Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

He plopped the last of the glistening pimientos de Padrón into his mouth. The small green peppers fried in olive oil and dusted with sea salt practically melted on his tongue. He seriously considered ordering another vermut but decided to just finish the one he had and pay the bill. The clock was ticking and he had a timed entrance ticket to the Picasso Museum, which was just up the narrow, medieval street of Carrer de Montcada. It was the last item on his list before leaving tomorrow.

He raised a finger to the passing server who set his check on the bar in front of him. Jack counted out the bills he needed to cover the tab along with a generous tip. He noticed he still had a few euros left in his wallet and decided to toss those into the tray as well. He didn’t need euros in Virginia and the young server was working her ass off. God bless her.

Adéu, Barcelona.

3

His bill paid, Jack polished off the last swallow of his drink when he happened to catch a glimpse of a striking young African American woman as she edged her way into the restaurant, clearly looking for someone.

Renée Moore?

Jack couldn’t believe it was her, after all these years.

They’d had a few senior finance classes together at Georgetown and, as often happened when two smart, attractive people spent a lot of time together, fell into an intense but brief relationship. Renée Moore was the most career-minded woman he’d ever met, and that was saying something coming from a household of highly accomplished Ryan women. But her mind was set on conquering Wall Street. She was perfectly gentle but crystal clear when she broke up with him: She wasn’t looking to get married. Ever.

Jack hadn’t seen Renée since they’d both graduated seven years ago. He had often wondered if she could have been the one who got away because she had so many of the qualities he most admired in women. But then again, her top priority was earning a Wall Street fortune. His wasn’t. Jack believed in living for things worth dying for, and money wasn’t one of them.

He’d actually thought of reaching out to her a couple of years ago for a Costa Rican banking project he was tackling as a “white side” analyst at Hendley Associates. Moore had a first-rate mind and an incredible work ethic. She would have been perfect for the gig. He’d even thought he might be able to convince her that things like duty, honor, and country were just as significant as making a billion dollars by the time she was thirty. But every time he thought about picking up the phone, he didn’t. Most people’s loyalties were only to their own ambitions. That didn’t necessarily make them bad people. But if his dad taught Jack anything, it was that the only life worth living was a life of service to others.

And like the Man said, you can’t serve two masters.

Above the din of happy diners, Jack shouted her name. She began searching the crowd until she spotted him, which wasn’t hard, given his height. A luminous smile lit her up for a moment, then it turned to confusion as she made her way over to him, squeezing her five-foot-six frame next to him at the crowded bar. She reached up and gave him a hug.

“Reneé, I can’t believe it. What brings you to Barcelona? To this place?” Smile lines creased around Jack’s blue eyes.

“For a second there, I thought maybe it was you, but—”

He could barely hear her above the noise. He raised his voice. “Can I get you something to drink? The tapas here are unbelievable.”

“No, thanks.” She glanced around the room, clearly searching for someone, occasionally standing up on her tiptoes.

“Can’t find who you’re looking for?”

She turned back to Jack. “Sorry, I’m being rude. How have you been? You look great—put on a few pounds of muscle since I last saw you.”

“Yeah, hitting the weight room every now and then,” Jack said.

She touched his face, a familiar gesture. “The beard’s new. I like it.”

“Tell that to my mom.”

He wanted to tell her how gorgeous she looked, too—better than he remembered. But he knew that wasn’t going to go anywhere, and he wasn’t looking to seduce her. He was just genuinely glad to see her.

The pretty girl with the Bluetooth at the end of the bar seemed happy to see her, too. She kept glancing back and forth between her second cava and Moore.

“What are you up to these days?” Moore kept scanning the room and checking the door.

“Hendley Associates. A small, private-equity firm in Alexandria. You?”

“I’m a VP with a tech startup in California called CrowdScope.”

“Tech? I thought you’d be in finance.”

“I am, just the other side of it. It’s a fintech firm.”

“Sounds exciting. What happened to Wall Street?”

“Been there, done that.”

Jack’s Apple Watch beeped. “Oh, man. I gotta run.”

“Hot date?”

“No. Just the museum. I’ve got a timed entry. Any chance we could grab a drink later? Or maybe dinner?”

She turned back around and smiled at him. “Yeah, Jack. I’d really like that.” She reached into her purse and pulled out her business card. “Call me around seven. We’ll find a place to meet. Okay?”

“Perfect.” He glanced at the address and phone number, then pocketed it.

“How long are you in town for?”

Jack shrugged. “Leaving tomorrow.”

“Too bad.” Her smile faded. “I’ve missed you, Jack. I’m so glad we bumped into each other. What a crazy coincidence.”

Jack ignored the screeching voice of the catechism nun in his head telling him that there was no such thing as coincidences.

“Try the vermut here. And the tortilla . It’s fantastic—hell, everything is. Well, gotta run. I’ll call you later.”

“Make sure you do.” She threw another hug around his neck and kissed his bearded cheek. “Adéu . ”

“Adéu.”

Jack gently pushed his way through the crowd of people, heading for the exit. He cast another glance at Moore at the bar, still searching for someone, and the Bluetooth blonde, still watching her. As he stepped through the doorway, a short, heavyset man about his age with shoulder-length hair and thick, Warby Parker tortoiseshell glasses bumped into him.

“Sorry, man,” he said to Jack as he passed.

“ No hay problema, slick,” Jack muttered, thinking nothing of it.

Finally breaking through to the narrow street, Jack checked his watch. His online ticket would get him into the museum in five minutes, which was perfect timing.

A glance in the window of a small jewelry store across the narrow street gave Jack the nearest shot for quick surveillance detection. The only person who caught Jack’s eye in the glass was a guy about his size and age, with short-cropped blond hair, a long, crooked nose, square face, and deep-set hazel eyes. He also had a Bluetooth in his ear.

It was a lot of data to acquire in a short glance, but that was how Jack had been trained by John Clark, The Campus’s director of operations.

Like Jack, the man was catching a glimpse of him as well in the same glass, or so it seemed. They held each other’s gaze for less than the blink of an eye before the man turned casually away and headed south in the opposite direction. He was just another tourist on the phone, Jack supposed, but his mind registered the man’s strong, athletic gait as he turned a corner onto Passeig del Born.

Jack turned north and headed for the museum.

Three steps later, he was dead.

—

Or so he thought.

The concussive force from the blast inside L’avi had nowhere to go but out the front door and into the narrow street between the heavy stone walls in a rushing tidal wave of pressure. Shop windows shattered for a dozen yards in each direction.