Mike Brogan - G 8. A Suspense Thriller

G8

Also by Mike Brogan

Business to Kill For

Dead Air

Madisons Avenue

G8

A suspense thriller

___________________________________

Mike Brogan

Lighthouse

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2013

by Mike Brogan

All rights reserved

ISBN 978-0-9846173-0-2 (Hardcover)

Library of Congress Control Number 2013952635

Printed in the United States of America

Published in the United States by Lighthouse Publishing

Cover design: Vong Lee

First Edition

For Marcie, Brendan, Chloe, Jay,
and Ms. Brogan Dolata whos almost six.

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To all my European colleagues, all you Belgian, French, English, Dutch, Italian, Scandinavian and German folks who provided me with the background and knowledge to make this story possible and for teaching this naive American the mysterious ways of Europe.

To my writing pals: Four-time Shamus Award winner Loren D. Estleman, and distinguished writers like Pete Barlow, Phil Rosette, Len Charla, Jim OKeefe, Annick Hivert Carthew, and gracious friends like John and Mary Ann Verdi-Hus your helpful suggestions and guidance have made this story better. To Rebecca M. Lyles for her excellent, thoughtful editorial assistance and guidance.

And finally, to the late Elmore Leonard who advised me to spend a lot of time with the bad guys. Ive tried to do that in G8.

ONE

BRUSSELS, BELGIUM

K atill hid behind a thick oak tree in the Fort de Soignes. He watched the lights go out in the master bedroom upstairs. Donovan Rourke and his wife, Emma, were going to sleep for the night.

Only one would wake up.

Two hours later, Katill pulled down his mask and climbed a rope to the second floor balcony. The balcony doors, as expected, were unlocked. He checked his suppressed Glock, stepped inside and walked past an exquisite Louis XV desk and an antique mahogany china cabinet. The scent of lemon curry lingered in the air.

He walked down to the master bedroom and entered. Moonlight filtered through the lace curtains onto a human shape in the large bed. One shape. Female. Emma.

Where is Donovan Rourke? I was told he was here! Most unfortunate.

So Plan B.

He moved to the bed and stared down at the woman. Attractive face inviting body.

Her eyes began to move beneath the lids. She seemed to sense his presence. He leaned closer. Her eyes opened, then her mouth. His hand muffled her scream.

Fighting back hard, she reached up and yanked his mask off and looked at his face. He was shocked! No one had ever seen him as he worked! Enraged, he slashed her neck with his knife. Her eyes widened as she realized what hed done. He watched blood pump from her severed arteries.

And moments later, he watched life drain from her eyes.

Noise. Behind him.

Donovan Rourke?

Stahl spun around. No one. He hurried down the hall, accidentally knocking the Mickey Mouse nightlight from the socket. The night-light was next to a door marked TISH in big sparkling letters. The door was open. He looked in.

Standing beside her bed, staring at him, was a young girl, maybe four. Old enough to remember.

She saw his face.

And maybe what hed done.

TWO

MANHATTAN

W hos Fuzz ? Donovan Rourke asked on his cell phone as he sat in Heltbergs Bar, sipping his second beer.

BUZZ! Tish said.

Oh

Buzz Lightyear!

Whos he?

Hes a space ranger!

Wow!

And hes at Macys. Can we please go get him?

Hmmmmmm

Tonight, please?

Hmmmmmm Well, okay.

Her squeal might have injured his eardrum.

After hanging up, Donovan admitted yet again that he was a push-over when it came to his beautiful, five-year-old daughter. Tish was the love of his life. Hed do almost anything to make her happy, and help make up for the loss of her mother.

Donovan looked around the bar. Some New York University students drinking pitchers of beer. A businessman nursing his third scotch. A fat guy sleeping on a barstool who hadnt moved a muscle in thirty minutes. The guy could be dead.

Dead like Benny Ahrens, Donovan thought. Benny, his friend, was killed because of a piece of paper. The same paper Donovan now held in his own hand.

A cute, green-haired waitress walked by and winked at him. He smiled back and figured he must not look too bad for a thirty-four-year-old guy whod spent the last ten years of his life avoiding people trying to end it.

So far, no bullet scars above the neck. Four limbs that worked. The family jewels intact. And a six-foot-two inch frame that could still run five miles in thirty-six minutes, and even faster if he was being shot at, which was quite likely because of the paper in his hand.

Green Hair placed a bowl of roasted peanuts on his table.

Peace, she said, winking and sashaying away.

And may Benny Ahrens rest in peace.

Yesterday, Benny, a Mossad agent, had discovered the deadly note. The message on it was written in some ancient cryptic symbols that meant absolutely nothing to Donovan.

But meant death to Benny. And Donovan feared it could mean death to Professor Sohan Singh who was meeting Donovan here in twenty-five minutes, unless Donovan phoned him and told him not to come.

But Donovan had strict orders Give the message to Singh. Hes our best shot at translating it. And orders must always be followed, right?

Wrong. Theres a time to screw orders. Like when his gut told him to. Like now. He pulled out his phone, dialed Sohans cell and was bounced into voice mail and left a message saying, Sohan, everything worked out. We dont need your help now. But thanks anyway. Ill call you later.

It bothered Donovan that he lied so easily. But then his job paid him to lie.

As he hung up, the bar door opened. A strong blast of Manhattan bus fumes swept in along with Professor Sohan Singh, twenty minutes early. Singh, a slender, well-dressed man in his early sixties looked around and smiled at Donovan.

Donovan waved his former NYU French professor over. They shook hands and sat at the table.

So, Singh said, youre going to beg me for another racquetball rematch?

Donovan smiled. Im going to beg you to walk back out of this bar.

Singh stared back.

This thing is too risky, Sohan.

A translation thing?

Yeah.

Singh glanced down at the note in Rourkes hand.

Would that be the translation thing?

It would.

Donovan scanned the bar and made sure no one was paying attention to them. No one was.

Sohan this note is deadly.

Green Hair appeared. Singh ordered a Heineken and seconds later she set a frosty bottle in front of him.

Why so deadly?

We dont know yet. But my Mossad friend was just killed a mile from here because of it. He intercepted the message and told me it was very serious and very urgent. The NSA cryptographers are at a loss to translate it. Theyre convinced the symbols are some very ancient Middle Eastern language. They say you can translate it much faster than they ever will.

Singh sipped his beer.

But Sohan, trust me, this note is

Hazardous to my buns?

Very.

And ones buns are still pro-choice, right?

Donovan nodded.