The American Agent (An American Agent Novel Book 1) Read online

  "You're catching on quick. Good." Washington edged closer to the screen. "Your contact has never met you before, so he'll ask you who you are. The correct response will be, The American Agent. If you give any other answer, you won't be around for the next mission. Understood?"

  "Perfectly." Alex's lips tightened into a thin line.

  "I'm sending you an encrypted email containing classified profiles on Alfred Coraco and the people closest to him. It'll tell you everything you need to know. And, next weekend, Coraco is hosting a party to display his extravagant art collection at his mansion in Marbella. We're in the process of booking your invitation as a guest under your new identity, Alex Preston, the wealthy owner of Preston Enterprises, an organization devoted to preserving wildlife on the land, in the sea, and in the air...with sponsors worldwide."

  Alex recalled memories of deep sea fishing and hunting with his father. Not exactly preserving wildlife, but he was all for the idea. It seemed like a noble cause.

  "Use your cover to get in," Washington said, "then obtain as much information as possible. Your plane is set to leave tomorrow at 0600. Take only your passport, clothes, and laptop. You'll get everything else you require once you get there. Is that clear?"

  "Crystal."

  "Good. I'll check back when your invitation for the party is secured, hopefully soon."

  Washington severed the connection, leaving Alex once again gazing at a black screen.

  He attempted to suppress a chuckle, but it escaped his lips nonetheless. “Guess it's time to pack.”

  10

  MALAGA, SPAIN

  After an intercontinental flight over the Atlantic Ocean, Alex disembarked from the plane as the stars began to twinkle over the southern coastal region of Spain. The Malaga International Airport had a rental car waiting when he left the 747 jumbo jet, first class all the way, relaxing in a plush leather seat and an ultra-high definition inflight movie...the most recent release of Tarzan.

  He selected that movie in particular because the actress who portrayed Jane reminded him of Samantha in many ways. Soft. Lovely. And daring...with sandy blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Obviously, he still held a subconscious longing for his ex-fiancée. Something he'd have to get over. The fact he stood her up on their lunch date that day when Agent Reed and Agent Wilson abducted him, blew his chances of reigniting the old flame. Probably for the better, given his new line of work. He was dead to her anyway.

  Alex slung his suitcase in the cramped backseat of the Fiat rental and started the short trip to Marbella. The drive along the coastal motorway N340 was a straight shot. A deep displeasure brewed as he thought about pulling up to Alfred Coraco's ritzy art party in the economy line vehicle.

  More than an hour later, he entered the seaport city of Marbella, studded with mountains, marinas, resorts, and beaches. On one side, a wave of villas dotted the rolling hillside with interior lights aglow, and on the seaward side, an intoxicating full moon hung over the glassy calm of the Mediterranean.

  Washington provided directions to the safe house, a Spanish villa with a red ceramic shingle roof, facing the sea.

  Alex turned into the narrow driveway and parked.

  Jet lag left his body fatigued and in desperate need of sleep as he wheeled his luggage to the front door. As instructed, he found the key under the mat, which made his head wag in disbelief. Far too obvious of a hiding place for a secret agent.

  A second later, he opened the door to a dark and quiet house.

  An email from Washington included information on Coraco's mistress named, Carmen Sanchez. Alex's orders were to make contact with her at the party and see what he could pry out of her.

  In addition, he'd studied Coraco's classified profile on the plane. The wealthy tycoon's father was from Greece and his mother from England. They married and moved to Spain, where Coraco was born. Because of an abusive alcoholic father, his mother fled, leaving young Alfred in a not so ideal situation...raised alone with a drunkard who liked to hit kids.

  Five minutes after eight local time, Alex shut the door behind him and locked it. He dropped his luggage in the foyer, lumbered into the living room, and collapsed on the couch, whereupon he drifted fast asleep. The last thoughts he had before closing his eyes centered around one baffling question. What was Alfred Coraco doing messing around with the likes of Hakeem Raziz and a terror group known as The Crescent Moon? Aside from an affinity for white business suits, the billionaire seemed to have a dark side that needed to be brought to light.

  11

  MARBELLA, SPAIN

  A car door slammed shut and shook Alex from slumber. He jolted from the couch and rushed to the window, brushed aside the curtains. Not a car in sight. His gaze meandered across the street, down a steep hill to the harbor where a cluster of lights illuminated a line of boats tied to the pier.

  Nothing stirred.

  A glance at his watch told him it was after midnight.

  Before long, his zombified body carried him toward the master bedroom, the fog of jet lag clouding his eyes and the rest of his senses.

  A bang on the door froze him mid-step.

  Alex turned around and crept into the foyer, his socks gliding over the porcelain tile. He pressed his eye against the peephole. On the other side of the door, a man stood with thin receding hair and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

  Alex cracked open the door, but left the chain latched. "Who are you?"

  The man stared back through the three inch gap. "The question is...who are you?"

  The answer hovered on the tip of Alex's tongue. He glanced down as the man's hand disappeared into his business jacket, and eased back, freezing under the navy blue fabric. Whatever he gripped remained hidden from view, only the fair skin of his wrist visible around the cuff of his sleeve.

  "Patience is not a virtue I possess at the moment, so I would advise you to answer my question with the utmost care."

  "The American Agent," Alex blurted. "Who are you?"

  "If you'd open the door, please, I'd be happy to tell you."

  "If you don't let me see your hands, in particular, the one holding the gun under your jacket, I'll be forced to shoot you through the door."

  "You're bluffing. You left your Glock 17 at home attached to your nightstand in a quick release holster."

  "Maybe?" Alex's lips creased into a thin smile. "Maybe not?"

  "Have it your way then." The man held both hands up for him to see. "I'm your contact, the Weapons and Equipment Specialist. You can call me, Wes."

  Alex unchained the latch and stepped aside for him to enter. "That name suits you."

  As the man entered, carrying a black briefcase, Alex flipped a light switch on to get a better view of the mysterious fourth person. The man took a seat on the couch and placed the case on a glass coffee table. He wasn't much to look at, about five foot nine, a hundred-fifty pounds, but he had nice taste in business attire, including shiny black shoes. Behind a gray tie and the metal rim glasses, he sized Alex up.

  "The name is an abbreviation. Weapons and Equipment Specialist, W.E.S., Wes."

  "I don't really care. I can guess how these things work. But I have to admit, I expected the mysterious fourth person to be a bit more...dangerous."

  "Looks can be deceiving. One does not have to look deadly to be deadly." Wes opened his jacket to reveal a Colt 45 pistol holstered under his arm.

  Alex swallowed a lump in his throat. If he'd known Wes was packing that much heat, he would’ve second guessed his bluff at the door a few minutes ago.

  "What's in the case? Anything high tech?"

  "This is not the movies, Mr. Preston," Wes said, calm and gathered, addressing Alex by his new identity. His thumbs popped the latches. "There are no walking cane guns or laser shooting watches, no fantasy gadgets, just the real deal necessities, if you will."

  "Uh-huh."

  "I hope you’re not disappointed. I supply the weapons and equipment you'll need out in the field." Wes opened the case and withdrew
the first item. "It's getting late, so I'll be brief...this is a—”

  "Bow tie?"

  "More than that really. In the center is a small camera lens, covered by a porous and extra thin cloth. With it positioned around your neck, we’ll see everything you see. Wear it to the party." Wes set the item on the coffee table.

  "What else you got?" Alex stifled a yawn.

  Wes rolled his eyes. "A set of cuff links embedded with a pair of tiny bugs. With these, we'll hear what you hear. In addition, each piece acts as a homing device. We'll track your every move at Coraco's party."

  "You got a whole tux in there?"

  "It's in the car."

  “The car?"

  "We'll get to that in a moment. First things first. Your next item is a lifesaver." Wes pulled a dress belt from the briefcase. "This is equipped with a razor blade, located in the middle of the belt. The precise location necessary if your hands are tied behind your back." He withdrew the three-inch blade. "Pull out the sharp edge, twist it like this, and cut away." Wes placed the belt on the coffee table with the other items.

  "And last," Wes added, retrieving a handgun with a suppressor, "if things get too out of control, use this. Fits under your tux jacket. A Glock."

  "A Glock 21, forty-five caliber. I used one as a SEAL."

  "It packs more punch than the nine millimeter you carried in Afghanistan last week." He gave the gun to Alex.

  Alex gripped the pistol and aimed it at the wall, a red dot appearing on the sheetrock. "I like the laser sight."

  "It's been modified. Grip activated, visible up to three hundred yards in the dark. For you, it will come in handy for close quarters combat. It was a challenge, but I made the modifications myself. Now, getting to the car outside..."

  "Yes. The car."

  "I know you wouldn't want to drive up to Coraco's party in that shabby rental, so I'll swap vehicles with you. Let's take a look, shall we?" Wes rose and strolled toward the front door, glancing back over his shoulder at Alex as he walked. "I think you'll be superbly satisfied with this piece of field equipment."

  Alex followed his contact outside into the cool night air. "Sweet." He ran a finger over the hood, opened the door and got in. "Very sweet."

  "A Porsche 911, silver, loaded to the extreme with a Bluetooth stereo system, built in GPS navigation, among other accessories, and leather seats, heated by the way."

  "More horses under the hood than the Kentucky Derby."

  "A crude way of putting it, but yes, it's well suited for the mission at hand. There are a few extra options that you probably haven't noticed. The glass is bulletproof. The body of the vehicle is as well. Titanium armor." He rapped his knuckles on the hood.

  Alex half listening, zeroed in on the navigation screen.

  "If you're wondering, it doubles as a two-way video and audio comm system, like FaceTime on your laptop."

  Alex glanced over at the passenger seat at a hanging bag draped over the headrest. "The tux?"

  "Be sure to take it inside tonight. It's been dry cleaned. You'll need it to be wrinkle free for the party."

  Alex snatched the bag and climbed out of the vehicle, ignoring the temptation to take it for a spin. His jet lagged body felt like half of him was still in the Bahamas.

  "I'll be going, Mr. Preston. But please be careful with your field equipment, it was paid for by taxpayers, unlike yourself." Wes was referring to one of Alex's requests, not to pay taxes again...ever.

  "I'll use extreme caution."

  Wes squinted at Alex, his eyes surveying him with skepticism. "I'm sure you will. Goodbye and good luck."

  As Wes drove away, Alex let out a deep breath and gazed at the full moon glowing softly over the sparkling Mediterranean. Somehow, he suspected a storm was in the forecast, one he could do little to avoid… but one he'd have to face head on.

  12

  After a decent night's sleep, Alex legged on a pair of relax fit jeans and pulled a charcoal exercise tee over his head, picked up the laptop, and started for the door. He needed something for breakfast, and assumed he could find a bite at one of the local shops, maybe something close by.

  The briefcase was still on the coffee table.

  He wondered why he hadn't noticed it the night before. Had Wes slipped inside the villa in the middle of the night unannounced? Or was the case there the whole time?

  Alex sat on the couch and cracked open the briefcase.

  Inside, he discovered a pair of binoculars, some sort of device with a magnetic strip on the back, sunglasses, and finally, a key chain numbered 5-8, and a note. The piece of paper read:

  Mr. Preston,

  As you discovered, I dropped off a few extra items for your assignment. I anticipated your first move today, so I left you a pair of binoculars for your surveillance, a pair sunglasses for the afternoon glare, and a key to a fishing boat in the harbor. It's set-up with a fishing rod, bait, and a tank of gas. Have your fun, but do mix in a little work with pleasure. I'm sure you've already figured it out, but there's a homing device that may prove useful in the near future. We'll be keeping tabs on you Friday night, so be sure to don your evening wear. And of course, if you need anything, contact me. There's an iPhone in the sleeve of the briefcase. My number is saved in its memory. I'll be around. So long for now.

  Wes,

  Alex huffed.

  The weapons and equipment specialist pegged him perfectly, nailing his plans square on the nose, figuratively speaking. Alex had full intentions of scoping out the marina to find a boat to charter. At least now, he could focus on the actual work of spying, and not everything it took to make that possible. He scooped up the shades, binoculars, and the key, and headed out the front door.

  The Porsche 911 waited in the driveway. Silver. Sharp. And fast.

  Alex stowed the field equipment in the passenger seat and eased behind the wheel. His jeans slid like ice over the black leather—someone sprayed the seats with a slick upholstery cleaner—overkill, but not a deal breaker by any stretch of the imagination. He put the key fob in the center console and pressed the start button with the tip of his finger. The engine rumbled to life and purred like a top-of-the-line mechanical feline. Nimble. Ready to pounce.

  After two zoom-zoom revs of the rpm's, he stepped on the clutch, geared into first, and floored the gas. The 911 zipped out of the driveway and hugged the curvy road leading down to the marina. Stunning hillsides, lined with white condominiums and villas, overlooked the sparkling sea in the early morning like glimmering diamonds. A backdrop of rocky mountains curtained off the inland interior, placing all the focus on the lively beachfront resorts and the narrow streets packed with stone edifice buildings baking under a clear blue sky and a brilliant sun.

  A quick stop at a fruit stand for a plastic container of mangos, peaches, and kiwi, and Alex was set to go.

  He tapped the dash display and brought up the weather for the day. The forecast called for clouds to move in around mid-morning leading to a partly cloudy day by late afternoon with a high near eighty degrees Fahrenheit.

  Around the dockyard, there wasn't a lot of action, only a few people gearing up for a bit of fishing.

  Alex locked up the car and started for the harbor.

  With the binoculars tucked away in a carrying case, the strap strung over his shoulder, he unfolded the sunglasses and pushed them up on the bridge of his nose. The 5-8 on the keychain lined up with the piers, in rows, one after the other. The wooden ports were set-up with the even numbers on the left and the odd numbers on the right, so it wasn't difficult to find the boat. Alex chose pier number five and counted out the dock numbers to himself.

  "Ocho." He stood at the back of the boat.

  Twenty feet long, the vessel was not built for speed. It sported a flat bottom, but it did have a roof covering the captain's chair which would provide shelter from the heat. He found the rod and bait fish, and an ice-chest filled with bottled water. Touching. Wes didn't want him to dehydrate.

  With the m
otor gurgling, Alex untied from the pier, eased into the helm and throttled the boat into a smooth glide over the salty water, leaving the harbor in a gentle wake. Out on the open sea, he nudged the T-handle to full speed. The craft skipped across the cresting waves, wind pelting his face and hair.

  The goal was to venture far enough out to avoid suspicion. He didn't want to skirt too close to the coastline surrounding Alfred Coraco's estate. But he needed to get close enough to spy out a good spot to gain access to the property later. Upon finding a position a few hundred yards from the jagged coast, Alex dropped anchor and killed the engine.

  The smell of fish bait brought back old memories of past trips with his father. Memories that stung even now with his parents gone, taken before their time.

  Alex knew without a fish finder, it might be a while before he snagged a bite. With that in mind, he secured the pole in a rod holder mounted on the gunwale and began observing the shoreline with the binoculars.

  Coraco's estate set atop a cliff side two hundred feet above the sea. At the bottom of the precipice, a small area of rocks hugged the shoreline, the entire coast riddled with such outcroppings as far as the eye could see in both directions. The only break in the rocky surface was a dock, which happened to have an unmanned speedboat tied to it at the moment. Alex assumed with Coraco's mansion nearby that the dirt road winding up the mountainside had to lead to the main estate. He would confirm those suspicions tonight.

  Alex yielded to a deep thirst by twisting the top off a bottle of water. With the binoculars strung around his neck, he took a long guzzle of the H2O, a bead of sweat trickling down his cheek. As the gulp drew to a close, movement on the shore caught the corner of his eye. A black jeep kicked up dust, approaching the pier.

  He calmly screwed the top back on the water and placed the bottle in a cup holder. Through the lenses of the binoculars, Alex identified the sixty year old Alfred Coraco, and his thirty year old lover, the exotic, bronzed skinned beauty, Carmen Sanchez, her dark hair waving about from the wind as the jeep sped toward the pier.