Seeing Red (Gareth Red Thrillers Book 1) Page 2

  Gleeson handed Gareth the papers, and he flipped through them. He frowned. “I don’t even know who this guy is.”

  “He’s retired. It’s not an active-duty assignment.”

  “I thought you didn’t read the papers?”

  “I read the Wikipedia article, Red. This guy’s a major executive now in a Fortune 1,000 company. Pretty big deal, I’d guess.”

  As Gareth skimmed the first page, he kept up his line of questioning. “Must be a pretty big deal if he’s got the swagger to pull me off a training excursion.”

  “It’s a favor, I’m sure. This guy’s track record implies that he’s able to call in a few favors every now and then.”

  3

  THE FLIGHT TO AMSTERDAM WAS uneventful, which was disappointing to Gareth. He’d always imagined Amsterdam as a place of sinful fun, of never-ending delights of any particular brand and flavor.

  So it was disappointing that the flight itself was rather boring, as he had assumed that a private plane ride from the sticks all the way to Amsterdam, Netherlands, would at least include a small taste of what he might expect upon landing.

  But it was not so — Gareth had buckled his seat belt, dozed off, and awoke somewhere over the Atlantic, nothing but blue skies and cloud cover — and a lot of water — outside. Inside was hardly better. The flight attendant who’d offered him a drink barely seemed to notice him, and even though he’d put on his best ‘single guy on vacation’ smile, she was more interested in whatever was on her phone’s screen than him.

  So when they finally landed, Gareth was excited to not only stretch his legs, but to begin enjoying the European pleasure city. He’d heard much about it, and he'd often fantasized about traipsing around the city and experiencing it all first hand.

  The military got in the way, and even though he enjoyed his career — an extremely capable Army sniper, quickly rising through the ranks — it was a shame that he traveled so much less often than his recruiters had bragged about. He was far from a salty sea dog or a mysterious world traveler, and he was lucky to have even visited most of America’s larger cities.

  Gareth wanted more out of life than shooting at fake targets and moving from one desert to the next, spending his little free time with competitive military brats and special forces goons. He like most of the men he served with, but it was more out of mutual respect for his countrymen than an actual friendly companionship.

  Amsterdam was out there, and he wanted to conquer it. He had always had a flair for history, and even considered giving up his rifle and trading it in for the tassels of a tenured professor. But he had no connections, no professional academic training, and no idea where in the world he’d ever want to ‘settle down.’ If teaching didn’t involve teaching as much as researching and reading — and exploring — he might have just gone through with it.

  But here he was, serving another unknown master in an unknown city. This master was markedly different than any military commander or ranking officer he’d ever met, and he hadn’t even met the guy yet.

  But no American military officer he’d ever heard of would fly a young gun like Gareth across the pond in a private Learjet, offer him drinks, and expect him to comply without so much as a question about his mission.

  And to Gareth, that meant only one thing: the person on the other end of this order was not military.

  He stretched his arms up and over his head, looking left and right as he touched the tarmac at Schiphol and started walking.

  He wasn’t sure where to walk, but toward the main building that sprawled out in front of him and the plane seemed like an optimum choice.

  Who am I looking for? he wondered. Will they have one of those signs?

  Gareth reached the building and found the answer.

  A sign, but no one holding it.

  Red, G.

  Nothing more.

  He walked toward it, once again looking around. The sign had been set up on a chair and put outside the main entrance to the airport’s terminal, but there was no one around. Since no one had exited the plane with him, he was completely alone.

  The runways and tarmacs behind him and the bustling building in front of him caused an eerie juxtaposition — he’d never been alone outside an airport of any sort before. Usually there were at least servicemen and women bustling about, working on this or that, fueling the planes that were preparing to taxi for takeoff. The military bases he’d flown to — and he’d flown to plenty — were also abundantly staffed. Crews raced around, competing with one another in intra-staff games and personal bests, all doing the jobs they’d been assigned to after boot camp.

  But here was different. There were a few planes descending toward their runways, but they were still far off in the distance, and he could hardly hear them. No one ran around, no one raced toward a jug of fuel or drove a lumbering luggage cart.

  The chair, the sign, and Gareth were all alone.

  He picked up the sign, a simple folded piece of card stock that had been hung over the back of the chair. The letters were scrawled in permanent marker, the handwriting clean and clear, as if care had been taken to spell each word properly.

  And there were hardly even two words. Red, G.

  Gareth Red. The sign was meant for him, of that he was sure.

  He lifted it closer to his eye, but there was nothing else useful on the otherwise plain-white stock.

  He was about to place it back over the chair when he noticed that the chair’s back had a sticky note on it. He grabbed it, peeling it from the red plastic and setting the sign on the seat of the chair.

  Meet at 1800 hours. An address was scrawled in permanent marker below it. He read it, checked the address on his phone, and stuffed the note into his back pocket.

  Gareth smiled. No, this is definitely not a military operation.

  4

  1800 HOURS CAME QUICKLY — GARETH hardly had enough time to change and look for a cheap motel after the flight. His benefactors had splurged on the flight, but had failed to set him up with a place to stay.

  He was positive that meant he wouldn’t be staying, so he walked the blocks around the airport for an hour, got a bite to eat, and noticed that there quite a few ‘vacancy’ signs around. If he did in fact have to stay the night in town, he’d be fine.

  He carried no wallet, just a pad of US dollars he kept folded and inside his back-left pocket. Two hundreds, a few twenties. Easy enough in just about any country in the world to get change or exchange it for the local currency.

  He chose a decent-looking Thai place down the street from the airport’s front entrance, one surrounded by hotels and seemingly busy enough to be worthy of attention. The food was decent, the price was great, and he felt satisfied after.

  He made it to the rendezvous point at 1755, as he’d planned, and waited on a folding chair in what he could only describe as the lobby. Dimly lit from one bulb hanging from the ceiling, the orange glow splashing the already dirty room in dirtier, musty light.

  No one came or went, and he began to wonder if he was even in the right spot.

  Two minutes before the meeting was scheduled, a door opened on the other side of the room and a man stepped out. He opened his arm wide, beckoning Gareth inside.

  Gareth shrugged, then stood up and walked over. The man didn’t speak, and Gareth took the hint and followed suit. He reached the door, waited for the man to open it wider, then stepped through.

  The room inside was barely different than the lobby, but it was smaller. A similar orange bulb hung from a chain, and a card table sat in the center of the room, three chairs spread around it.

  Gareth waited, but the man offered no instructions. He looked at Gareth, sizing him up, but offered nothing.

  “Y — you my guy?” Gareth asked.

  The man didn’t respond.

  “Look, pal, I flew a long way to —”

  “Mr. Donahue will be in a moment,” the man finally said. His voice was raspy, overused and overworked. Gareth immediately
decided to not ask him any more questions, fearing that he might have to hear the man’s wretched voice again.

  “Well, I’ll just…” Gareth made his way over to the center chair at the table, pulled it out, and sat down. “I’ll just wait here, then. You know how long he’ll be?”

  He winced when he realized he’d just asked another question, but thankfully the man — his host — didn’t speak. He simply shook his head, then turned and walked out of the room.

  The heavy metal door slammed behind him, and Gareth suddenly realized he had no idea what he had just walked into. Not only was this clearly not a military operation, it didn’t even appear to be sanctioned by any well-meaning group.

  Who sends for a man they’ve never met with a private jet, then doesn’t even meet them at the airport? Or get them a car, or a room?

  He didn’t have much to look at in the room while he waited, but he didn’t have to wait long.

  The door opened, slowly, revealing a creak that hadn’t been present before. Another man stepped in, followed by the first man he’d met.

  “Welcome, Gareth,” the man said. “My name is Mr. Donahue. I see you’ve met my associate, Mr. Kroenke.”

  “Uh, yeah… ‘met’ is probably a bit strong of a word, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Kroenke.”

  Without hesitation, Mr. Kroenke strolled over to the table, leaned over it, and held out his right hand. Gareth shook it hesitantly. It was moist with sweat, flimsy like a sapling, and generally the most non-militaristic thing he’d ever experienced.

  Gareth smiled. “You guys aren’t, uh, military.”

  Donahue shook his head. “And as far as this operation is concerned, neither are you.”

  Gareth’s smile fell into a frown. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not here to do any of your dirty work, boys.”

  Donahue’s face remained completely devoid of expression. “That’s not why we’ve engaged your services, Mr. Red. We simply mean to remind you that we are not interested in following a prescribed set of governing policies.”

  “You don’t have any rules of engagement. Or accountability.”

  “We don’t have any dictated oversight, if that’s what you mean. Yes.”

  “Than I’m not interested.”

  “Mr. Red, my associate tells me you are the man for the job. He tells me you aren’t a rule follower, necessarily, so I’m intrigued by your lack of desire to have little oversight in this operation.”

  Gareth reached up and squeezed at the area above his nose. “Okay, hey. Slow down. First, you haven’t told me anything about this operation. Second, have you been following me? Watching me?”

  Donahue raised a hand, as if trying to calm a belligerent child. “No, Mr. Red. We haven’t been watching you. But we’ve been reading reports of you and your team members from —”

  “From camp? You’ve been spying on the confidential documents from the training facility I’ve been —”

  “We’ve been reading the reports, as they’ve been handed to us, Mr. Red.” He stopped, cleared his throat, then continued. “Mr. Red, I apologize for the location of this meeting today. I believe in strong first impressions, and I can only infer from your disinterest that our unfortunately drab locale has confused you.”

  “I’m not confused about anything,” Gareth said, “except why I’m here. Yeah, this place sucks. It’s dark, and wet, and it stinks. Did you know it stinks? Well it stinks. Kinda like fish, but not as strong as — oh! You know what? It’s not fish, it’s like fish that used to be here, but then coffee came along, and got old, and stale, and wet, and then —”

  “Mr. Red,” Donahue said, raising his voice a notch. “I apologize, again, for our surroundings. It’s not ideal, but it is a necessity. We must act quickly, and we must do so under the most inauspicious circumstances.”

  Gareth looked at both of them, the Men in Black, wondering what the hell this was all about. And who talks like that?

  “What’s the mission, then?” Gareth asked. “Let’s get down to brass tacks.”

  “Details are quite simple. We would like to buy your time, for a project that we believe will begin the moment you walk out this door and end the moment you walk back in, two weeks from now.”

  “Two weeks.” Gareth whistled. “Not a lot of time for anything but picking up laundry. Am I picking up laundry.”

  Donahue glanced at his subordinate, Kroenke, and Gareth thought he saw the faintest telling of a smile. “Actually, yes. There is a laundromat down the block. Only one in the area, so you can’t miss it. You have an order waiting there, and the ticket is with Mr. Kroenke. He’ll get it for you after we’re done here.”

  “Okay, so far so good. I’m pretty sure I can handle that.”

  Strangely enough, Gareth had the sudden feeling of confusion, as he had never actually cleaned his clothes at a laundromat. He wondered if he could, in fact, handle that.

  “Once you have your items, there will be more instructions found within, including a plane ticket. Unfortunately, this time it will be coach, and it will not be like any western-based airline. I apologize, again, for the inconvenience.”

  “Fine,” Gareth said. “What next? What am I actually doing?”

  Donahue looked over at Kroenke, whose wide eyes and slight shrug told Gareth everything he needed to know.

  “You haven’t been briefed on that, Mr. Red?”

  Gareth was shocked. “Uh, no. Not exactly. I was told to come here, then I saw a chair with a sign on it at the airport, and now I’m here.”

  Donahue took this in, rolled back on his feet, then looked down at Gareth. “Well, in that case, the job is simple. We are going to pay you one million US dollars that will be wire transferred to a bank set up in your name in the Cayman Islands.”

  A lot of money, Gareth thought, and in a way, that’s more discreet. No tax burden on that, really.

  “That’s a good amount of money. We negotiating now?”

  “No.”

  “Fair enough. What am I supposed to do to get this money?”

  “Mr. Red, we’d like you to find someone.”

  5

  ANOTHER PLANE. ANOTHER CHANGE OF clothes. And now another scotch.

  He’d already had two, but since the flight was hours long, he figured he’d have plenty of time for the liquor to wear off. Besides, this was his operation now.

  He’d accepted the money, of course. Once they’d explained what the situation was, he’d signed on the dotted line and given them his consent for the first half of the million dollars to be wired to the offshore account. He still didn’t have access to that account, but that wasn’t an issue.

  Gareth knew enough about these sort of transactions, mostly through rumblings about them from his father, that the men who set them up typically liked to keep their cards close to their chest for as long as possible. No one liked to get stood up, and guys playing around with a lot of someone else’s money were no exception.

  Gareth thought back to the conversations he’d had with his father, a career Navy Seal who was now retired from the military and working as an amateur sleuth. ‘Amateur’ in that he specifically tried to keep his name unknown to the outside world, even though he was very much a professional.

  His father would have been perfect for this mission, Gareth knew. He would know what to do, when to do it, and he would have even been able to negotiate a higher payout from the grunts he’d talked to earlier.

  But his father wasn’t here, and he wouldn’t be. They’d made that clear — Gareth was alone on this. The types of clients his father worked for could easily be considered a conflict of interest.

  A major conflict of interest.

  So Gareth was told that he was to keep his father and anyone else out of this matter. They’d chosen Gareth because of his knowledge with these situation, in no small part due to who his father was, but they’d also made it clear that he was to operate alone.

  He sipped on the scotch, a cheap Islay that tasted peatier than he p
referred. In truth, he preferred most other whiskeys besides scotch — Irish, American, and especially bourbon. He let the cold elixir slide down his throat and looked out the window as he thought again about his plan.

  He couldn’t call in a favor from his old man, and he couldn’t even call him to update him on his location. Gareth had been pulled out of training and active duty thanks to a very high-powered brass hand, and he’d been given a choice: find the guy they all wanted and earn a million bucks, or don’t find anyone, go back to training, and never speak of it again. They’d used the term ‘find,’ but Gareth knew what it really meant. You don’t get stuffed into a tiny, dingy room with a single yellowish bulb hanging from the ceiling and get told to ‘find a guy’ just because they lost him.

  They wanted him to find their guy, and then kill him.

  He’d initially recoiled at the thought of becoming an assassin, and he was prepared to choose the simpler path and walk out of the dank room forever, but he had at least wanted to know a bit about the person they were after. He could find them, then decide later whether or not he would kill them. He’d done it before, more than once. He was a sniper after all, and one of his specialties was working alone — seeking out a high-powered mark and taking them out from a distance, moving silently through the environment without a chance of being seen.

  Gareth quickly learned that they didn’t exactly know who it was they needed to find, but they knew that it was someone. This particular threat was making a fool of some high-powered banker types, including the men who had hired Gareth. They told him he could learn more, and even speak to their boss to get the details, but they’d need a confirmation from him. They’d asked that he consider taking this flight, if for no other reason than to clear his head and consider the offer once more. If he wanted, he could pick up the phone they’d given him, dial the number, and find out the sensitive details.

  It sounded like a huge gamble for both sides, but once again his father’s words came to mind. ‘The good guys are always just as careful as the bad guys, but they’ll usually give you just enough information to make a good decision.’