Field Agent Read online

  Field Agent

  Eric Swan Thriller #4

  Dom Testa

  Profound Impact Group, LLC

  Join the Swaniverse - Get free stuff

  Eric Swan is

  The Spy Who Can Never Die

  With each new tale you’ll learn a little more about Q2’s super spy, Eric Swan.

  If you’d like to be among the first to learn of each new adventure before they’re published, just let me know where to find you.

  As a thank you for joining the Swaniverse, you’ll be treated to a free Eric Swan short story, along with other bonus treats.

  It’s simple: Follow this link, or just go to EricSwan.com.

  Thanks, and happy reading.

  Dom Testa

  More Eric Swan adventures from Dom Testa

  Power Trip: Eric Swan Thriller #1

  Swan takes on diabolical twins determined to bring down the power grid. If he fails, the country will slip into a dark age of chaos and anarchy.

  Poison Control: Eric Swan Thriller #2

  A treacherous madman is intent on poisoning the water supply. Swan must outsmart this rogue scholar before he can release his apocalyptic toxin.

  God Maker: Eric Swan Thriller #3

  Agent One has resurfaced, and he’s kidnapped the mother of Q2’s investment technology. Swan must not only battle this psychotic killer, but come to grips with his own fears.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Join the Swaniverse - Get free stuff

  More Eric Swan adventures from Dom Testa

  Reviews matter. They really do.

  1

  The intoxicating scents reached all the way to the parking lot. With a window down they began the assault before we’d even finished parking the car, which seemed unfair. It was a psychological ploy, predicated on natural human weaknesses, no different than movie theaters walloping you with the overpowering aroma of buttered popcorn the second you walked in the door.

  In this case it wasn’t a theater, but a farmers market on a sunny Saturday morning. I used to be fooled by the name, conjuring up notions of wall-to-wall healthy food choices, straight from the soil to my pantry. If that had been the original intent, then evil forces had somehow snaked their way in, until now every third booth promised sugary or chocolatey delights.

  And I loved every one of them. After six weeks of convalescence, they provided a strong enticement to leave the house and join my wife as she did a bit of shopping.

  Christina hadn’t come right out and said it, but she was ready to get rid of me. Not permanently; just back to work. I, on the other hand, not only hadn’t decided if I was ready yet, but couldn’t say for sure I even wanted to keep my old job.

  For a spy and assassin, down time can have one particularly strong drawback. Hours spent off the clock run the risk of becoming hours spent analyzing the past. In this case, my mind had hovered over the image of the last man I’d killed. Edwin Bolt, a large, brutish man, had been merely a pawn in another criminal’s game. Now, weeks later, I reflected on the possibility of the late Mr. Bolt being the last kill of my career.

  How many had I racked up over the years? On one hand I was ashamed to say I didn’t know, because a cavalier attitude over the taking of human life would normally be associated with sociopathic behavior. On the other hand, I’d dispatched every one of them—including burying a butcher knife into the eye of Edwin Bolt—because my government paid me to do so. Besides, they all had it coming.

  I don’t enjoy ruminating over dead criminals left in my wake, especially on such a pleasant day. But because my status as a field agent for Q2 had been murky at best since leaving the hospital, I guess you could say I’d been pensive. If I was indeed retired from the service, I would’ve liked my final kill to have been someone substantial in the criminal underworld. A big shot. A boss. Someone on a par with great fictional villains like The Joker, Doctor Doom, or Loki. Hell, how cool would it be to have a guy like Hans Gruber take my final bullet?

  Instead, could I have closed out my illustrious crime-fighting career with the dimwitted Edwin Bolt? The only thing substantial about him had been his girth.

  And yet perhaps that was exactly the way it should end. Offing a notable mastermind might only inflate my sense of heroic purpose, driving me onward to save the world again and again. With Edwin Bolt as my final act, the curtain could close and the play could quietly end. Yes, maybe it was time I quit killing people for the government. The bullet wound had mended; theoretically my psyche would heal with time.

  For the moment, however, I pushed these heavy thoughts aside.

  Christina and I strolled through the farmers market entrance to face an onslaught of people. The gorgeous weather had induced a thousand fellow shoppers to the large, open air bazaar, intent on finding seasonal produce and maybe a good deal on candles, jewelry, or homemade jam. The first tent to lure us in offered a variety of interesting salsas, which we sampled with small tortilla chips. They were incredible, and I said so to the woman behind the table.

  “Thank you,” she said, beaming. “I tweaked my mother’s recipe.” She lowered her voice. “She hates it, because it’s not traditional, you know? I told her, you can’t expect your children to always follow in your footsteps.”

  “So true.”

  The woman indicated Christina’s pregnant belly. “Do you think your son or daughter will want to do what you do?”

  I looked from Christina’s stomach back to the lady. “Oh, that’s not mine.”

  After we’d moved on, Christina said, “That will never get old for you, will it?”

  “Never. Although I would’ve enjoyed the look on her face if I’d said, Yes, I’m really hoping my daughter becomes a paid assassin.”

  She laughed. “I’ve got to pick up some things that will only bore you. Why don’t you go wander around by yourself for a bit. Don’t shoot anyone, babe.”

  “Not even packing,” I said, patting my pockets. I gave her a kiss and watched her move on to a vendor selling spices. Turning a full 360 degrees, I looked for anything interesting. Then I caught a whiff of something that had to be bad for you. I went on the hunt.

  They turned out to be bourbon-roasted nuts. I mean, come on; they could charge any amount they wanted and I’d pull a muscle reaching for my wallet.

  For the next ten minutes I drifted, weaving through a sea of people, dogs, and strollers. As an introvert that sort of crowd usually overloaded my senses. But after so much time cooped up, for now I didn’t mind. The fresh air felt good and the people-watching was first-rate. Besides, I had my nuts to distract me. The day couldn’t have started better.

  Which is, of course, when things generally go to shit.

  It began with the sound of a police siren, increasing in pitch and volume as it got closer. But a siren wasn’t unusual, especially in D.C., so the farmers market crowd didn’t look up.

  Until a car—the object of the police chase, it turne
d out—roared into the vicinity. The dipshit driving it probably didn’t count on so much traffic clustered in one place, and everyone was jolted to attention by the sound of a loud crash. Every person there must’ve immediately groaned, wondering if it was their car that had suffered the direct hit. Anxious to investigate, we all poked our heads up like the little rodents in a Whac-A-Mole game.

  We needn’t have bothered; the action came directly toward us.

  Two men, now on foot following their crash, sprinted to the entrance, shoving people out of the way. An old man went flying, a couple of children went down and began wailing, and a general cry of alarm spread through the crowd like a virus. In situations like that people will generally move, even without a plan, so in a heartbeat the farmers market devolved into pure chaos, punctuated by the scream of the police siren as it arrived on the scene.

  But the two perps were way ahead, and if they could maneuver through the horde, would likely escape. I watched them approach and noticed they got separated by the natural swirling eddies of crowd movement. One of them, a young man I gathered to be about 22, was heading right for me. He yelled to his buddy, with what sounded like “Dale.” It might’ve been “Hale,” or “Dell.” And, in his haste, he shoved an older woman to the ground, eliciting a startled outburst from the people nearby. It didn’t sit too well with me, either.

  So as soon as he was close I laid into him with a shoulder. Seemed like the right call for an asshole like that. It was a solid block, and the only thing keeping him on his feet was the throng of people around us. Wide-eyed, and perhaps shocked that anyone dared to impede his exit, he charged at me, one arm rising to inflict damage on my skull.

  I might’ve been sitting on my ass for six weeks, but years of training, including several in the employ of covert special ops programs, is like riding the proverbial bike. With two punches I dropped him, and this time the people around us cleared a space for him to hit the pavement. He wasn’t out, but he was thoroughly dazed.

  Two strapping young men stood nearby, as out of place at a farmers market as I was. “Do me a favor,” I said. “Sit on this guy until the police get here. If he struggles, make him uncomfortable.” They enthusiastically agreed.

  Now I turned my attention to the other guy, who was older than his partner-in-crime. Dale, or whatever his name was, looked to be in his mid-30s, and carried the aura of someone who’d spent a lifetime being as bad as he could. He’d stopped running and now looked around for his buddy. I moved toward him, but before I could say anything the lone police officer who’d been in pursuit ran up, his weapon drawn. So Dale drew his own gun.

  “Shit,” I muttered. In situations like this someone often took a bullet, even if accidentally. Too many times it had been me. All I knew at the moment was that some dick named Dale was waving a gun around in a crowd of people that included my pregnant wife.

  I stepped closer.

  Dale and the cop made eye contact, and both raised their weapon. The cop yelled for the creep to drop his. But instead Dale fired. A hole sprouted in the cop’s left leg and he went down.

  Now the crowd’s tension turned to absolute pandemonium. Some people dropped to the pavement, others tried bolting to safety, which was made more difficult by the dozens of people now lying on the ground. Screams filled the air.

  Dale glanced around again for his partner, but couldn’t spot him, probably because the guy currently rested beneath a couple of college beasts.

  I wanted to make my move, but caution is always advised when approaching someone who’s not afraid to shoot a cop. I’d closed within five feet when he whirled and saw me.

  “What do you want, asshole?” he yelled, pointing the gun at my face.

  I put up my hands, one still clutching the paper container of bourbon nuts, in the international sign of I don’t want any trouble. From somewhere in the crowd I heard Christina’s voice cry out, “Swan!” There was panic in her voice. Well, she’d never before seen me at work.

  “I said what do you want?” Dale said, waving the gun, as if that somehow made it more menacing.

  “I just don’t want anyone else hurt,” I said, my voice calm.

  “Well take another step and you’ll see hurt.”

  I stopped, my hands still raised, but by then I was within what I considered a semi-reasonable distance. Part of my brain calculated the next move, while another part chuckled over the phrase you’ll see hurt.

  Dumbass.

  The hysteria of the crowd was bound to distract him sooner rather than later, and it did. As he looked back toward the cop, I shot my right foot out and up, connecting with his wrist, sending the gun flying. In the next moment I lunged toward him and, reluctantly dropping the nuts, landed a blow.

  But this guy was big and certainly not ready to give up the fight. He was the kind who hit back.

  We exchanged a couple of shots before he stepped back and brought out his next weapon. This time it was a knife.

  “Christ,” I said. “You’re a goddamned walking arsenal.”

  I don’t think he was used to opponents chatting him up. He took a swipe, and I managed to lean out of the way.

  In my long experience of combat, having something to counteract the other guy’s weapon is preferable to just using your hands and feet. A gun defeats a fist, and a knife has no respect for feet. I had nothing at my disposal at all.

  But wait. I did. Beside me sat a vendor’s table, stacked high with enormous zucchini and butternut squash. Hey, at least it was something. I grabbed one of the larger squashes just in time because he came in with another swing of his knife. I ducked that one and sidestepped another. When his next attempt was a slashing movement from top right to bottom left, I threw up my defensive tool and heard a loud thunk as the blade lodged in the vegetable. Without hesitating another second, I landed a kick to his gut which caused him to hunch over. Then, two quick blows with my free hand put him on his knees. From there it was a matter of one solid kick to his jaw.

  Dale went down on his stomach.

  I looked up. My left hand still held the squash aloft, the knife sticking out of it.

  Before I knew what was happening, the crowd broke into thunderous cheering and applause. Two other police officers, just arriving on the scene, rushed up. One grabbed me, the other knelt over Dale. People in the crowd were still going out of their minds from the free matinee to which they’d been treated.

  I told the police officer I was off-duty FBI, offered to show the ID I kept in my wallet, and also pointed out the second perp being detained by Joe and Jack College.

  A moment later I turned around to find Christina standing beside me. “Oh, hey, babe,” I said. “See? I didn’t shoot anyone.”

  She shook her head and crossed her arms. “So now will you please go back to work?”

  2

  The way I looked at it, I never quit my job. I expressed extreme dissatisfaction, I let the boss know I was disillusioned, and the whole Q2 operation had left me disenchanted. And no doubt all of that could’ve led to me being disowned and the government disavowing my participation.

  That’s a lot of dis. But the words I quit or You’re fired were never uttered. Quanta shook my hand the last time we spoke, and left me with the words Let me know what you decide to do. So I assumed I still had a job if I wanted it. The question was: Did I still want it?

  Six weeks after taking a bullet from the organization’s black sheep, a rogue agent named Butler, I still wasn’t sure. But my little farmers market fiasco was rather eye-opening; I’d reacted on pure instinct, and that instinct was to take down shitheads. Whether they were trying to poison the entire country or simply wreak havoc in a Washington market, the response was the same. It was natural to me now. It’s what I did.

  Really, it’s what I was. And a big part of me hated that. But although it’s often easy to lie to others, it’s damned hard to bullshit yourself. I’d probably been born with the gene to do the work, but years of Q2 training had driven it home.
r />   So now I sat in my car, parked outside a home in a tranquil suburb of D.C., and prepared myself for an awkward meeting. For years these meetings with Quanta had begun with a significant workout, one that generally ended with me holding an ice pack to some part of my face or body. Today it would be all talk.

  Her response to my text requesting a chat had been typical Quanta: Tomorrow, 11 a.m.

  It was 10:58. There was no way I was going to play an amateur card by showing up late to make a statement. The statement was me walking in the door at all.

  “Hello, Swan,” she said. She sat at the round table in her kitchen, where we always discussed upcoming cases. As usual I’d just walked in. She had a glass on the table for me, filled with something pink.

  “Quanta,” I said in return, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

  “Your timing is impeccable,” she said.

  “You said eleven. It’s eleven.”

  “No, I mean the timing of your text yesterday. I have a case for you.”

  I stared back. She obviously wasn’t going to talk about what had happened, what I’d done for the last few weeks, or whether or not I even wanted to come back to work. I glanced down and saw the usual manilla folder sitting between us.

  I didn’t know whether to be insulted that she automatically assumed I wanted to dive back in, or if I should be flattered that she couldn’t live without me.