Gods & Martyrs: Gabby Wells Thriller, #4

By Pete Bauer

WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF TERRORISM CAME TO YOUR HOMETOWN?

Terrorists attack.

Parents and children are trapped.

Gabby encounters the greatest evil she's ever faced. With the clock ticking, Gabby must find a way to save the terrified families before it's too late.

Using her smarts and cunning, she fights to overcome dark and powerful forces bent on destruction before a madman kills them all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pete Bauer
• Release date: Jul 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781946394262

Book preview

One

The man extinguished his cigar into a ceramic ashtray on the end table next to the couch and pulled a red bandana from his back pocket.

In front of him stood his teenage son, sweat beading above his lip, caught in his fuzzy mustache.

The man buttoned up the teen’s jacket with care, glancing from time to time at his son’s wide eyes.

You make me proud, the man said in his native Spanish. You make us all proud.

Thank you, father, the son said.

You know what to do?

Yes.

You will not disappoint?

Of course not, father, the teen said, wiping the sweat dripping down his acne covered cheeks.

In a short time-

I know, the teen said. I’m excited.

And nervous? the man asked. It’s okay. It’s normal. You must direct it. Fear is as common as happiness. Both are valuable and temporary. As is pain.

Yes, father.

The man slipped the bandana around his son’s neck and tied it, leaving it dangling against his olive green jacket.

This bandana will let them know, the man said. So they remember who sent them the message.

Yes, father.

The man kissed his son on his forehead and looked him in the eye.

I love you, the man said.

I love you too, the boy said.

The son straightened his back, walked to the door and didn’t pause before he left.

Just as his father expected.

Miguel rode his rusty bicycle up to the El Rastro street market, the roads lined with colorful tents and temporary displays of food, clothing, jewelry and crafts. He dropped his bike on the sidewalk and walked toward the middle of the market.

He smelled the gallinejas, soldaditos de pavia and, his favorite, pastas del consent. His father wouldn’t let him eat there very often. They were too expensive and indulgent. He’d been taught to sacrifice.

That was their way.

The sidewalks and streets were busy, with pockets of open spaces where children played. As he walked through a group of kids kicking a worn soccer ball, the boy found his legs difficult to direct. He was trying to walk in a straight line, but his path veered and twisted like a snake.

Fear was normal. He had to direct it.

He took a deep breath and continued forward, straightening his path, and stopped in the middle of the square.

It was warmer than forecasted, too warm for him to wear his jacket, and sweat dripped from his armpits down to his fingers.

He looked at his hand.

The wires from the detonator dripped with sweat. His fingers twitched and he prayed it wouldn’t short circuit the connections to the explosives.

As he placed his thumb on the detonator button, the soccer ball brushed against his leg.

He jerked backward and looked down as a little girl ran up next to him.

She smiled and waved.

Sorry it hit you, she said, picking up the ball. I like your bandana.

The teen’s sweat dripped onto the ball in her hands.

Are you okay? she asked. You look sick.

I’m fine, the teen said.

Do you want to play with us? It’s fun.

No, thank you.

If you want to later, we’re right over there, she said, pointing.

The teen didn’t respond. He looked at the little girl, her brown eyes big and expressive, and he placed his hand on her head.

I’m sorry, the teen said with a sad smile.

For what?

His thumb pushed the detonator.

The man sat in the back of the taxi.

How long to the airport, he asked.

Thirty minutes, the driver said. Where are you going?

America. Florida.

I hear it’s beautiful there, the driver said.

Not for long, the man said as the explosion in the market shook the car. Startled, the driver swerved, nearly hitting an oncoming car.

A plume of smoke rose in the distance behind them.

The driver peered into the rear view mirror, dipping and moving his head, trying to capture the entire scene through the oblong glass.

Oh no, the driver said. That came from El Rastro.

I know, the man said, as a tear rolled down his cheek.

What do you think happened?

Something glorious.

The man’s lips curved upward and he burst into laughter, another tear of joy joining the first.

Two

Being bound by rope to a metal pole in the middle of a dark room probably should have elicited more fear in Gabby. Most fifteen-year-olds would be trembling in fear and screaming at the top of their lungs. She was doing neither.

This wasn’t her first rodeo.

Like most of her misadventures, she was partially responsible for ending up here. Bad decisions leading to bad outcomes had become her modus operandi lately. As she felt the coarse strands of rope rubbing against her wrists, she knew she had no one but herself to blame.

It would have been different if this were one of God’s requests. It would still stink, but at least it would have had a greater purpose. Not this time. No divine infusion of knowledge, feeling of intention, or grand sacrifice.

Well, at least, not yet.

No, this was Gabby’s invention, and, for better or worse, it was going as expected.

Okay, make that worse.

Even if this was her third time being held captive, staring down a self-proclaimed sociopath threatening to skin her alive, she still should have been more bothered by it all. The fact that this had become somewhat normal made her a little sad.

For most people, fear was fueled by the unknown, but Gabby had come to expect such nefarious behavior since the tragedy on the Fourth of July. Her world was populated by classmates and criminals alike, and it appeared she couldn’t escape either of them.

Fortunately, she wasn’t alone this time. Well, fortunate for her, not so fortunate for Hamilton, who was tied to a pole next to her.

Ironically, she found his thin, shaking body kind of cute. His nervousness meant their friendship hadn’t hardened him yet. For the most part, he’d only lived on the periphery of her existence, sensing danger and feeling threatened, but rarely exposed to its full wrath.

Sure, he had a few brushes with a hitman, a suicidal trust-fund brat, and Hamilton tried to help Gabby before their town exploded, but compared to her life, that wasn’t so bad. Him being on the verge of freaking out proved there was still purity and naiveté in him.

At least for the next few seconds.

Today, he was no longer orbiting Gabby’s strange existence. He was now at the center of it, the focus of a madman’s threats, and, unfortunately, the solution to his problems.

Gabs, how does he know who I am? Hamilton whispered. Why did he pick me?

Who knows? Gabby said, pulling at her binds. The Internet is a powerful tool.

But I’ve worked really hard at protecting my online footprint. I treat The Hamilton as a brand, not a person.

The Hamilton? I thought we talked about this.

It elevates me, Gabs.

It makes you sound like an ass. I don’t call myself The Gabby. Our kidnapper doesn’t call himself The Russian Thug. Only narcissists put a the in front of their name.

That’s easy for you to say. You’re Gabby Wells. Everyone knows who you are. Everybody loves you.

She glanced at him and mumbled, Not everyone.

I’m the outcast. The un-athletic nobody in a school full of jocks — outcast. I love books — outcast. I love working at the library — outcast.

You also good with computers, a voice bellowed from the shadows, his thick Russian accent pouring over each word like syrup. You are hacker, like bull.

To clarify, bulls aren’t like hackers, Hamilton said. Nor are hackers like bulls, for that matter.

See? You are smart. A barrel-chested man with scraggly hair and an unkempt beard stepped through the darkened doorway and into the small, overhead shafts of light. He plopped a heavy metal briefcase onto a folding table with a thump.

Now, you will hack, like bull, or you will die, he said.

Why me? Hamilton asked, his voice trembling.

Because my crew got, what you say? Pinched? My time is short and I hear of you, so I come calling.

How? How could you possibly hear about me?

Stop asking questions, Ham, Gabby said. Just do what he says.

Yes, the Russian said. Listen to your girlfriend.

Who? Hamilton asked. Gabby?

Is that her name? She looks cute in gray ball cap, don’t you think?

Are you talking about Gabby?

Yes, Ham, Gabby grumbled. He’s talking about me. Now, just say yes.

Okay, Hamilton said. Yes. Her hat makes her look cute. Now will you let us go?

Of course not. The Russian unlocked the briefcase with a couple of clicks and lifted the lid, pulling a large knife from it.

Whoa, Hamilton said. What’s… what’s that for?

Look at you. You are shaking. Good. We call this motivation, yes?

Yes. I am undoubtedly motivated.

Good. I will cut you loose, yes? You will do as I say, yes? Not run, yes?

No. I won’t run.

Because I will have to hurt you and your cute girlfriend.

To be clear, Gabby and I aren’t dating.

The Russian stepped up to Hamilton, his wide shadow doubling his thin body. Is she not good enough for you? he asked, sliding the dull edge of the knife across Hamilton’s face. She not up to your high standards, is that it, hacker bull?

No. She’s awesome. I was just clarifying our social status.

In case I am to post this breaking news on social media, is that it?

I’m sorry, Hamilton said. I get chatty when I’m nervous. Do you get chatty?

I get grumpy. Not good grumpy. You, you not like bull, like shy calf, the Russian said with a chuckle as he walked back to the briefcase.

Ham, Gabby whispered. If he leaves an opening when he cuts you loose, take him.

What? he whispered back. Take him? How?

Hit him with the briefcase or something.

I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Hamilton. Un-athletic, weak, and ready to soil his pants.

Just focus on the job, Ham. That’s what I do. Focus on what comes next, not on yourself.

So you want me to knock out the Russian Goliath and then what?

Then free me. C’mon, you can do this.

The Russian turned and looked over his muscular shoulder. What are you two love birds talking about? Dance, perhaps? A hot and heavy date, yes?

You got us, Vlad, Gabby said. I wanted to make sure his corsage matched my dress.

I am not Vlad. I have cousin named Vlad. Short man. Bad breath.

The Russian spun the case on the table, revealing an active laptop inside. Now we get to business, yes?

I guess so… Hamilton said.

The Russian approached them like a boulder with legs. She calls you a ham? Interesting. You like pig, not bull.

You have an odd fascination with animals, Hamilton said. Did you grow up on a farm?

Where I grow up not important. The Russian forced the knife between Hamilton’s hands, slipping the blade beneath the rope. With a quick jerk, he sliced the binds in one pull. What you do for me now? Important. Very important. You could call it life or death.

I get that, he said, trembling.

The Russian’s large hand enveloped the back of Hamilton’s neck as he led him to the table.

If you don’t mind me saying, Mr. Russian fellow, you look familiar, Hamilton said. I feel like I’ve seen you before.

Impossible. Never been to Sunshine State. It is nice. Where I come from, cold. Always cold.

So, you’re from Siberia?

No more geography questions, young bull. You hack now.

What am I hacking?

You hack this, he said, his tattooed hand slapping a stained and wrinkled piece of paper next to him.

This is… what is this? Hamilton asked.

IP address. You hack. You transfer money from here… The Russian’s nubby finger pointed to one line of numbers. To here… He gestured to another line of scribbled digits.

How much? Hamilton asked.

All of it.

Gabby watched as her frightened friend put his hands on the keys, his chest rising and falling in quick succession with shallow breaths.

Are you going to kill us when we’re done? Hamilton asked.

The Russian bent down and leaned next to him. "First things first. You hack, and then I decide if I hack."

Three

The glint off the Russian’s wide knife glistened in Hamilton’s eyes. Gabby’s nerdy friend shook like a dead leaf in a winter breeze as the determined foreigner’s hardened glare threatened to crumble him into a million pieces.

The sharpened edge of the blade pointed at Hamilton’s skinny neck, and Gabby could see his blood pulsing through his jugulars to the beat of a frenetic metronome.

The perspiring Russian leaned into Hamilton, his brow dripping globs of sweat.

You hack now, yes? he asked.

Like bull, Hamilton agreed with an aggressive nod. Or calf. Or cow. Or any sort of bovine you’d like.

Good.

You can do this, Ham, Gabby said, twisting the ropes behind her, trying to stretch them. His eyes met hers and she glared at him with more than just comfort, but orders.

You can do this, she repeated.

He offered a lackluster nod and his fingers punched the keys in time with his pulse, the code speeding across the screen with surprising fluidity. While his fingers conducted a symphony of cryptograms, Hamilton’s gaze kept drifting back to the thug’s thick, round face.

With each glance, the Russian grew more aggravated. You trying to memorize my face? Is that it, hacker bull?

No, Hamilton said. You just… you look so familiar.

Perhaps you visit your CIA’s top criminal list?

What? You’re on that?

Maybe. It is hard to keep track. It is much like the New York Times bestseller list. Who really knows how to make such list?

I’m sorry, Mr. Russian. Hamilton’s head dipped, and he buried himself in the task at hand. I get easily distracted in a crisis. Just ask Gabby.

It’s true, Gabby said, her fingers deftly pulling at the weakened rope. While in the middle of a suicide situation, all he cared about was his brother’s old car.

Which you made me steal, by the way, Hamilton said.

To save someone.

Yeah, an idiot, he said.

You have interesting life, you two, the Russian said. Weave great tales, yes? Together?

Depends on how this one ends, Boris, Gabby said. Don’t worry. Hamilton won’t remember anything important. We’re harmless.

Harmless? Him, maybe. You, not so much. Besides, name not Boris either. Uncle named Boris. Smart. Crooked teeth.

My point is that you don’t have to worry about Hamilton. He’s a good kid. He’s just in way over his head.

The Russian nodded. Yes, it appears so.

But he’ll do what you need. Then you can leave Safety Harbor and go back home, to the cold, hot, or where ever.

Safety Harbor. Is that name of this place? Funny, yes? When you not so safe?

Yeah. It’s a hoot, Nikoli.

What is hoot? he asked.

Funny. Witty.

May be hard to believe, but I thought about going to big city and be comedian? What you think?

I think you’re taking a very odd route to stardom. The CIA may not be your biggest fan.

He dropped his head. True. Sad when life gets in way of dreams, no?

Tragic, she said.

This was the moment.

Hamilton’s chance.

With the Russian’s eyes averted, David could slay Goliath.

Gabby’s eyes implored telepathic pleas to the hunched Hamilton, praying her silent screams would travel the short distance between them and alert him to take the hefty metal suitcase and crush it against the Russian’s head.

Seconds passed. Gabby grumbled a throat-clearing cough.

Hamilton looked up with curious eyes and stiffened at her pressing gaze. He cocked his head in question.

With an overt nod, she pointed toward the distracted Russian.

Now! she mouthed.

Now? His mouth formed the word as his eyes widened with fear.

Yes! she nodded.

His head shook from side to side.

Now, she nearly whispered.

This was Hamilton’s chance to rise to the challenge and be a hero, but, instead, he froze like a frightened deer staring into the headlights of an oncoming semi.

Gabby slumped in disappointment.

He could have twisted the hands of fate and saved her from the threats of an international thug. They would have had a story that lived on for generations, sharing a crisis where he came to her rescue wearing the proverbial cape.

It would have been something only the two of them experienced and, maybe, just maybe, steered his affections toward her.

But he wasn’t going to save her after all. He wasn’t going to do anything. She should have expected it. Maybe, deep down, she did.

She had read about the ways people responded to crisis. Most of them ignored the calamity unfolding around them, unable to comprehend their impending doom, like those who went back to work in the towers during 9/11, even after a jetliner plowed into the floors above them. Others under intense stress froze, like Hamilton, their minds locked with fear. A few, very few actually, were clear-headed and fought back with strategic clarity. Like Gabby.

Maybe that was why everyone thought she was so heroic, even though her actions were more akin to carpet-bombing than surgical strikes. There was always collateral damage when she was done, often to herself, but that never stopped her from trying.

In a weird way, the