Read Online The Trade (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 2) by Chris Thrall - Free Book Online
Authors: Chris Thrall
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seek. But the boat is
called Rosa Negra . The captain, Alvarez, is a very bad man.”
“Where have they taken her?”
“I don’t know.” The Fulani broke eye contact.
“Please.” Hans was about to place his hand on the woman’s
arm but, remembering the cultural divide, thought better of it. “Can you find
out?”
“I have a friend, an old Fulani. She has been on the island
many years and knows such things. I will visit her tomorrow.”
“Listen, here’s my card. Do you have a phone?”
The Fulani shook her head.
“In that case, if you learn anything please use a pay phone
or someone’s cell and make a reverse-charge call or try and get me at my hotel,
the Grande Verde. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll meet you here tomorrow night.
Is that okay?”
“I think to meet me is better. After 8:00 p.m., when I
finish my shift.”
“Sure, and I can pay you for your trouble.” Hans reached
into the pocket of his sport coat.
The Fulani stood up, walked across the dimly lit room, took a
photograph from the dressing table and handed it to him. Hans stared at the
picture of a little girl, recognizing the eyes of her mother.
“Her name is Binda. No money can replace her, Mr. Larsson.
Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Hans nodded as the pieces of the puzzle fell into the place.
“But you must be careful. These are people with powerful connections.”
She set the photograph back on the dresser, her fingers lingering on the fading
image.
“What’s your name?” Hans got up to leave.
“Djenabou,” she replied as a tear rolled down her cheek.
- 19 -
“I ncoming!”
Private First Class Duffy of the 405th Parachute Infantry
Regiment, US 82nd Airborne Division, threw a grenade into the enemy bunker
situated in a bombed-out post office on the outskirts of 1944 Berlin.
He didn’t know why he was shouting, since his entire platoon
was dead.
Climbing out from behind a mound of rubble, Duffy ran toward
the German position in stilted moves, firing his Thompson submachine gun from
the hip, spraying lead in the general direction of the screams emanating from
the fire and stinking smoke billowing from the sandbagged shopfront.
From experience he knew there would be at least one SS trooper
to finish off with a burst of the tommy gun before completing the mission.
The screams reduced to agonized moans and whimpers as Duffy
edged his way around the building seeking a firing point. His grenade had blown
away a good few sandbags, and he crept into the gap, ready to bid good night to
the remaining swine.
The convulsing body of an enemy combatant entered his field
of vision.
Duffy leveled his submachine gun and – click .
Damn! Out of ammo!
He scanned his dead comrades’ webbing pouches, looking for
more bullets, spotting a flashing orange box with an A on it hovering a
foot above his late lieutenant’s lifeless form.
Move to the A ! Resupply your ammo!
With three fresh clips, Duffy crawled back into position. He
set his sights on a dying German, squeezed the trigger and—
Jonah’s cell phone rang. He interrupted his Xbox game of Operation
Berlin to see Sylvester Stallone’s image on the screen.
“Orion!” He used Hans’ code name. “I thought you were like dead ,
dude, in some yacht accident and shit?”
“Odysseus, my dear nerd, I can assure you I’m very much
alive.”
“Oh, cooool ! I tried to call your cell before, but
nada.”
“Yeah, that one took a little dive. You still playin’ those
crummy war games?”
“I’m still playin’ ’em, Orion, and I’m still smoking the weeeeeeeed !”
Jonah took a long toke of his doobie, blowing out a
yellowy-brown plume in defiance of his fellow agent’s fatherly lectures.
Jonah, code name “Odysseus,” lived in a converted Greyhound
bus in a trailer park in LA. His Aspergic savant made him one of life’s
interesting characters, a computer genius who’d hacked into NASA’s database at
thirteen and retrieved highly classified
called Rosa Negra . The captain, Alvarez, is a very bad man.”
“Where have they taken her?”
“I don’t know.” The Fulani broke eye contact.
“Please.” Hans was about to place his hand on the woman’s
arm but, remembering the cultural divide, thought better of it. “Can you find
out?”
“I have a friend, an old Fulani. She has been on the island
many years and knows such things. I will visit her tomorrow.”
“Listen, here’s my card. Do you have a phone?”
The Fulani shook her head.
“In that case, if you learn anything please use a pay phone
or someone’s cell and make a reverse-charge call or try and get me at my hotel,
the Grande Verde. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll meet you here tomorrow night.
Is that okay?”
“I think to meet me is better. After 8:00 p.m., when I
finish my shift.”
“Sure, and I can pay you for your trouble.” Hans reached
into the pocket of his sport coat.
The Fulani stood up, walked across the dimly lit room, took a
photograph from the dressing table and handed it to him. Hans stared at the
picture of a little girl, recognizing the eyes of her mother.
“Her name is Binda. No money can replace her, Mr. Larsson.
Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Hans nodded as the pieces of the puzzle fell into the place.
“But you must be careful. These are people with powerful connections.”
She set the photograph back on the dresser, her fingers lingering on the fading
image.
“What’s your name?” Hans got up to leave.
“Djenabou,” she replied as a tear rolled down her cheek.
- 19 -
“I ncoming!”
Private First Class Duffy of the 405th Parachute Infantry
Regiment, US 82nd Airborne Division, threw a grenade into the enemy bunker
situated in a bombed-out post office on the outskirts of 1944 Berlin.
He didn’t know why he was shouting, since his entire platoon
was dead.
Climbing out from behind a mound of rubble, Duffy ran toward
the German position in stilted moves, firing his Thompson submachine gun from
the hip, spraying lead in the general direction of the screams emanating from
the fire and stinking smoke billowing from the sandbagged shopfront.
From experience he knew there would be at least one SS trooper
to finish off with a burst of the tommy gun before completing the mission.
The screams reduced to agonized moans and whimpers as Duffy
edged his way around the building seeking a firing point. His grenade had blown
away a good few sandbags, and he crept into the gap, ready to bid good night to
the remaining swine.
The convulsing body of an enemy combatant entered his field
of vision.
Duffy leveled his submachine gun and – click .
Damn! Out of ammo!
He scanned his dead comrades’ webbing pouches, looking for
more bullets, spotting a flashing orange box with an A on it hovering a
foot above his late lieutenant’s lifeless form.
Move to the A ! Resupply your ammo!
With three fresh clips, Duffy crawled back into position. He
set his sights on a dying German, squeezed the trigger and—
Jonah’s cell phone rang. He interrupted his Xbox game of Operation
Berlin to see Sylvester Stallone’s image on the screen.
“Orion!” He used Hans’ code name. “I thought you were like dead ,
dude, in some yacht accident and shit?”
“Odysseus, my dear nerd, I can assure you I’m very much
alive.”
“Oh, cooool ! I tried to call your cell before, but
nada.”
“Yeah, that one took a little dive. You still playin’ those
crummy war games?”
“I’m still playin’ ’em, Orion, and I’m still smoking the weeeeeeeed !”
Jonah took a long toke of his doobie, blowing out a
yellowy-brown plume in defiance of his fellow agent’s fatherly lectures.
Jonah, code name “Odysseus,” lived in a converted Greyhound
bus in a trailer park in LA. His Aspergic savant made him one of life’s
interesting characters, a computer genius who’d hacked into NASA’s database at
thirteen and retrieved highly classified
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