Page 1 of West

CHAPTER 1

There’s an old song in my head about a gambler, about playing his cards right, knowing when to hold them, fold them…and walk away. It’s a memory on repeat, the country singer warbling from my father’s felt-covered transistor radio as he works on a minibike in our garage back in Tennessee. But it’s the last line that sticks with me…You gotta “know when to run.”

Maybe that’s my problem. I’ve stayed at the table too long. I’ve missed my opportunity to escape. At least that’s what it feels like as I stand in the misty, dour early evening watching a guy who I think might be a Russian assassin, waiting for his next move.

I’m across the street and three storefronts down, in the recessed doorway of a tabac shop, about sixty feet from the entrance of the hotel El Cielo, on Carrer d’Aribau in the Eixample district of Barcelona. Six floors of limestone, with a brass revolving door doing its slow ceremonial spin under the doorman’s hand. Two concrete planters with fake topiaries flank the entrance.

I’m cold, my hands shoved into my leather jacket, and my mind is circling…

Nope. I’ve done so well over the past eight months, forgetting her. We’re not bringing her up again.

I promise.

But I will say this…It feels like all my choices have boiled down to this moment, standing alone in the cold in January, in Barcelona, and now I’m here, whether I like it or not, no way home.

Don’t feel too sorry for me—I like my life. And for years, I didn’t look back. But after recent events, I’m wondering if a guy can walk so far away from who he wanted to be that there’s no turning back.

Aw, I’m probably just in a bad mood because I’m cold. Winter in Barcelona is wet, gray, and short on charm. The brochures don’t mention that, in case you’re considering a trip here. Catalonia has excellent food, however. Usually. Maybe I should blame my mood on the tortilla española I bought from a counter joint near Avinguda Diagonal. The eggs were fine…I think the chorizo might have been a mistake.

Still, my gut could be churning because there’s something afoot at the hotel—Mercedes and airport limousines keep pulling up to the front door. I know, I know—it’s a hotel. But this feels different. There’s an event that I’m missing, and it’s probably important or Vladimir Dragan wouldn’t be lurking in his SUV down the block, watching the door with his assassin’s eyes.

He’s up to something, and dollars to donuts it involves the Russian mob and a guy named Tomas Petrov.

I’m here to figure it out, however, and I will. Just give me some time.

My assignment is to stake out the hotel, watch Dragan, and figure out his game. But about ten minutes ago I spotted the other guy, his cigarette a red glow in the service alley near the entrance. The thing is, he doesn’t quite look like a catering chef catching a smoke.

I dunno—you tell me. He’s mid-forties. Stocky. Dark utility trousers. White catering jacket with no scuff marks on the elbows. He stands with his back against the brick, his other hand in his pocket.

Let me interject here and mention that I’ve been camped out in this very spot for two days. I’ve gotten to know the kitchen staff. There’s a sous chef that comes out and gets on his phone, always loud, gesturing, swearing in Catalan. And then another guy, skinny, who lights up something other than a cigarette. Hey, it’s Barcelona—I don’t ask questions.

But this guy…yeah, he doesn’t fit. I’m going to call him Oleg. He has the build, the haircut, and a sort of Russian-leaning vibe. Or maybe I’m just prone to assign everyone in Tomas’s circle a Russian name.

So now I’m watching Oleg. And Dragan.

And that’s when Caleb Group Director Logan Thorne decides to pipe through my earwig. “Sitrep.”

Logan isn’t really my boss—I work alone, an independent contractor—but Logan and I go way back, all the way to BUD/S and beyond, and now he needs HUMINT. I need eyes in the sky and data. So we’re back to being swim buddies, of a sort.

“I’ve got eyes on another guy,” I say. “But something doesn’t feel right. I need to take a look-see.”

“Roy—”

“He’s not kitchen staff.”

And right then, as if to confirm my gut, Oleg’s right hand adjusts the line of his jacket. The fabric settles back wrong at the left hip. Yep, I knew it. “He’s carrying.”

A pause.

“Don’t blow this,” Logan says.

“He’s waiting for someone, I’m sure of it.”

Okay, here’s what I’m not telling Logan. Just like I felt fourteen years ago when everything collapsed on us, I know something is going down. I have never been the guy who sits on his hands when he should be moving.

Maybe that’s why I can’t seem to walk away. I can’t change my spots, so, “I’m just going to get in closer for a better look.”

And now Logan sighs. I know this sigh—it says, Please don’t go off mission—but I mentioned he’s not really my boss, right? So I ignore it.