Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

“I love you, Papa.”

“I love you, too. Stay safe.”

“I will. Always.”

50

Jack and Brossa sat at one of the window-side tables near the entrance to Els Quatre Gats — the Four Cats—in Barri Gòtic, waiting for the server to bring their coffees and bombas .

“Do you know the history of this place?” Brossa asked.

“Picasso displayed his first painting here at seventeen. The original owner discovered many other great artists. You could call it the birthplace of modernism.”

“I didn’t know you were an art scholar.”

Jack shrugged. “I read it on the menu.”

She glanced around at the stained-glass windows, brass fixtures, and period artwork.

“It can be touristy at times, but when it’s quiet like this, I find it quite charming. Very fin de siècle. Something old and, yet, something new. It is very Catalonian.”

“Thanks for suggesting it. And thanks for coming down. How is your father?”

“He’s home watching soccer. He’s a hometown fan, of course. Thank you for asking.”

“You said you have good news for me?”

Brossa sat up, beaming. “You saw the news yesterday about Brigada?”

“Yeah. All killed. Is it true?”

“Yes.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I was there.”

“You were the woman they showed charging that house before it blew?”

Brossa lowered her eyes, embarrassed by the attention. “Yes, I suppose so. I didn’t see the actual broadcast.”

Jack reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, of course. No big deal.”

“The newscast said they blew themselves up and tried to take you all with them.”

“That’s exactly what happened. You should be happy.”

“Why?”

“Because those terrorists are all dead, and your friend has her justice.”

“Did you get my text? With the photo?”

“The man with the hazel eyes? Yes, of course.”

“Did you check the farmhouse? Was he there?”

“We couldn’t get through the wreckage. It was too extensive. It’s still being dealt with. The bodies are at the coroner’s office at the Guardia Civil and being identified. That will take some time. A week, perhaps two. The remains were scattered by the blast. If he’s there, I will let you know.”

“I appreciate that.”

Brossa frowned. “I thought you’d be happy to know that the case is closed.”

“I am. I just hate loose ends. I’ll be completely satisfied when the guy is found and identified.”

“Like I said, it will take some time.”

The server arrived with their coffees and bombas .

“Gràcies,” Jack said.

The college-age server smiled. She was cute and gave Jack another look as she walked away. Brossa saw this. Jack didn’t.

“Well, your Català is getting better, I see.” She lifted her cup. “To Renée. May she rest in peace now.”

“To Renée.”

They sipped in silence for a moment. Brossa cut her bomba with a fork.

“Do you know why they call this a ‘bomba ’?”

“It means ‘bomb,’ doesn’t it?” Jack really hadn’t thought about it.

“Yes. It was invented because of the civil war. The round potato croquet is the bomb, and this little bit of garlic aioli cream on top is meant to be the fuse, and the hot red sauce is meant to be like an explosion in your mouth.”

Jack cut his with a fork as well. The tine crunched through the lightly fried potato, revealing the ground beef interior. He suddenly wasn’t sure if he wanted to eat it. Yeah, it was a piece of culinary history, and delicious as hell. But Renée . . .

He set his fork down. “What if he wasn’t at the farmhouse?”

“Then I’ll find him. I promise you that. You know I will.”

“I won’t feel like the case is closed until we find him.”

Her voice lowered. “Until I find him. You need to go home.”

“But—”

“Do you want to get me in trouble? I’ve already brought you too deep into this case, as a favor to you. Please don’t put my job at risk. It means too much to me.”

“I’m not trying to put your job—”

Brossa’s phone rang. “It’s my father. I need to take this.” She snatched it up.

“Of course.”

She spoke with him in a calming tone for a few minutes, but Jack could hear the rising anxiety in her father’s voice over the phone’s earpiece. Jack couldn’t understand what they were saying, but he could read the emotions.

She rang off.

“Jack, I’m sorry, but I must go. My father is very upset and he—”

“You don’t need to explain anything.”

“Thank you.” She reached for her purse.

“Forget it, it’s on me.”

Jack pulled out his wallet as they stood and peeled off several bills, leaving enough for the food and an overly generous tip. Brossa started to leave. He stopped her.

“Let me walk you to your car and say a proper good-bye.”

She nodded. “Of course. Forgive my poor manners. Thank you.”

“Let’s go.”

—

They exited through the Gothic-styled archway and onto the narrow, paved walkway, heading east on Carrer de Montsió—hardly a street, save for the small delivery vans that navigated the pedestrian path.

It was crowded with people, including some tourists. But mostly locals, Jack saw, many of them with their independence flags draped over their shoulders like capes, as he’d seen before.

Another protest.

“We must hurry. My car is across Via Laietana.”

Jack knew the four-lane boulevard well. It was one of the main arteries in the old town. It had been the site of previous protests, judging by the melted street signs and burned trash cans that the city government hadn’t yet replaced.

The pedestrian walkway changed its name to Portet where it widened into a two-lane thoroughfare, picking up more and more protesters as they went. A blue police van was parked at the end of it, fronting Laietana.

Jack and Brossa were carried by the flow of flag-draped bodies surging around the van and onto Laietana, which was now a river of humanity. The cars were completely stopped in all four lanes. Most drivers were smiling and pointing, and many honked their horns, all in support of the march. Signs called for liberty, freedom of speech, and justice for the jailed politicians. Not many called for independence, Jack noticed. He supposed the independence flags with the white stars were loud enough.

“These things happen so quickly, like a flash mob,” Brossa said, smiling. “I’m so proud of my people. Do you see? No violence! Only hope.”

“Which way?”

“Right, down to the traffic circle, left on Cambó.”

Jack took Brossa’s hand as well as the lead, guiding them both through the swelling masses. People were laughing and shouting, and blowing whistles, too. Jack even heard a couple of trumpeting vuvuzelas, like at a soccer game.

Jack was half a head taller than most and broader shouldered but he still felt suffocated by the boisterous crowds and the people bumping into him as they squeezed past. It wasn’t possible for Brossa to walk next to him. Bodies surged around them, propelling them forward, but trapping them as well. He felt her shifting back and forth at the end of his arm like she was a fish on the hook of his hand.

Jack kept his head on a swivel, glancing left and right as they marched, glad to be holding her fingers in his, knowing she was right behind him. He felt a sudden pang of sadness, knowing that in a few moments he’d put her in her car and likely never see her again. If he stayed around for a while, he knew they’d be good friends. Who knows, maybe even more.

And she was right. It was her case, and she’d be the one to finally close it once she found Crooked Nose, dead or alive. He only wished he could be there when she did.