Massive Attack (A Guy Niava Thriller Book 1) by Dana Arama (e reader for manga .txt) 📗

“According to Jonathan’s files, they consisted of trading in weapons, and not just any weapons…” and after a hesitant pause I added, “Special sniper rifles.”

Laura stared at me and mumbled, “I understand that you’ve already had time to investigate in depth about this list.” She took a deep breath and continued, “I have to point out that the Albanian mafia definitely does not deal in firearms. That is the expertise of the Russian mafia, also known as the Red Mafia. With the dissolution of the Soviet Union, many army bases became markets for selling the firearms they had. Soviet firearms, Soviet soldiers, the Soviet mafia and no one dares cross their line.”

“And if we assume that there is weapon trading? What does it mean?”

“As far as I’m concerned, this poses an essential problem. If that is true, we are in for a war of extermination between mafias and your Jonathan is right in the middle.”

Her news didn’t cheer me up at all. I took a big gulp of the beer and asked, “What did you mean when you said we’ll follow the money trail?”

“I know that Jonathan is our first target. We have to find him healthy and in one piece and bring him home. But besides that, there is another target: to find the terrorist group buying the weapons, in order to prevent the terror attack.”

“Do you know who David Gideoni is?”

“I don’t know him personally. I just know he spoke to my superior.”

“Did Gideoni explain how complicated it might be? About the terrorist group?”

“According to what Gideoni explained to my boss, who explained it to me, there could be a massive attack. He spoke about an attack on several Jewish Israeli targets simultaneously and most probably on American soil.” Laura threw not more than a hint of a smile in the air between us, but it was enough to break her icy look. “A massive attack on our soil is something we cannot let slide quietly. Not only because of the damage it will cause, not even because of the memories of September 11th. We can’t allow it, because here, in the home of the free and the brave, we cherish the personal security of our guests.” Laura’s scornful look returned and with that, her alienated facade, then she added as an afterthought, “Speaking of our guests and their well-being, just a few weeks ago an Iranian official was assassinated. I could swear that if we added a beard to your face, lengthened your hair and dressed you in a jalabiya, you could be one of the French citizens suspected of involvement in this affair and who visited the hotel that very morning. Is it coincidental?”

Just as I was about to deny what we both knew to be correct, her cell rang and we both sat bolt upright. “Ashton,” she answered shortly and listened. After she hung up, she reported that there was nothing new. Jonathan hadn’t been found in warehouses by the port. They were still trying to locate a car belonging to Lenika with the help of the cameras. They were checking every vehicle found in the vicinity of the warehouses, and it would take time to go through them all.

I ignored her previous question and asked, “Why did we look there?”

“Because the uncle has a legal transportation business of relocations and furniture removal company. He works mainly on the Europe-United States shipping route. There are containers and warehouses, and there are also offices. Jonathan wasn’t found in any one of them.”

Murat Lenika,

Somewhere in New York City, November 11,

2015, 4:15 p.m.

The first time he asked, ‘Where are you taking me?’ he received a slap. I watched him through the rear-view mirror. He sat between two gorilla-like men, clinging to his black bag. “Aldo, check what he’s got in his bag,” I ordered.

Aldo snatched the bag away from the boy and silently opened it up. He pulled out the laptop, placed it on the van’s floor, and turned the bag upside down. A cable, a brown wallet and an object I couldn’t make out fell onto the van’s floor. Aldo picked up the wallet and obscure object and handed it over to me. I took only the wallet. I pointed at the object and asked, “What is this thing?”

The boy didn’t answer.

I signaled to Aldo with a slight nod of the head and he punched the kid in the face.

The kid put both his hands on his face, touching the spot where he was punched. He looked miserably at Aldo. He was trying very hard not to cry.

“When I ask a question, you answer,” I said quietly. “What is that thing that Aldo is holding?”

“It’s like a disc-on-key but with a very large memory chip.”

I opened the wallet and started emptying out its contents. There wasn’t much there. A hundred and twenty dollars, a student ID from a school in Philadelphia, a special pass from some local university and a state ID card. There was also a picture of him standing with his arm around a young girl’s shoulders. There wasn’t anything special besides the fact that the two of them were wearing identical white T-shirts with the Israeli flag on it.

I held the picture and weighed my options. If the boy was Israeli, he could be worth a lot to the terrorist group, but for me he might prove to be a piece of insurance, if that little hooker wasn’t enough compensation and if this deal became complicated. If my name came up as a problematic factor. Would he be worth as much as the weapons if I couldn’t deliver the sniper rifles? I wasn’t sure, but this deal could include the Russian mafia. A deal where I would be the liaison and earn the trust of both sides. The kid could be the bonus and compensation for any minor tangles in the plan.

“Boss,” Alex said from