May 30th, 2014 -  Milan, Italy

Ryan waited nervously as the payphone rang. He was standing in the back of a tiny convenience store that was located inside the tram station at the Piazzale Lagosta, in Milan’s northern quarter. The place was heaving with commuters and tourists, which made it ideal for getting lost in a crowd.

“Hello?”

“Ah, hey, Tom, it’s Ryan, Ryan Knight.”

Ryan heard the line go dead for a moment before Paris Station Chief Tom Spencer returned, his voice sounding irritated. “Where are you, Knight? We’ve got a real mess here, and I need you to come in, no games.”

“I’m in Milan, but you already know that,” Ryan pointed out, glancing over his shoulder at the door. The small store was quiet, but he couldn’t be too careful. “I want to meet. I have evidence to clear my name.”

“We can talk about that when you come in, Knight,” Spencer replied. “How are you doing?”

Ryan knew the call was already being traced, so he did not allow himself to be drawn in by pleasantries. “There’s a bench by the sculpture in the Library of the Trees. Meet me there at ten and come alone. I have evidence that will prove my innocence and solve this whole mess. I can’t and won’t come in till you do.”

Ryan could hear Spencer grinding his teeth over the line. It was an old habit the guy had never really managed to shake. “Fine, ten o’clock, are you alone? Where’s the girl, Ryan?”

Ryan hung up the phone and left the store without answering. He knew precisely how long it took to triangulate a phone call, and what he had given them was likely enough to get within a few blocks. There was no point using a cellphone, even if it was an unregistered prepaid device; the GPS unit could be remotely activated within seconds, making hiding almost impossible.

He had to assume that Edwards was working with the rest of the station. That would mean that they would be acting on whatever narrative that the man decided to spin. Regardless of what he had said, Ryan knew that Tom Spencer would not come alone, but he had to expect that. Agency policy would have it all mapped out, and he had a plan for that already lined up. He just hoped that Sutherland was telling the truth.

Keeping the baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, Ryan left the shop and joined the sea of travelers. His timing had been correct; when he joined the sea of travelers, he found the next outbound tram already waiting at the platform. Less than thirty seconds after he boarded, the doors hissed closed, and they were rolling out of the station. If they had managed to track his location, he’d be long gone before they could work out what had happened.

That Tom Spencer was here in Milan was to be expected, but it gave Ryan an opportunity. While hardly what one would call sensitive or considerate, Spencer was, without fail, a fair man. If Ryan could convince him of the truth, he would fight his corner. The Paris Station Chief was an Agency veteran, having worked in East Berlin back before the Wall came down. He had served his time and had risen through the ranks to his present posting. He didn’t tolerate failure, but more importantly, Ryan knew he didn’t tolerate corruption.

Ryan wasn’t sure if Spencer was behaving any differently than usual, but a brief phone conversation was about as useful as playing poker with a master. He had no doubt that if there was foul play, Tom Spencer had no connection to it. If he could prove that he was telling the truth, then had had a chance to salvage his career and his freedom. The tricky part would be managing to separate Spencer from anyone associated with Edwards without getting shot first.

 

 

April 16th, 2008 - Paris, France.

“Come?”

Ryan eased the office door open and stepped into the domain of Chief of Station Tom Spencer. He had arrived at the US Embassy in Paris, France, only twenty minutes ago. Upon his arrival, he had been directed straight here to see the man in charge of the Central Intelligence Agency’s station within the diplomatic mission. Apparently, Mr. Spencer was expecting him, and he did not tolerate tardiness.

Ryan did his best attempt at standing at attention without actually standing at attention. The man seated behind the room’s single desk had short-cropped dark hair that was starting to thin on the crown. His physique reminded Ryan of a former athlete who had retired, fathered two children, and liked to grill a little too often. Despite that, the man held himself with a quiet, firm confidence that was easy to see.

“Ah, Sir, you wanted to see me when I got here?”

Spencer looked up from a stack of paperwork on his desk and seemed momentarily irritated by the interruption. “What’s with the getup?”

“Sir?”

Spencer gestured at Ryan with a half-empty coffee cup, “You, the damn monkey suit. You going to a funeral or something?”

Ryan blinked uncertainly, “They told me… downstairs?”

Spencer rolled his eyes, “God damn comedians always trying to yank my chain and jerk around the new kids. I swear this place is more and more like a god damn creche every year.”

Ryan did not reply. He was almost certain that one was not required, but he was more concerned with irritating his new boss. As it turned out, arriving in a suit and tie as had been suggested by his referring officer had seemingly manage pissed off the Station Chief, he didn't need to assist matters.

“If you’re going to work for me, you wear whatever you want, you hear me?” Spencer explained, draining the remains of the coffee mug. “We might be in the Embassy here, but we don’t go around dressing like those State Department goons downstairs. The fastest way for someone to peg you as an American is to dress like one, so get out, go grab a coffee, and watch some people. Dress like a local, or if you suck at that, dress like a tourist. Whatever the fuck you do, don’t dress like you work for the US Government.”

“I uh, yes, sir,” Ryan nodded.

Spencer stood up and straightened his trousers. “First overseas assignment?”

Ryan hesitated for a moment before shaking his head, “No, sir.”

Spencer furrowed his brow and flipped through a number of files on his desk before picking up a plain manila folder and leafing through it. “Graduated from the Clandestine Service Trainee Program in  April 2006, you had good marks there. Based stateside at Langley, then… Orsino?”

Ryan licked his lips and nodded, “Yes, sir.”

“Drop the damn ‘sir’ bullshit,” Spencer sighed, “The office weenies and State Department dipshits call me Sir, Company calls me Tom. We don’t do formality here, despite what Langley keeps insisting on. I’m Tom, or Mister Spencer if shit needs to get put in a report. Stop acting like such a snotling; this isn’t your first assignment, so quit acting like you just rolled out of kindergarten, yeah?”

Ryan nodded, not particularly wanting to be called a snotling again. Tom Spencer flipped through a few more pages before showing the pages to Ryan, they were run through heavily with black bars, obscuring information. Spencer raised an eyebrow, “This mess is all shades of redacted. Want to explain why a rookie got tangled up in something like this?”

“Operation Orsino, si…Tom,” Ryan swallowed. It had barely been a year since his first assignment with the Agency, but he was still dealing with the personal fallout from it. Convincing his superiors that he was ready for a posting abroad had taken a lot of work and a good deal of lying to his therapist. He certainly was not prepared to screw it up now.

“I’m not sure I can say, Tom, it was marked Secret, SCI.”

Tom Spencer waved a hand dismissively and dropped down on the faded sofa across from his desk, and hooked an ankle over his knee casually. He gestured for Ryan to take a seat in one of the nearby chairs. “Kid, you think I was born yesterday?

Ryan pursed his lips, “No, Tom.”

“When I got your file from Langley, I pegged this bullshit straight off the bat. Barely two years with the Agency and a redacted Op on your file? I’ve seen this shit my entire career,” Spencer sighed, waving the file at Ryan. “You bring in a bunch of bright kids, and the good idea faeries toss them into the grinder because they don’t know any better. Use them up and burn them out early. Some make it outto  the far end, most don’t. Either way, all of them carry scars. It’s easier if they quit or die so you don’t gotta pay out on the pension later.”

The frank admission stunned Ryan into silence, only capable of nodding in response.

Spencer’s expression softened, almost sympathetically, “I called home and got the Sensitive Compartmented Information clearance to read in on this chucklefuckery. It sure is quite the weird one, even by our lofty standards.”

“That is not quite how I would characterize it,” Ryan sighed.

Spencer dropped the file on the sofa beside him and leaned forward. He fixed Ryan with a sympathetic look and pointed at the office door, “Out there is the real world. It’s nothing like the Farm or Langley, and it doesn’t give a fuck how you got there. If you let it, it will eat you alive and spit out the remains.”

He looked over at the file and shook his head, “That file is nothing to be embarrassed about, and it sure as shit doesn’t hurt your standing with me. What that tells me is that you survived something that would break any reasonable person. It would tear them apart at the seams and leave them a jibbering mess. Despite it all, you completed your mission in a fit enough state to ID a person of interest and decked a fucking operator in the process. I like that kind of officer. Is that who you are?”

Ryan blanched as the memories flashed across his mind, “I think so.”

“You think so, or you know?”

Ryan nodded, “Yeah.”

Tom Spencer stood and offered the young officer his hand, “Welcome to Paris, Ryan.”

 

 

May 30th, 2014 - Milan, Italy

The upper floors of the Porta Nuova Shopping Mall had been surprisingly easy to access for Ryan. There had only been a few simple card readers and absolutely no alarm system to alert security to a trespasser’s presence in the office portion of the building. Ryan was continually astounded by just how easy it was to move through an urban environment when one had a little motivation and a good helping of corporate complacency.

The Mall was important in this case, because it overlooked the Biblioteca Degli Alberi Milano, a broad park in the center of Milan. Named ‘The Library of the Trees’ in English, it was a wide modern space with few places that could act as cover or concealment; the ideal place for a meeting of spies.

Conducting this sort of field operation was entirely outside of Ryan’s wheelhouse when it came to experience. He had been trained in field operations by the agency, but the era of running around on your own conducting spycraft was a long dead relic of the Cold War.

In today’s rapidly evolving digital sphere, intelligence operations generally involve dozens of people, from drone operators to support teams, all to cover the operative’s back. Nobody played the old games anymore, nobody except the likes of Tom Spencer. 

Ryan was far too young to remember such adventures of spycraft; the Berlin Wall had been down for sixteen years by the time he joined the Company. All of his knowledge of the Wild West of intelligence operations had come from the agency veterans, the guys who lived through it themselves. Officers who never let their cover slip and lived long enough to talk about it.

It was fieldcraft of that nature that Ryan hoped would buy him the opportunity that he needed. While he suspected that Tom would catch on, he knew that Greg Edwards scorned the old ways. His direct superior was a modern man who saw the world very differently, and it was going to be important to use that against him. Ryan and Edwards were exactly the same age, but the other agent had managed to progress further up the Agency hierarchy while Ryan had floundered, barely able to keep his job in the wake of Operation Orsino. That mission had changed his career path in ways he had never expected; it had even changed his life.

Ryan took off his hat and rubbed his eyes. That operation nearly cost him his career and his future. He had done everything the Agency had asked of him, and they had left him broken and damaged in the aftermath. It had taken everything he had to pull himself back into shape and to recertify for the field. He had experienced his fill of therapists and psychiatrists thanks to that mess.

The vacant office that he had chosen to set up his observation point in was on the tenth floor of the structure. Leaning back against a filing cabinet, he rested his binoculars on the edge of a desk and watched the park before him. If he could speak to Spencer alone, Ryan knew that he had a chance to prove his innocence once and for all. Outside of Tom, anyone else could potentially be working with or for Edwards. That meant he had to be very selective in who he trusted. His plan was risky, but it was going to work. All he had to do was wait.

 

 

12th June, 2008 - Paris, France

“I hate this fucking airport.”

Ryan glanced over at Tom Spencer as he sat behind the driver’s seat of their car. “Why this one in particular?”

“I have no idea, but it drives me crazy in the most special of fucking ways,” the man grumbled. “Charles De-Gaule is just unpleasant; Hot, busy, convoluted, and messy. Could be that it’s French, that doesn’t help either.”

Ryan smirked and returned his attention to the pickup area. “Remind’s me of Atlanta. I swear I thought I’d gotten trapped in time there once.”

“Airports suck,” the older man agreed. “Nothing quite like visiting Berlin and dodging the KGB in Tempelhof, though. I swear they were better at picking you up than a New York cabbie.”

“Was it as wild as the stories?”

Spencer nodded, “A different time, kid, a different time. We were on our own back then, and we had to think on our feet. Now? Jeez, this shit is too easy. I guess the stakes are different; more criminals and fewer state actors. It makes the entire thing a whole different game. Everyone’s so freaking tied up in paperwork and risk assessments that nothing risky ever gets done anymore.”

“So the 80s; that was just you, a gun, and a pack of smokes?”

“Something like that,” Spencer grinned. He sipped his coffee, and his expression became more serious. “We operated on our own. Sometimes that meant that there was no way out, certainly not in a hurry. It wasn’t possible to have a team nearby or an extraction plan always. You had to make your own plans, make your own rules.”

“Like an escape chute? I heard guys talk about that.”

Spencer made a face, “That’s just smart practice in this line of work. What I meant is that you had to operate in a world that had to be presumed entirely hostile. You could not trust other people unless you knew them well, and even then, they could turn in a heartbeat. Your plans had to have plans, and your backup had a backup. Never make it simple, never make it obvious, and always keep people guessing; even your own side.”

“Sounds like a paranoid nightmare.”

“Yeah,” Spencer sighed. “It was.”

Ryan spotted their target leaving the terminal and walking up to a waiting sedan. “Alexi’s on time.”

Spencer started the car and eased out into the flow of traffic. “I’ll put a twenty on it now, he’ll stop by his favorite brothel, then he’ll head for the Embassy like always. This motherfucker is predictable.”

“So why are you out here rather than letting us do it?”

“I like to get out from behind the desk,” Spencer shrugged as they followed the darkened BMW from several cars back. “If I spend too much time there, I’ll get fat and lazy. If I assign myself anything too dangerous, then Monica will kill me.”

“Your wife?”

“Yeah,” Spencer grinned. “She knows that I can’t ride the desk, but she made it pretty clear that I’m too old and slow to get into any more gunfights.”

“She seems like a smart lady.”

“Don’t let her hear that,” Spencer chuckled as they turned onto the Autoroute. Accelerating up to speed to match the traffic around them, the man glanced over, “What about you? Got anyone at home?”

“Didn’t you read my file?”

“What do you take me for, the CIA? This is called a conversation, we exchange words like human fucking beings.”

“No, I’m single.”

“Not looking?”

Ryan shrugged, “Not really.”

Tom Spencer looked over and made a face, “No girl… or guy?”

“I’m not gay,” Ryan snapped more harshly than he would have intended. “I like women.”

“Hey, you do you, bud, I just figured, with… You know.”

Ryan clenched his jaw. They hadn’t spoken about Orsino since that first day in Spencer’s office. He had thought it forgotten, but apparently it was still on the man’s mind.   “Just because it happened to me, doesn’t mean it was something I wanted.”

“I didn’t mean… Look, I’m sorry, kid,” Spencer offered. “I just meant that it didn’t bother me, either way.”

“I’m not really into anyone,” Ryan blurted out, before he could hold himself back. “I mean… I’m just busy, I guess.”

Spencer followed the BMW off the Autoroute and onto a surface street in the Paris outskirts, “You know, I’m not entirely shocked that that’s how you feel after something like that. What happened to you, I wouldn’t have wished it on my worst enemy. Hell, I’m shocked you’re coping this well.”

“That’s the thing,” Ryan sighed. “I’m not.”

They followed the BMW off the Autoroute and down onto surface streets as it drove towards the outskirts of Paris. After twenty minutes, it led them into an industrial district in La Courneuve. After ten more minutes, the vehicle pulled up in front of a nondescript building. Their target got out of the car and approached the door. After waiting a moment, the door opened, and the man disappeared inside. Two minutes later, the vehicle departed.

Spencer pulled over a few doors down and shut off the car. “What next?”

“We wait for him to leave?”

“Nah, let’s go have a little chat,” Spencer smiled. “I find Russians like to talk a bit more when their pants are around their ankles.”

“I thought we were doing observation only?”

“Technically,” Spencer pointed out as he got out of the car. “But he’s going to be a lot more willing to tell us who he sold all those SA-15 missiles to when he’s here than when he’s back at the Embassy. Are you afraid of doing some improvising?”

Ryan climbed out and shut the door, “I’ll follow your lead, boss." 

Walking over to the same building that Alexi Arkadinov had disappeared into, the door was nondescript and clearly reinforced. It was obvious that it protected far more than an office building or a warehouse. Tom Spencer hit the buzzer and waited. After a moment, the speaker crackled to life. “Oui?”

Spencer slipped into fluid French, “I’m here to see Etienne, tell him it’s Tom Spencer.”

There was silence for a moment before the door eventually clicked and swung open. The sound of dull, distant electronic music was immediately evident to Ryan’s ear from somewhere within the building. Inside, a large man wearing black regarded them with suspicion, “Monsieur Dubois is busy at the moment; you can wait inside.”

The man led them through into a lounge area that was presently occupied by a number of patrons. Inside, the largely male clientele were being attended to by women in various states of undress. As he watched the girls flirting with their clients, Ryan couldn’t help but feel his skin crawl. The electronic music, the soft lighting, and the strong scent of perfume in the air was all painfully familiar to him and it was evoking emotions he had worked extremely hard to suppress.

“You good?” Spencer asked as they sat down in a booth. “I know this probably can’t be easy for you, but the job has to be done.”

“Some warning might have been nice.”

“Eh, that would be making it easy.” Spencer shrugged. “You can’t always prepare yourself for things in the real world. Traumas and phobias that you can’t control will get you killed. It’s for the best to learn that now rather than when it really matters. ”

Ryan nodded but kept his mouth shut. The man was correct, but it did not make him any more comfortable with the situation. As he watched one of the customers paw at a girl, he couldn’t help but feel those same disgusting hands on his own flesh.

As a topless waitress passed by, Spencer waved her down, “Hey, do you know who my boss Alexi is with today?”

“Alexi?” the woman frowned.

“Tall, bald, big, overweight guy with a mustache,” Spencer described. “Came in like ten minutes ago.”

The woman smiled in recognition, “Oh, yes, he is with Margot, they are down in room ten, Monsieur.”

“Thanks, doll,” Spencer nodded, slipping a €20 note into the woman’s panties. “Bring us a couple of single malts, ok?”

“Oui, Monsieur.”

“That was far too easy,” Ryan frowned as the woman departed, wiggling her entirely exposed bottom as she went.

“These girls aren’t hired because they’re security consultants,” Spencer pointed out. Plus, we’re already inside, so we must be good. This is a members-only joint; no riffraff allowed.”

A few moments later, the waitress returned with their drinks. After she left, Spencer held up his glass in toast, “Here’s to sitting in a Paris brothel, waiting for a Russian arms dealer to be in an appropriately compromising position.”

“Not where I expected my career to take me,” Ryan admitted, taking a sip of the amber liquid in his own glass. “How long do we wait?”

Spencer grinned, “I think now is about right, don’t you? Bring your drink, we’ll look like customers.”

Standing up, the two made their way through the lounge and into the rear hallways that led to the private rooms. After a short walk, they found room ten. Spencer gripped the door handle and put his ear to the door. He listened for a moment, grinned, and swung the door open.

Inside the room was a scene that Ryan could have lived his entire life without ever seeing. Arguably, he wished that he had never seen what lay within.  Inside, Alexi Arkadinov was naked and strapped to a vertical metal frame. The woman, Margot, was standing beside him, her black leather bodysuit and thigh-high boots making it quite clear what role she was taking in their activities. It was an image made only more incongruent by the large pink phallic object that was strapped to her crotch.

“Alexi, you don’t call, you don’t write,” Spencer grinned, his arms open in greeting.

“This is a private session, Monsieur! You have to leave!”

Spencer held up his hands to placate the irate dominatrix, “We’ll be a few minutes, we just need to have a word, and then we’ll be out of here. Why don’t you grab a snack or something?”

The woman huffed and marched out of the room, likely heading off to find security. Spencer wasted no time as he picked up a riding crop off the bed and approached the restrained Russian. Slapping the crop against his hand, he raised an eyebrow. “How’s business, Alexi?”

“Who the hell… what is… let me go!” The man balked, struggling against his restraints. “Please, I’ll give you anything, just don’t kill me.”

“Ah, we don’t want to kill you,” Spencer snorted, slapping the crop against Arkadinov’s testicles. “Oops.”

The Russian grunted in pain, his eyes rolling back in his head, “Please, I beg you!”

“SA-15 short-range surface-to-air missiles. Who are you selling them to, and who did you steal them from?”

“I don’t know what you’re… youch! Argh, stop, please!” the man screamed as Spencer slapped him again.

“Wrong answer… let’s be a little more truthful, huh?”

“Ok, ok, pizdets! Please stop!” the man begged. “I have the missiles, yes, but I did not steal them, I buy them… Commander Ivan Volkov of military unit 55443, he is my contact.”

“Where are they?”

“Please, I am just business man!”

Spencer whipped him harder, and the man squealed like a stuck pig. “God, ok… they are in my warehouse in Bratislava, Stará Ivanská Cesta 221.”
“Wasn’t that easy? See?” Spencer smirked. “You can get back to your little party now.”

Turning back to Ryan, Spencer handed him the riding crop and gestured towards the door. “Come on, let’s get going before the reinforcements arrive. I think old Alexi here is going to have a fun time explaining his little predicament.”

Following his boss out into the corridor, Ryan closed the door behind him and jogged to catch up with Tom Spencer.  “That was a little unorthodox.”

“Sometimes, we can fuck around for weeks, surveilling and building a case. Waste tens of thousands of dollars and get nowhere. Other times, we can apply a little leverage and have the same result in a fraction of the time.”

“Is it ethical?”

“I don’t kill anyone that doesn’t deserve it,” Spencer shrugged as he pushed open a fire exit and led them out into the alleyway behind the club. “As for ethics… Those missiles could be sold to terrorists and used to kill thousands of civilians. A little slap and tickle is a small price to pay to save lives.”

“What about the law? policy?”

“Tom Spencer’s golden rule: Sometimes you have to do the wrong thing for the right reasons. Never do it angry and sure as shit never kill unless you absolutely have to do it to save lives.’               ”

Ryan pursed his lips, “I’m not sure I ever want to have to make that decision… to kill someone, angry or not.”

“That’s what makes you one of the good ones, kid,” Spencer agreed as they made it back to the car. “Never change that.”

 

 

May 30th, 2014 - Milan, Italy.

Ryan spotted the first signs of activity in the park about twenty minutes before the arranged meeting time. He had to give it to the Agency guys; they were as good as he had expected them to be. Unfortunately for them, when you were trained with the same playbook, it was nowhere near as effective as they hoped it would be. It was no surprise to Ryan; he had expected Tom Spencer to come with backup, and he had not been disappointed.

It didn’t hurt that Sutherland and his guys were being spread out around the area for quick response. Not a single one of those men looked anything like the local Italian population, and their tourist garb did not help matters. Hiding a squad of former special operators that had more in common with Venice Beach gym rats amongst the fashionable locals was never going to be exactly possible. 

After watching them for around ten minutes, Ryan felt that he had a reasonable grasp of who the CIA officers were and where they were located within the park area. They had spread out to cover the meeting location in a fairly standard perimeter, with at least four sets of eyes on the designated spot and a group of roaming units to rotate out. It was subtle, but it was formulaic and predictable.

Tom Spencer himself appeared a few minutes before ten and made his way to the prearranged meeting place. Ryan smiled to himself from his nest as he watched the man move. If you didn’t know Spencer, you could be fooled easily into thinking he was a tourist out to enjoy the balmy weather, such was his casual movement. He knew that even at this distance, the man’s senses were tingling with every fibre of his years of experience.

Taking his eyes off the lens for a moment, Ryan dialed the preprogrammed number for Spencer’s cellphone. Through the binoculars, he saw the man casually reach into his pocket and answer the call.

“Knight, you’re not here,” The man pointed out with a hint of annoyance.

“I’m right on time,” Ryan replied, smiling to himself. “I see you brought friends, so I’ll keep this quick. Please answer the phone, Tom.”

He saw Spencer check the blank screen of his phone as he ended the call. Dialing the second programmed number, he watched the man’s head swivel in the direction of the prepaid device that Ryan had left under the side of the nearby bench.

Tom Spencer picked up the phone and answered the call, his calm body language only betrayed by the annoyance in his voice, “What kind of games are you playing, Knight?”

“I needed you off the party line, Tom, you know that. Do me a favor and take a walk, please.”

Tom Spencer sighed, “Fine, where am I going?”

“Straight ahead,” Ryan replied, his eyes fixed on the binoculars. “Head for the mall across the street and take a walk along the concourse, lower level.”

Spencer ended the call, his brief flash of annoyance showing Ryan that he had managed to unsettle the veteran’s plans. He knew full well that even if they had managed to grab the new call in time, they had no chance of pinging its location. Ryan had to give Tom Spencer credit; the man was experienced enough to hide his annoyance and resume his casual pace as he made his way toward the mall. 

Ryan stowed his binoculars and let himself out of the office before heading for the door that led down into the mall below. If he calculated this correctly, the disruption to routine would unsettle the team’s surveillance plans for a short period of time. Whether it was long enough to meet with Tom Spencer in private or not, was an entirely separate matter.

 

 

The main concourse of the Porta Nuova Shopping Mall was bustling with shoppers. Being one of Milan’s most popular shopping destinations, it was no surprise at all that even at ten in the morning, it was bordering on capacity. The mall provided several major advantages as an alternate meeting location for Ryan; it was easy to vanish in the crowds, and it had a roof. In a modern world of drone and satellite surveillance, malls were purpose made for modern covert meetings.

Making his way along the busy upper level, Ryan stopped at a coffee bar overlooking a stairway down to the lower promenade. Ordering a drink, he leaned against the railing to wait for Tom Spencer to pass by. He knew that it would not take the Agency long to adapt to his play, but he calculated that he should have enough time to intercept his boss and do what he had to do.

Ryan was waiting for about ten minutes before Tom Spencer’s distinctive form passed beneath his location, making his way through the mall as instructed. With no predefined meeting location, the man was walking aimlessly through the shopping center with no hurry. While to others, he appeared casual, it was easy for Ryan to see that the man was on heightened alert. Descending the stairs, Ryan joined the crowds and followed his boss from a safe distance.

After a minute or so, Spencer stopped and gazed into a shop window at a display of watches. Ryan knew the trick; he was throwing off any potential tail by pausing, causing someone to either continue and lose the tail or stop and be easier to spot. Choosing the third option instead, Ryan made his approach.

To his credit, Spencer spotted Ryan before he even managed to get within ten feet and turned to face him with an expectant frown.

“Keep walking,” Ryan ordered, turning back toward the flow of pedestrian traffic.

“I’m not amused by the games,” the Station Chief growled, falling in alongside him.

“I told you that I have evidence to clear my name,” Ryan replied, “I just needed to talk to you away from the pack of dogs.”

“The cloak and dagger bullshit doesn’t exactly scream innocent, kid,” Spencer growled quietly. “You’d better have something real conclusive.”

“How about an audio recording of Edwards requesting the drone strike, giving his authorisation before he executed Laurent in front of me? Yeah, I have it.”

The Chief glanced over at Ryan, “You actually have that?”

“I do.”

“This way,” Spencer growled, turning into a side passage that led towards an employee area.

Ryan followed Spencer as he slipped through a service door and into one of the center’s back passageways. After a few moments, he stopped in a service corridor and turned to face him.

“You’ve got this on you? You can prove that this wasn’t you?” Spencer asked, his eyes searching Ryan for any sign of a lie.

“Ryan pulled out an SD card and handed it to his boss. “I can.”

“Fuck,” Spencer growled. “Who?”

“Edwards is behind it as far as I can tell,” Ryan offered. “Christiansen, Anders, and Carter were all present, so I can only assume that if they backed his play, they are involved in whatever he is. As far as I can tell, they needed Ahmad dead. They didn’t want any chance of him surviving. The only reason you make sure they’re dead is…”

“So they can’t talk, shit,” Spencer cursed. “Kid, you’ve put me in a hell of a position. “I’m going to have to call Langley into this if we have … damn.”

“What?”

“Edwards and Carter are here right now,” Spencer sighed. “CTC Europe has the screws on this. They don’t want any media attention. I have the remnants of the Nice operation and a SOG team to bring you in or put you down, maximum prejudice. If I call the dogs off you, then it might well alert them that we know, god fucking damn it,” he cursed, giving the ceiling a look that would have made it shrivel up and die if it had not been made from reinforced concrete. “This is a grade A fuckstorm, Ryan.”

“I know Tom, I…” Ryan offered. “I didn’t know what else to do. They were going to take care of the kid and sweep it all under the rug. I couldn’t let them…”

“So she is safe?” Spencer asked, before nodding to himself. “You did good, kid. They…damn, you did real good,” he added, “Yeah, that really is on form for you, isn't it?”

“She’s safe,” Ryan promised. “She’s with an old friend. Look, let me get out of here,” Ryan offered, feeling a great deal of relief that Spencer was listening to him. “I’ll go back into hiding, and you can run this up the chain once you get somewhere more secure. When things are calm, you can contact me where Orsino began.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed before his lips quirked into a smile, “Milan… Damn, it makes perfect sense now. We had no idea why you chose to come here of all places, but now I get it. How is that old hag doing?”

“She’d kill you for calling her old,” Ryan grinned. “She’s well. She’s been far too kind to us. We didn’t deserve it.”

“Ricci was never the sort to leave a stray out in the cold,” Spencer smirked. “She was like that when I first met her in ‘91.”

“Wait, you knew her?” Ryan balked.

“Briefly,” Tom shrugged. “Small world, gorgeous woman, vicious mind.”

Tom Spencer clasped Ryan on the shoulder and gave him an almost paternal smile, “Enough time for memories later. You need to get going, kid. I can play interference and run this up the chain when I get out of here. I should never have believed this shit. I’ll get the tape to the DOO, and I’ll contact you when the coast is clear. We can sort this out.”

Click

The sound of a pistol’s hammer cocking is universally recognisable to anyone who has ever handled a firearm. It’s often a movie trope that the bad guys will cock their pistol right before threatening the hero, but in reality, many professionals carry with one in the chamber and the hammer down if the weapon allows it. To some, however, it truly is just a dramatic way to get someone’s attention very quickly.

Ryan and Spencer both tensed when they heard the sound reverberate off the breezeblock walls of the corridor. Turning, Ryan spotted Greg Edwards pointing a Sig pistol in their direction. Steve Carter was just behind his shoulder and was equally armed.

“Edwards, put that thing away,” Spencer ordered. “I’ve got him now, he’s agreed to come in. You will stand down, do you hear me?”

“I’ve heard more than enough,”  Edwards replied quietly, a slight smile on his lip. “It's pretty clear that the jig is up, Tom.”

“Greg, put the gun away, that’s a fucking order,” Spencer snapped. 

Edwards, however, made no move to comply. “Tom, I’m really sorry. You’re a great boss, but unfortunately, you’ve stuck your foot in the middle of something, and I can’t let that happen. I know you understand how this works.”

“Why don’t you explain it to me?” Spencer growled, his voice low and his posture tense.

Edwards shook his head sadly and raised the gun to Tom Spencer’s head. As he did so, Steve Carter interrupted his concentration by opening his mouth.  “Hey, boss, we’re going to have company real soon, the man offered, glancing around uncertainly. “Team is moving in.”

The comment caused a momentary distraction that made Edwards glance away from Tom Spencer for a fraction of a second. That distraction was minuscule, but for the station chief, it was more than enough opportunity. With catlike reflexes, Spencer went for the Colt pistol that he kept inside his jacket. Almost as fast as he recognized what the man was doing, Ryan started to go for his own weapon.

The sound of the gun going off within the confined space of the corridor was deafening. Three shots struck Tom Spencer in the torso in rapid succession, almost deafening Ryan in the process. Steve Carter raised his weapon to fire, but before he could manage to pull the trigger, his chest exploded, a forty-five slug from Spencer’s piece ripping through his ribs like a fencepost.

Ryan returned fire at the two men as he ducked down and grabbed Tom Spencer by his shirt collar. Losing off more rounds, he managed to drag the man into cover behind a nearby dumpster. Bullets whipped past, and slammed into the concrete blocks, sending sharp chips of material flying in all directions. Reaching out past the dumpster, Ryan fired blindingly back at Edwards before withdrawing his hand as quickly as possible.

He had no idea where Edwards and Carter were, or if the second man was even still upright and in the fight. Either way, it did not matter. The cover he had was awful, and there were so few options to improve his chances. With such tight confines, it was only a matter of time before someone got a lucky shot.

Looking down at Tom, he found the man in terrible condition. He was bleeding profusely from three lurid wounds to the chest, one of which was bubbling as air escaped from his lungs with each breath. Somehow, despite his vicious wounds, the man’s grip on his pistol was firm and true.

Ryan applied pressure to the bubbling wound and reloaded his pistol one-handed, “Come on, I got you, Tom. Stay with me, ok?”

“Get out of here, kid,” Spencer growled, grimacing through the pain. “I’m done. You need to save yourself. You stick around, and they’ll kill you.” 

“I’m not leaving you, Tom.” Ryan shook his head. “You’ll be ok, it looks worse than it is.”

The man coughed, blood splattering his lips. “I’m fucked up, I know it. I’m not walking out of this one, but you can. Get out of here, that’s an order.”

Reaching over with shaking fingers, Tom Spencer took Ryan’s hand and pressed the SD card back into it. “Keep this, I’m not going to be able to… damn it,” he coughed violently. “Promise me you’ll kill that son of a bitch for me. Right now, though, follow a damn order for once and get the hell out of here.”

Ryan worked his jaw and considered defying the man. Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted an exit door forty feet away down the corridor. “Can you cover me?”

Spencer grimaced and nodded. It was barely an inch of movement, but his eyes remained fixed on Ryan’s. “Go, kid… I’m sorry.”

Ryan reached over and squeezed Tom’s hand, giving him one last long meaningful look. Squatting down, he braced himself and took a deep breath. When he was ready, he leaned out and fired two rounds up the corridor towards Edwards’ position. As soon as he did, he sprang out of cover and took off at a dead sprint for the exit.

The forty feet to the door felt like a mile to Ryan as he ran. Every footfall felt like it was stretching further away, and each breath felt like he was inhaling fire. Bullets smacked off the walls around him, sending sparks and chips of concrete flying through the air. Behind him, he heard the crack of Spencer’s old iron and fought the urge to look back over his shoulder.

Ryan hit the door at a run, his body slamming into it with enough force to splinter the wood around the lock. Bursting with the impact, the door gave way, sending him tumbling out into the corridor beyond. The door led to another corridor, and Ryan wasted no time in running as fast and as far as he possibly could. He hated to leave Tom behind, but he knew that the man was already dead, even if he was too stubborn to admit it. Every second that he remained, more and more of Edward’s men would close in on their position.

Instead of mourning the man, Ryan followed Spencer’s instructions and ran for his life. The network of service passages that served the shopping mall were like the central nervous system of the human body. He had no real idea where he was going, but he suspected that eventually, one would lead outside. His plans were in the wind now, and there was no way that any of them would listen to him anymore.

He had met with Tom alone, and only he had left the meeting alive. There were no cameras, and ballistics wouldn’t matter. Edwards would sell himself as the desperate hero who arrived just too late to save their late boss. Ryan would have their deaths placed on his tally, and they would kill him on sight.

Finally spotting a fire escape, Ryan shoved it open and barreled out into the blindingly bright mid-morning sun.

“Don’t move, kid.”

Ryan froze, the pistol still in his hand, not daring to turn toward the voice, “Pete?”

“That’s right. Now don’t you make this difficult for me, huh? Drop the gun and put your hands on your head, real slow.”

“I can explain, I promise,” Ryan hissed, holding the gun out at his side by the pistol grip. “He’s going to try to kill me.”

“Who?” Pete Sutherland asked, moving around to where he was in Ryan’s line of sight. The man must have been covering the exit when he burst haplessly out and into his grasp. The man’s pistol was trained squarely and comfortably at Ryan’s chest, despite his familiar tone.

“Pete,” Ryan pleaded. “Edwards… he just killed Tom. He shot him right in front of me. Tom got Carter in the mix-up, and I took off… I was giving him the proof.”

“Not what he’s saying on the radio,” the operator pointed out dryly. “You know I got to take you in. We can sort this out later as long as you come quiet.”

“You can’t do that, Pete,” Ryan insisted. “Look, I have something for you. I’m going to reach inside my pocket, ok?”

“You move ever so slowly, you hear me?”

Ryan nodded and slowly reached into his pants pocket to retrieve the SD card that he had given to Tom Spencer, the one that was now caked in his dry blood. Slowly, he offered it over to the man. “This… this is a copy of my recording from the ops room. Give it a listen, you know our voices. I haven’t exactly had time or access to spoof this. It shows Edwards ordering it all.”

“Back there?” he gestured back into the mall. “He just shot the Paris Station Chief in cold blood. He’s going to pin this entirely on me because he’s rogue. Pete, you know me; I am not the kind of guy to be in league with a damn terrorist.”

Sutherland reluctantly took the card and slipped it into his own pocket. He lowered the pistol but kept it gripped in a low ready position. His eyes bored into Ryan’s for a minute as if trying to assess the validity of what he was saying. Eventually, he shook his head and sighed, “God fucking damn it. Ok. Get the hell out of here, I didn’t see shit.”

Ryan’s body flooded with relief. “Thank you, Pete, I… I won’t make you regret this, I promise.”

Pete Sutherland lowered his weapon and reholstered it inside his waistband. He looked over at Ryan, his expression softer, “The girl, she’s doing ok, isn’t she?”

Ryan nodded, “Yeah, she’s good, Pete. She’s why I ran. She’s why I did all of this. I can’t let them hurt her.”

Pete smiled, and Ryan realized that the loving father inside the grizzled soldier was showing his relief. “Keep her safe, ok? Be good to her.”

“I will, I promise.” Ryan agreed before turning and jogging away down the street.

 

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