Page 41 of Out of Control

Spencer rubbed his newly freed wrist, scowling. “You’re loving being in the driver’s seat, aren’t you?”

“Oh, hell to the yes. It’s not often anyone gets the best of the great Spencer Newman.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re a bit of a legend in the SEAL community, you know,” Drago commented as he hoisted down one of the big duffel bags from the overhead storage rack and shoved it at Spencer.

His banged-up shoulder protested as he caught the bag and set it on the floor before hefting its wide canvas strap over his other shoulder. “Seriously, Dray. What the hell are you talking about?”

Drago pulled down the remaining gear bags and picked them both up before he turned to glare at Spencer. “Don’t pretend you don’t know that you have a reputation. You’re the man of ice. A perfectionist. Devoted to truth, justice, and the American Way.”

“What’s wrong with any of that?” he demanded.

Drago grinned sardonically. “Nothing’s wrong with it. But you intimidate the shit out of the rest of us mere mortals.”

Spencer snorted. “Says the super-spy fixer the CIA reserves for solving its very worst crises. Your reputation precedes you too, bro.”

“If we’re both so damned perfect, then where did we go wrong ten years ago?” Drago muttered, abruptly serious.

Whether he was asking about their mission to stop Jabril Hamza or their personal relationship, Spencer couldn’t tell, and furthermore, he didn’t care. His response would be the same either way. “I have no idea,” he replied grimly.

“If I can prove I didn’t kill Khoury, will you reconsider your decision not to help me nail Hamza?”

“One step at a time, Drago.”

“Hey, I’ll take it. That wasn’t an absolute no.”

Spencer shook his head as Drago stepped out onto the platform, which smelled of grease and ozone.

“You left me the heavy bag, didn’t you?” he grumbled as he maneuvered the bulky duffel out the narrow exit door. The weapons inside were wrapped so they didn’t clank against one another, but he estimated the collection of arms and ammo weighed close to eighty pounds.

“I sure as hell did leave you the heavy one. Gotta do everything in my power to slow you down. You’re in such a damned hurry to rush to judgment and haul me in. Cab stand’s this way.”

This was Drago’s turf, running around European capitals. SEALs tended to operate in less civilized places populated primarily with wars and violence. He followed Drago and listened as he used passable German to direct the cabbie to an address.

“How many languages do you speak these days?” he asked as he climbed into the cab behind Drago. As he recalled, Dray was a sponge when it came to languages.

A shrug. “Six or seven. I don’t keep count. Depends on where I’m working. I tend to absorb the local tongue and then dump it when I move on.”

Crazy talent. Great one for a guy in his line of work.

Drago commented, “I told the cabbie to take the scenic route to our destination. Might as well take in the sights while we’re here. Mud-grubber like you doesn’t get to see nice places like this too often in your line of work, eh?”

Spencer scowled, but Drago was not wrong. The cab wound through the huge central park called the Tiergarten in downtown Berlin, following the Strasse des 17. Juni, named to commemorate the failed East German uprising that took place on that date in 1953. The street approached the Brandenburg Gate from the west, then swung around the pillared memorial onto side streets. When they turned onto the grand Unter den Linden, to the left was the row of linden trees from which the street took its name. They headed east and proceeded between rows of huge government buildings left over from the Cold War days. From there, they proceeded east and south into a residential district.

The houses grew dingier and the green spaces went away altogether as they approached Friedrichshain, an aged neighborhood inside the old Russian sector. Colorful graffiti was everywhere, and the area had a distinctly bohemian vibe.

The cab stopped in front of a brick row house that looked to predate both world wars and had escaped the plentiful street art. As they climbed out and Drago paid the driver, Spencer spotted unrepaired pockmarks in the aged façade from long-ago bullets. At least he hoped they were from long ago.

“Another safe house?” he murmured as they climbed the steps and Drago used a key to open the door.

“Something like that. I own this one.”

The foyer hinted at past grandeur from another era, but the rest of the interior had obviously been chopped up into apartments at some point. He followed Drago up two flights of scarred mahogany stairs and into an apartment straight out of the Stalinist era.

“For a gay man, you sure have shitty decorating taste,” Spencer commented, looking around the barren, bleak interior.

Drago arched a sardonic brow. “What would the tenants think if the owner lived here in splendor on the backs of their squalor? Besides, I’m hardly ever here. I’ve got a superintendent who looks after the building for me.”

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