started shutting down all the vital organs.

From the sound of it, Dufort doubted it was a pleasant way to go, which was why it was his preferred means of execution. Getting rid of the bodies was as simple as propping them up by a dumpster outside a nightclub. The murder weapons could be left on site, furthering the illusion that it was just an accidental overdose by some smackhead.

Dufort checked his watch as his betrayer began to slowly give in to death. At the three minute mark, the body had ceased its violent twitching.

“Get two more of the men to help you take them down to the river. Leave them by the bridge.” Dufort ordered Caron.

“Yes, sir. Same game as usual?”

“Yes,” Dufort nodded as he turned away and headed up a darkened staircase.

With that problem taken care of, he could focus his attention on other things, like why Petrov hadn’t reported in yet.