Jack Mars - Agent Zero

“Who is this man?” the baritone demanded. With the way he spoke, Russian seemed to be his native tongue. Reid couldn’t help but wonder what the connection might be between the Iranians and this Russian man—or the goons in the SUV, for that matter, and even the Serbian Yuri. An arms deal, maybe , said the voice in his head. Or something worse.

“This is the Iranians’ messenger,” Yuri replied. “He has the information we seek for—”

“You brought him here?” the man interjected. His deep voice rose to a roar. “You were supposed to go to France and meet with the Iranians, not drag men back to me! You would compromise everything with your stupidity!” There was a sharp crack—a solid backhand across a face—and a gasp from Yuri. “Must I write your job description on a bullet to get it through your thick skull?!”

“Otets, please…” Yuri stammered.

“Do not call me that!” the man shouted fiercely. A gun cocked—a heavy pistol, by the sound of it. “Do not call me by any name in the presence of this stranger!”

“He is no stranger!” Yuri yelped. “He is Agent Zero! I have brought you Kent Steele!”

Kent Steele.

Silence reigned for several seconds that felt like minutes. A hundred visions flashed quickly through Reid’s mind as if they were being machine-fed. The CIA. National Clandestine Service, Special Activities Division, Special Operations Group. Psych ops.

Agent Zero.

If you’re exposed, you’re dead.

We don’t talk. Ever.

Impossible.

His fingers were trembling again.

It was simply impossible. Things like memory wipes or implants or suppressors were the stuff of conspiracy theories and Hollywood films.

It didn’t matter now anyway. They knew who he was the whole time—from the bar to the car ride and all the way to Belgium, Yuri had known that Reid was not who he said he was. Now he was blindfolded and trapped behind a steel door with at least four armed men. No one else knew where he was or who he was. A heavy knot of dread formed deep in his stomach and threatened to make him nauseous.

“No,” said the baritone voice slowly. “No, you are mistaken. Stupid Yuri. This is not the CIA man. If it was, you would not be standing here!”

“Unless he came here to find you!” Yuri countered.

Fingers grabbed at the blindfold and yanked it off. Reid squinted in the sudden harshness of the overhead fluorescent lights. He blinked in the face of a man in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair, a full beard shorn close to the cheek, and sharp, discerning eyes. The man, presumably Otets, wore a charcoal gray suit, the top two buttons of his shirt undone and curling gray chest hairs peeking out from beneath it. They stood in an office, the walls painted dark red and adorned with gaudy paintings.

“You,” the man said in accented English. “Who are you?”

Reid took a jagged breath and fought the urge to tell the man that he simply didn’t know anymore. Instead, in a tremulous voice, he said, “My name is Ben. I’m a messenger. I work with the Iranians.”

Yuri, who was on his knees behind Otets, leapt to his feet. “He lies!” the Serbian screeched. “I know he lies! He says that the Iranians sent him, but they would never trust an American!” Yuri leered. A thin rivulet of blood eked from the corner of his mouth where Otets had struck him. “But I know more. See, I asked you about Amad.” He shook his head as he bared his teeth. “There is no Amad among them.”

It seemed odd to Reid that these men seemed to know the Iranians, but not who they worked with or who they might send. They were certainly connected somehow, but what that connection might be, he had no idea.

Otets muttered curses under his breath in Russian. Then in English he said, “You tell Yuri you are messenger. Yuri tells me you are the CIA man. What am I to believe? You certainly do not look like I imagined Zero to be. Yet my idiot errand boy speaks one truth: the Iranians despise Americans. This does not look good for you. You tell me the truth, or I will shoot you in your kneecap.” He hefted the heavy pistol—a TIG Series Desert Eagle.

Reid lost his breath for a moment. It was a very large gun.

Give in , his mind prodded.

He wasn’t sure how to do that. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he did. The last time these new instincts took over, four men ended up dead, and he, quite literally, had blood on his hands. But there was no way out of this for him—that is, for Professor Reid Lawson. But Kent Steele, whoever that might be, might find a way. Maybe he didn’t know who he was, but it wouldn’t matter much if he didn’t survive long enough to find out.

Reid closed his eyes. He nodded once, a silent acquiescence to the voice in his head. His shoulders went slack and his fingers stopped trembling.

“I am waiting,” said Otets flatly.

“You wouldn’t want to shoot me,” Reid said. He was surprised to hear his own voice so calm and even. “A point-blank shot from that gun wouldn’t blow out my knee. It would sever my leg, and I’d bleed out on the floor of this office in seconds.”

Otets shrugged one shoulder. “What is it you Americans like to say? You cannot make omelet without—”

“I have the information you need,” Reid cut him off. “The sheikh’s location. What he gave me. Who I gave it to. I know all about your plot, and I’m not the only one.”

The corners of Otets’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Agent Zero.”

“I told you!” said Yuri. “I did well, yes?”

“Shut up,” Otets barked. Yuri shrank like a beaten dog. “Take him downstairs and get all of what he knows. Start by removing fingers. I don’t want to waste time.”

On any ordinary day, the threat of having his fingers cut off would have sent a shock of fear through Reid. His muscles tensed for a moment, the small hairs on the nape of his neck standing on end—but his new instinct fought against it and forced him to relax. Wait , it told him. Wait for an opportunity…

The bald goon nodded curtly and grabbed onto Reid’s arm again.

“Idiot!” Otets snapped. “Bind him first! Yuri, go to file cabinet. There should be something there.”

Yuri hurried to the three-drawer oak cabinet in the corner and rifled through it until he found a bundled length of coarse twine. “Here,” he said, and he tossed it to the bald brute.

All eyes instinctively moved skyward toward the bundle of twine spinning in the air—both goons, Yuri, and Otets.

But not Reid’s. He had a shot, and he took it.

He cupped his left hand and arced it upward at a sharp angle, striking the bald man’s windpipe with the meaty side of his palm. He felt the throat give beneath his hand.

As the first blow landed, he kicked out his left boot heel behind him and struck the bearded thug in the hip—the same hip the man had been favoring on the ride to Belgium.

A wet choking gasp escaped the bald man’s lips as his hands flew to his throat. The bearded brute grunted as his large body spun and collapsed.

Down!

The twine slapped the floor. So did Reid. In one motion he fell into a crouch and yanked the Glock from the bald man’s ankle holster. Without looking up, he leapt forward and tucked into a roll.

As soon as he jumped, a thunderous report tore across the small office, impossibly loud. The shot from the Desert Eagle left an impressive dent in the office’s steel door.

Reid came out of the roll only a few feet from Otets and propelled himself forward, toward him. Before Otets could pivot to aim, Reid grabbed his gun hand from underneath— never grab the top slide, that’s a good way to lose a finger —and pushed it up and away. The gun went off again, a piercing boom only a couple of feet from Reid’s head. His ears rang, but he ignored it. He twisted the gun down and to the side, keeping the barrel pointed away from him as he brought it to his hip—and Otets’s hand with it.