The Spy Devils by Joe Goldberg (top rated books of all time .TXT) 📕

“I will give his security goons credit. They at least sweep the car twice a day for trackers and bugs. But it isn’t enough. Not today. Not by a long shot.”

The 8 p.m. twilight cast long shadows across the ground as the setting sun cleared the horizon. The darkness they needed would be upon them shortly.

“Is there any reason that we just can’t pull this guy over, whomp him, and take the case without all this cloak and dagger stuff?” Demon asked over the comm system. He and Snake were following a few lengths behind Chapel’s dinner guest.

“Yes, there is a reason.” Bridger rolled his eyes at Peter, who was given his own comm for this op. “The answers are, I need to talk to them to get some important intel, and to satisfy my pure, unadulterated spite.”

“Well, okay. I like the spite part of the plan. We are five minutes out. Maybe ten, the way this guy drives. If he was going any slower, it would be yesterday.”

“Beatrice? Milton. Status?”

“Chapel just walked in and went into a small private dining room. The middle one on the right. His security guy is immediately outside, sitting at a table. And this steak is great.” Milton said from a booth inside.

“I recommend the salmon. It is perfect.” Beatrice was across from him.

“Imp? Wake up.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m ready to push the button.” Imp rose from the back seat. “I like steak, too.”

“We will drive through McDonald’s later and get you a happy meal, brat,” Beatrice said.

“We are here,” Snake alerted them.

Bridger and Peter watched a white early 2000s Chrysler Minivan pull into the Capital Grille lot and park near the entrance. A few seconds behind, Demon and Snake, in a Ford Explorer, rolled by the building and parked on the opposite side.

They watched Gilbert Street, Kirkwood Research Technologies leader, the ‘King of the Moles,’ walk from the van, past Chapel’s guard, and into the restaurant. He carried a large canvas duffel bag in his right hand.

“Oh Gilbert, let’s find out what May has done to you,” Bridger said, as he got out of the car and motioned for Peter to do the same. “Demon? Snake?”

“We are in position.”

“Beatrice?”

“The guy with the bag went into the room with Chapel. Guard still outside. The door is closed when the waiter isn’t there.”

“Large wooden door. Opaque glass. Window-framed.” Milton added.

“Now, Imp.”

Imp pushed a series of buttons on his computer. The vehicle security system of the Lincoln activated like fireworks on July 4th. The panic alarm blared as the interior and exterior lights flashed. Chapel’s driver jerked with surprise at the sight and sound. He ran toward the car, frantically pushing the control buttons on his key fob. As he reached for the front door handle, Imp cut the system off just as suddenly. The guard stopped.

He didn’t see Demon wave the Devil Stick in his face. The man’s body quivered and gagged as it fell against the side of the Lincoln. Unable to brace himself, he rolled like a raindrop down the side and hit the concrete curb with his face. Cracking, plinking, and grunt sounds indicated a broken nose, lost teeth, and unconsciousness.

Demon grinned at Snake. “Maybe we should have caught him?”

Snake shrugged.

They grabbed the unconscious man under his arms and locked him in the trunk.

“One in the trunk,” Snake announced.

Wearing a nice patterned gray blazer, white button-up shirt, and trendy casual jeans, Bridger walked into the restaurant to the sounds of Frank Sinatra. Peter followed.

Beatrice stood and walked toward the private room. The guard stood and blocked her way.

“I’m sorry,” she said, appearing startled. “I am looking for the ladies’ room?”

“Over there.” When he took his eyes off of her to point her in the right direction, she raised a mini-Devil Stick and let him have a small dose. She turned away as Bridger grabbed the man by the lapels—ignoring the pain in his wrist—and guided him through the swinging doors into the private dining room.

Peter held the door open, then let it swing closed. Bridger pushed the man into the room and let him fall to the carpeted floor like a tree, making sure he didn’t hit any of the four tables on the way down.

Chapel sat at a table in the corner, his back to the wall. Gilbert was seated to his left.

“Hi, guys. Mind if we join you?”

57

A Delicious Ruffino Chianti

Lombard, Illinois

“Bridger. Peter. This is a surprise. I will be honest.” Chapel’s face remained impassive. He looked at his comatose guard on the floor, then to the door. Bridger shook his head. “The rest of my men?”

“None of your goons will be coming to your rescue.”

Bridger pulled out the wood and green leather chair and sat across from Chapel. Peter took the remaining seat across from Gilbert, whose face furrowed with confusion.

“Hi Gilbert,” Peter said.

“Yes, hello, Gilbert,” Bridger said. “Heard any good jokes lately?”

“Peter? Arnie? Arnie Palmer?” Gilbert was confused.

Chapel looked at Bridger with a raised eyebrow. Bridger shrugged.

Gilbert was teetering between shock and panic. He gripped the armrests like he was on a rollercoaster and began to stand.

“Gilbert. Hang around for a minute.” Bridger gingerly raised his hand in a stop sign. “We are starving.” Bridger looked at Peter, then Chapel. “Did you order?”

The door swung open, and a pear-shaped waiter, carrying a bottle of red wine, walked in. He gasped and froze when he saw the body on the floor.

“Charles! Over here. It is good to see you again. What are we drinking?”

Charles stepped by the prone man and approached the table. “A beautiful red wine a—”

“—a delicious Ruffino Chianti,” Chapel added, trying to regain control of the situation.

Bridger reached into his blazer pocket and handed Charles an envelope.

“Here is the rest I owe you, Charles, and twice that for any unexpected residual effects. Get something for your wife, Dolores. Please give her my regards and that I hope we can meet soon. If you could uncork that delicious wine, then leave us to complete