six | warsaw

a beloved symbol portrayed in countless statues and murals across the city, the Mermaid of Warsaw, Syrenka, stands naked and proud, wielding a sword and shield

JAKE

May 6th, 12:41 (GMT +2)
9 days until it happens

"ANDERSON," I GRUMBLE into my mic, "What have you got for me?" I take a chomp of my hamburger, swiping a serviette as grease dribbles down my chin.

The hectic noises of the office churn in the background. "Nothing, brother." A lewd chuckle, "I can't believe you called on that bird Petra. You know that bloke Freddy from accounting? He told me he heard from Hugh who overheard Ron tell about how she let four men stick their–"

I rub my temples, drowning out the indelicate details. It's early afternoon, and the pub I'm sat in is still relatively vacant, which is ace because I need some space to think properly. "Harry. Do you think I have time for this nonsense?"

Harry Anderson is a bloody brilliant computer engineer, but he's also an utter knob.

"Just be careful where you warm your todger, alright mate? I know you have chicks in every city across the globe, but maybe just lay off the fruit cake for a while."

Speaking of sweets. Petra makes the most scrumptious Polish coffee cake on the planet. Anderson thinks I paid her a visit to get my rocks off. But my phone's GPS app was showing that a certain CSIS agent had followed me all the way from Belarus, and I just couldn't help but toy with her a bit. Especially after the cheeky little thing tried peeping on me at my hotel this morning. She's slippery, I'll give it to her. If not for the bug I planted, she might've actually given me a right decent chase.

I drown a few chips in tomato sauce and scarf them down with a swig of my pint. "Tell me. Why was Giles monitoring my comms yesterday? Where the bloody hell did you scamper off to?"

Harry lets out a long, aggravated groan. "Oh, don't get me started with that rubbish. Those bloody Mounties have been attacking our systems all week. They don't sleep or eat or shit or anything. I've been running around trying to mend the holes, but our firewalls are getting buggered every second."

Those Canadian bastards. How very unpolite of them.

"Oh, by the way," Anderson adds with a laugh, "Did you hear that Victoria Dalton hinted she thinks whoever finds Cassidy should be knighted?"

My cheeks puff with air. Huh. Wouldn't my father be absolutely chuffed? (Sarcasm, in case you were too daft to tell.) Permanent and severe disappointment is ingrained into his character. Even if I won a bloody Nobel Peace Prize it probably wouldn't rile him.

"I'm gonna hop off. Just ping me if you find something, yeah?" I hang up and twist to crack my neck, the stress gnawing at my tendons.

The telly above the bar is broadcasting the BBC. The headline piques my attention. I ask the barkeep to crank up the volume.

They're interviewing Elias Dalton outside his Westminster townhouse. Pudgy, blond, clean-shaven. He sports a fine, bespoke suit, three-grand minimum. A reporter asks him why he hasn't just used his considerable wealth to fulfill the ransom demand. Surely his daughter's life is priceless, and five billion dollars is a drop in the ocean for him. I study his face as he replies. Something about his expression doesn't sit right with me, but I can't quite put a finger on it.

Into the microphone, he explains in his slick Canadian accent, "My strong, sensible wife Victoria and I came to the difficult decision not to barter with these terrorists. Instead of injecting such a large sum into the hands of criminals, we'd rather invest that kind of money back into the economy. Incentive for our national security agencies to do everything they can to bring my baby girl home safe."

What a fucking tosser. He's referring to the massive military-tech contract his company has guaranteed to whichever country returns his daughter's gilded head unharmed. It's an enormous promise. Thousands and thousands of new jobs, hikes in infrastructure spending, a huge boost in gross national income. I scrub a fingertip distractedly over my kneecap.

The bigwigs at HQ are beside themselves with urgency. If I don't find this girl by yesterday, they'll serve Downing Street my head on a silver platter.

This feels wrong somehow. Warning bells ring from the back of my skull. I can't shake the niggling sense that there's more to all this than meets the eye, but none of the jigsaw pieces fit together yet.

Don't overthink it, Morgan. Just follow the bloody plan.

Plans and protocols exist for a reason. When people don't stick to the rules, bad things happen.

"Despite numerous requests by international human rights groups, the Russian mob, who have officially claimed responsibility for Miss Dalton's abduction, has still failed to provide proof-of-life."

Fucking hell. There's another head-scratcher. The mob is many things, but they are not amateurs. You can't expect a ransom pay-out without offering evidence that your victim is still alive and unmaimed. So why in the name of her Majesty's knickers have they not delivered even a single video of Cassidy to the authorities? Maths was never my strongest subject, but these things simply aren't adding up.

I knead my knotted forehead, knackered. Last night I hardly slept a wink; I was poring over documents, trying to make double-time.

Those fucking flash-drives were a bust. Not worth the trouble of tracking them down. A day and a half of precious time wasted, just to confirm details we already knew. I shouldn't have bothered with them in the first place, but retrieving them was part of my mission brief from the Chief himself, so my options were scant. The only promising new lead from the drives is that the mob is up to something here in Poland. I have plans tonight involving a notorious Russian gangster who will hopefully shed light on where Cassidy is being hidden.

Just as I've polished off the rest of my lunch, my phone beeps. My eyebrows crinkle as I read the notification on the screen. Signal #3435: new destination alert. I scroll through the details. My pulse spikes. That conniving, wicked woman is in my hotel room.

***

I scan the key-card to open the door and discover my bedroom has been eviscerated.

Carnage. Total annihilation.

The silk sheets are shredded, the goose-down pillows disemboweled. The clawfoot tub overflows, every last page from my files drowned at the bottom into soggy pulp.

My electric toothbrush floats in the toilet bowl.

The leather of my Ferragamos has been sliced to strips.

My stick of antisperspirant is smeared to paste across the mirror.

My Braun razor is smashed onto the bathroom tile; my Montblanc fountain pen and my phone charger have been stolen; the entire 50mL bottle of Tom Ford perfume has been tipped down the drain.

I try to remain calm. An inconvenience, yes, but the Service will reimburse the loss. Calm. Cool. Collected. You're a bloody professional, Morgan. It's fine. It's fine.

My gaze travels to the closet to find that the safe is gaping open.

Impossible... Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you have got to be fucking kidding me...

My laptop and my passport are gone, along with over a thousand euros cash.

My blood boils, molten bubbles dashing through my arteries and veins. At this instant, I am neither calm nor cool, and the only thing collected is an astronomical expense report.

I rip my phone from my jeans-pocket and pull up Rayna's tracking signal. The red dot is blipping along the screen, just outside the hotel, moving further away each second.

The door bangs shut behind me as I enter the corridor. My legs charge down the stairs two at a time.

She likes to play dirty, huh? Just wait til I get my fucking hands on her.

***

Author's Note [Oct. 14th, 2022]:

PUT YOUR HANDS ON HER, JAKE! 😫

That was so savage, Rayna, jeez...

Thanks for reading, commenting, and unlocking advance chapters with coins! I love you all SO SO SO much!

xoxo Ami