The Amnesiac's Guide to Espionage, page 1
Amnesiac’s Guide to Espionage
AN EVA DESTRUCTION NOVEL
DAVE SINCLAIR
Contents
Also by Dave Sinclair
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Afterword
Also by Dave Sinclair
Acknowledgments
Eva Destruction is Back!
Eva is an MI6 agent who wakes to find armed men in her apartment hell-bent on revenge. The only problem is, she has no idea what they’re talking about. Someone has stolen the last sixth months’ worth of her memories and the fate of the world rides on getting them back.
On the eve of the G8 summit, Eva is thrown headlong into globe-trotting assassinations and gun battles on the trail of the mysterious plan known only as Halcyon. Together with a besotted CIA agent and a misogynistic MI6 operative, Eva races across the world to retrace her steps in the hopes of finding answers.
With the clock ticking, Eva must track down those behind her memory loss, as well as battle a foe she can’t remember.
The globetrotting takes her from London, to exotic Macau casinos, to Hong Kong hydrofoils, to French castles, to English mansions, to a car chase between an ice-cream van containing a nuclear weapon and black SUVs through the streets of London.
With betrayal at every turn, Eva discovers she can’t trust anyone, including her own organisation. Eva must face down nuclear annihilation alone and she hasn’t even had her coffee yet.
For the G-Mob
Also by Dave Sinclair
Atticus Wolfe Novels
Out of Time
It Takes a Spy
The Coldest War
* * *
Charles Bishop Novels
Kiss My Assassin
Agent Provocateur
Venetian Blonde
* * *
Eva Destruction Novels
The Barista’s Guide to Espionage
The Rookie’s Guide to Espionage (novella)
The Amnesiac’s Guide to Espionage
The Dead Spy’s Guide to Espionage
Chapter
One
Eva was a spy with a problem. Two problems, actually. First, she’d just woken up in desperate need of a coffee. Second, there were four armed men in her bedroom. The former was more concerning than the latter.
The black-clad soldiers armed with short-barrelled Heckler & Koch UMPs and Kevlar vests weren’t helping her headache. These boys weren’t here to steal her TV.
Dappled light supplied just enough illumination to show crouched figures invading her bedroom. Weapons swept her apartment for threats. They needn’t have bothered. There was only one, and she had a hangover.
Eva sat up in bed and her head throbbed in protest. What the hell had she drunk the night before?
Focus, she told herself. There were more pressing matters.
She stretched under her Aerosmith tank top. All four submachine guns retargeted at her. Eva rolled her tongue in an attempt to lubricate her parched mouth.
“Hey. Either you blokes have the wrong apartment or Mormons are getting way too aggressive,” she croaked.
The lead assailant stepped forward, his weapon pointed very clearly between her eyes. His close-cropped grey haircut was so sharp it looked military issued. He must have been in his late fifties, but fit – his muscles bulged under his armour. Eva dubbed him Captain Flat-top. The other men appeared slightly older, but all acted like they’d just marched off a parade ground somewhere.
“No, Ms Destruction. We have the right apartment, and you’ll be meeting whatever god you like very shortly.”
The accent was English with a slight Manchester twang. So, not from Utah then.
He was talking, that was a good sign. Eva needed answers. She directed her question to Captain Flat-top.
“So if you’re not here to spread the word of God, what’s this all about?”
Eva thought she was rather calm, given the circumstances. This wasn’t the first time she’d had armed men burst into her bedroom. It was probably the third. Fourth? How depressing is that? She really needed to re-evaluate her life choices.
Captain Flat-top sneered at her like she was week-old milk. “You know why we’re here.”
Eva racked her foggy brain. She really didn’t. Should she? She’d done a lot of bad things in her life but had always managed to remember them. Man, had she drunk tequila last night? It had always been her downfall. She hadn’t had the fortitude for the stuff since a particularly drunken night in Playa del Carmen with an ex whose name she no longer mentioned; partially because he was the one who used to send armed goons into her bedroom. But he’d been locked away in a very deep hole for a year now, so who’d sent these guys?
Eva shook her head to dislodge thoughts of exes past. Bad idea. The headache doubled down. She breathed out slowly, righting herself.
“Alright then, if I’m to be executed in my underwear can you at least let me know why you’re going to shoot a lowly coffee-shop owner?”
Captain Flat-top actually scoffed. “Ms Destruction, we both know you’re much more than that. I would have thought working for MI6 would warrant a mention before coffee-shop girl.”
So, they were well-informed pushy Mormon terrorists, then.
“Don’t be so quick to judge, you haven’t tasted my coffee.” Her attempt at levity had zero effect. She folded her arms. “I’m more of a barista than Jane Bond.”
Captain Flat-top sighed, seeming bored with the conversation. “You know why we’re here.”
“I really don’t.”
His jaw tightened, as did the grip on his weapon. “You have to pay for screwing us over like this. You had to know this was coming.”
“Look, in the immortal words of many inept boyfriends, I had no idea it was coming.” Her reply was met with blank stares, also reminiscent of early boyfriends. “I really have no idea what you’re on about, fellas.”
“We’ll make it quick if you tell us where you sent the shipment.”
“Shipment of what?”
“This is your last chance. Tell us where you sent it and this will be over in a second. You don’t, we’ll be here for hours, and believe me, you’ll be begging for the sweet release of death.”
Eva sniffed indifferently. She had nothing to add. Especially for anyone who used the cliché “sweet release of death”. Playing dumb went against every instinct she had—she never downplayed her intelligence. Unfortunately, in this instance she didn’t even have the option.
Despite their adamance, Eva didn’t have the foggiest idea what they were on about. What had gone so wildly wrong to send this shit tornado into her home? Whatever the answer was, that was a question for another time. Eva had already moved on to Plan B.
A grunt from Captain Flat-top. “Fine”. He cocked his weapon.
What sort of twat enters a hostile arena with an unready weapon? Maybe these guys were more show than she thought.
She cracked her neck. “Whatever. I have a splitting headache, you’ll be doing me a favour. Can I at least put on some pants before you shoot me?”
A glance at Captain Flat-top’s compatriots didn’t prompt an answer.
Eva let out an exasperated sigh. “Dudes. Grant a girl a dying wish that she doesn’t cark it in her undies. It’s undignified.”
“Cark it?”
“It means to die.” Eva pushed herself up. “I can pop out and grab an Australian–English dictionary if you like.” She gestured at the door with her thumb.
Captain Flat-top pushed her roughly back onto the bed. “I don’t think so.” His face hardened like six-week-old playdough.
“Last chance.” Captain Flat-top took a step closer. “Tell us what you know and we’ll make this quick.”
“Sweetie, what I know would make your hair curl.”
Captain Flat-top didn’t seem to find this amusing.
Her stalling tactics were working, though. Eva had the basis of a plan in her murky brain. Well, more of a plan-ette. Plan-lite.
They hadn’t fired on her; that meant she was valuable alive, at least in the short term. That gave her an advantage. A very slight one.
“So, can I put on some pants or what?”
An indifferent motion to the end of the bed was her only reply. Taking this as confirmation, she slid along the bed towards the significant pile of clothes on the floor. Or, as Eva preferred to call it, the floordrobe. She wasn’t what you would call a domestic goddess.
From this new vantage point Eva was better able to assess the four men. Her foggy mind was finally starting to become clear, as was her Plan B. She pointed directly at Captain Flat-top.
“One.”
“One what?”
She smiled dismissively. “Oh, nothing.” Eva turned to the man behind him, did some mental arithmetic, then under her breath muttered, “Two.”
The men shifted on their feet uncertain
A redheaded guy at the back, built like an overstuffed He-Man, moved cautiously to his left. Eva clicked her fingers and pointed to where he had been standing. With a puzzled expression he obediently wandered back to his original position.
“What are you doing?” Captain Flat-top tilted his head.
“Planning.” She pointed at the redhead. “Karate, I assume, from your stance?”
He shook his head slightly. “Taekwondo.”
“Okay, cool. Three.”
She turned to the last of the four, a nasty piece of work with a nose so flat he was either a bungling rugby player or someone who’d had an exceptionally hard life. With a slanted grin he stared at her tats. Or something with a similar spelling.
Eva managed to deliver the first syllable of “Four” before Flat Face interrupted.
“I ain’t going fourth in anything.” He extracted a combat knife from his vest. “Like he said,” he motioned to Captain Flat-top, “you don’t give us what we need, we’ll be taking our sweet time.” He made a slow slicing motion aimed at her torso. “And I won’t be getting no sloppy seconds.”
Eva was horrified at the threat, but didn’t react. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. No man was allowed to see her vulnerable, especially this one.
Eva pointed at Flat Face and with a determined, unwavering voice said, “And four, you strap-on wearing shitgibbon.”
Flat Face’s face filled with rage but before he could take a step forward, Captain Flat-top yelled, “Stay where you are!” In a calmer voice, he added, “Don’t complicate this.”
Eva leaned down to retrieve her jeans. Captain Flat-top inched forward, within striking distance.
“No more chances, darlin’. Where did the shipment go?”
“No, this is your last chance to get the fuck out of my apartment unless you want to wind up with a face like him,” she said.
“You really are a stupid cow, aren’t you?” Flat Face spat.
“Halcyon can’t happen unless she tells us,” Captain Flat-top countered. “Let me handle this.”
Flat Face tucked his knife away. “We’re wasting time here. We need to get on with it.”
“I know, idiot.” Captain Flat-top shook his head. “I’m using threats to speed things up.”
Flat Face shook his head. “Yeah, they’re working brilliantly. The bitch looks terrified.”
“Could you just…” Captain Flat-top used a hand to point to Eva.
She wrapped her hands around the cuff of her jeans. “Hate to interrupt this witty repartee, but it seems we’re at an impasse. We may as well get the show started.”
“What show?”
“This one.”
Eva looped her jeans over Captain Flat-top’s head and yanked hard. His head thrust forward, directly into Eva’s waiting knee. Nose met kneecap with a nauseating pop, and his skull bounced back, spurting blood in an arc. He collapsed motionless on the floor.
Eva exhaled. “One.”
The rest of them were momentarily stunned.
Eva wasn’t. Using the first assailant’s body as a vault, she leapt up and connected the ball of her foot with number two’s nasal cavity. A second sickening crunch told her those hours of Krav Maga had paid off.
“Two.”
She rolled towards her third target, the redheaded taekwondo expert. As her hand hit the ground, she picked up the nearest object. She threw the bra in the air, and while his eyes focused on the frilly black item, she picked up her hefty metal jewellery case and launched it at his head. By the time she heard the cry of pain and the thud of his fallen body she was already on to her next victim.
“Three.”
That was where her plan fell apart. The last assailant, Flat Face, was out of position and ready for her. He didn’t seem too pleased she’d taken out all three of his comrades in as many seconds.
Up to this point she’d been spared because they needed information. Having taken out the majority of the squad, Eva had to accept that all bets were now off.
In the corner of her eye, she spotted what appeared to be a samurai sword sitting on her bookshelf. She didn’t own a samurai sword. Never had. Yet there it was, sitting on a stand. Had the armed goons brought it with them? To paraphrase The Untouchables, who the hell brings a sword to a gun fight?
In the split second she had, Eva realised she was facing off against an angry, armed, muscled thug – any weapon would do. The sword was likely ornamental, and duller than an accountant’s Christmas party, but she didn’t have a lot of options. She grabbed the hilt and flicked her arm straight. The scabbard flung off the end of the sword and flew across the room, aimed directly at the last remaining threat. He ducked, but too late. The scabbard glanced off his skull. It was far from a mortal blow, but it was enough.
The distraction bought Eva enough time to leap into the air, the ornamental sword held high above her head. As her feet landed before the hulking assailant, Eva brought the sword down with every ounce of strength she possessed. The blade sliced through his left hand like it was warm butter.
Flat Face collapsed, dropping his weapon, and clutched his now severed limb as it spurted blood into the air. His scream was the most pitiful Eva had ever heard.
So, the sword wasn’t ornamental, then.
Eva sucked in gasps of air as agonising moans swelled about the room.
That wasn’t the worst thing though.
She still didn’t have a coffee.
Eva watched as the last stretcher was carried out her front door. It had been quite the morning. Police, MI5 and MI6 agents had been crammed into her tiny apartment. It hadn’t been this crowded since her last New Year’s Eve party. Probably the same number of cops had turned up to both.
As soon as she’d taken out the last assailant, she’d called Paul. He’d been one of her closest friends for ages, and about a year ago had become her MI6 handler. Paul had arrived within minutes, along with Bishop, an MI6 operative Eva had worked with before. He was also a friend. Of sorts. In the rare times he wasn’t spouting innuendo-laden jibes, Bishop could actually be quite pleasant. Unfortunately, those times were few and far between.
The cops had wanted to take her jeans as evidence, but she’d talked them out of it. They were her only clean pair. She’d given her statement several times over. Once to Paul and Bishop, then to the local cops, then again to MI5’s Security Service in case the incident was terrorist related. She was getting sick of her own voice. Thankfully, Bishop had corralled the various agencies and given Eva some time to collect her thoughts. Of which she had many.
By the time the last ambulance left, MI5 had already been and gone. The majority of the police had left once they’d bagged up all the weapons. Only Paul, Bishop, Eva and a couple of cops remained.
“Should I have put it in milk?” Eva asked, sipping her third cup of coffee. “I read that somewhere, I think.”
“Put what in milk?” Paul asked.
“The hand. Aren’t you meant to put it in milk to preserve it?”
“Pretty sure that’s only for teeth, Evie.”
“Oh, right.” Eva glanced at Bishop. “Hey, if it’s not too much trouble, could you put my bra down, please?”
Bishop scowled. “It’s all evidence, Eva.”
“Evidence of what?”
“Evidently I had misjudged your cup size.”
“You really are a sexist pig, aren’t you?”
Bishop tutted. “Darling, not in front of the children.”
The two cops shook their heads, gave Eva their cards and left. Suddenly her place seemed huge.
Retrieving her phone from the nightstand, Eva saw that she had a text message. When she opened it, she saw that the message was addressed to someone called “Chérie” and seemed to convey a series of sex acts, depicted in emoticons. Huh. And people said romance was dead.
