The Rookie?s Guide to Espionage: An Eva Destruction Espresso Shot Read online

  The Rookie’s Guide to Espionage

  An Eva Destruction Espresso Shot

  Dave Sinclair

  Contents

  The Rookie’s Guide to Espionage

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  About Dave Sinclair

  The Rookie’s Guide to Espionage

  An Eva Destruction Espresso Shot

  A rookie spy. Europe on a knife edge. A distinct lack of coffee.

  Eva Destruction is back in her first ever assignment. Straight out of the MI6 academy, Eva is on the trail of a supposedly dead fellow agent. It’s a nothing assignment given to a rookie, but when suicide bombers hit a NATO conference the mission is kicked into high gear.

  Eva chases a carnage of gunfire and explosions across Europe in search of the mysterious shadowy organization, ‘The Tempest’. The Rookie’s Guide to Espionage is a high-octane thrill ride that will keep you guessing until the very last page.

  What others have said about Eva Destruction:

  “As if Stephanie Plum had James Bond’s (Australian) love child...I loved it. It’s fun, it’s funny, it’s clever. I want a movie of this now. Brilliant.”

  “An incredibly entertaining spy, action, murder, mayhem, that is packed full of blatant and subtle humour, and laugh-out-loud innuendo by the bucketful.”

  Chapter One

  Eva thought she’d been sent on a wild goose chase.

  Then the bombs exploded.

  She had been sitting outside a quaint little café in the Old Town part of Lyon, on the phone to Nancy, watching tourists leisurely traverse the winding cobbled streets. Her best friend was having trouble understanding why Eva was in France.

  “Nance, I’m at a conference. It was a last-minute thing. Sorry I missed drop-the-pen-down-Patrick’s-butt-crack Tuesday at the pub, but a spot opened up and I took it.”

  “Since when do baristas have conferences?” Nancy asked in her sweet Irish lilt. “What are you going to learn? The latest bean technology? What’s new in mugs? How to grow pretentious facial hair?”

  There was no way Eva could tell her best friend she was in Lyon because she’d accidentally joined MI6. Eva was now only a part-time barista. The remainder of her time was spent saving the world. Well, okay, just that one time. So far. The rest appeared to involve a lot of paperwork, and learning how to kill people with pencils. Her instructors were very focused on pencils for some reason.

  Eva was in France in preparation for the NATO summit. Although her mission was slightly less sexy than that. There were reports a former MI6 operative had been spotted in the square where Eva now sat. This had piqued the interest of MI6 for several reasons. One, the operative hadn’t left the employ of MI6 on the best of terms. Two, his appearance seemed oddly timed, given the impending summit. And lastly, he was meant to be dead.

  Someone matching his description had been spotted by a member of the CIA and the report had been passed on to MI6. There were so many spies in the city, Eva wondered if there were any actual residents left. Although apparently there weren’t enough MI6 operatives to spare for something this trivial, hence why they had assigned Eva.

  Her mission was to search for the former operative and then, when her superiors were satisfied there had been no further sightings, head back to SIS Headquarters at Vauxhall Cross in London.

  Eva was sure she’d been assigned because it was a bullshit lead, but an assignment was an assignment. A once-dead operative in the vicinity of a NATO meeting was quite a coincidence. MI6 didn’t like coincidences. Or swearing. Or tattoos. Or back talking. It was amazing Eva had a job at all.

  “You know I love my husband more than pizza,” Nancy said, “but my god, sometimes I think he could be outsmarted by a large capricciosa.”

  Eva laughed. Nancy always made her laugh.

  “What’s he done now?” Eva asked. “Is this about the amazingly good deal from that dodgy Latvian guy? Did he end up getting the side of lamb?”

  “Oh, he got it alright. And it was a side. Plus another side, and the front and the arse,” Nancy said, sounding equally annoyed and amused.

  “So… what did he buy?”

  “A lamb. A whole one. A whole live one.”

  “What?”

  “Right now, he’s in our lounge room eating a cushion. We’re calling him Steve.”

  Eva laughed again. It was the perfect cover. To passers-by she appeared like any other tourist talking on the phone to a friend. Because that’s exactly what she was.

  The sun glistened off the golden statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary atop the Basilica of Notre-Dame de Fourvière. It was a perfect day.

  Until the explosions.

  The first explosion blew apart the marketplace. The deafening roar came a split second after the flash, then debris, smoke and flames spewed into the sky. Fifty metres from where Eva was situated, hell itself was unleashed.

  Eva realised she still had the phone to her ear.

  “Are you still there? What’s going on?” Nancy was yelling. “That sounded like an explosion.”

  Eva’s focus snapped to what had to be done next. “Coffee machine malfunction. I’ll call you back.” She hung up without waiting for Nancy’s reply.

  Disorientated, Eva tried to process the event. Her first instinct was to run toward danger, a characteristic that often got her in trouble. People scrambled in all directions. Many ran from the growing plume of dread. Others, braver ones, ran towards it, to help those who had been innocently buying fresh produce mere seconds before. Chaos reigned.

  The screams were the worst. Fear mixed with agony, and cries for loved ones no longer able to answer their anguished pleas. The only sirens were those of car alarms. The other sort would come soon enough.

  Eva was on her feet; the shock had worn off. She was in fight mode, ready to sprint into the fray. Her training kicked in, and she took her first tentative step towards the carnage.

  The second explosion blew her off her feet. Far closer than the first, the shockwave sent Eva tumbling. The third came seconds later. The explosions wiped out those who had rushed towards the madness, cutting them down in a blinding detonation. Market stalls and humans alike were torn apart, engulfed in fireballs of terrible force. The screams intensified.

  Eva had witnessed the cause of the final blast. Amid the carnage, a young man who couldn’t have been older than sixteen calmly pressed a button attached to a backpack. An instant later, he’d been vaporised.

  The three suicide bombs had decimated the peaceful tourist precinct of Old Town Lyon. All that was left was devastation, the dead and the dying.

  Eva had to help the wounded. She got to her feet and broke into a run, weaving through the throng of terrified people scrambling away from the chaos. One woman clasping an expensive handbag to her chest slammed into Eva, dislodging the phone from her hand. It clattered on the cobblestones, shattering the screen.

  Eva pushed on, leaving her phone behind. People needed her immediate care. Headquarters could wait.

  Amid the terrified mass, one person caught Eva’s attention. More precisely, one person’s hand. A young man, roughly the same age as the youth who had detonated the last bomb, ran towards Eva, his thumb frantically pressing a red button attached by wires to his backpack.

  A fourth bomber.

  Eva drew her pistol and skidded to a halt. P
lanting her back foot, she fired three times into the air. Even in the frenzied rush, the crowd froze. Except one person. The bomber sprinted away from Eva, snaking through the now-stationary crowd.

  Eva aimed at his head. Given he had an explosive device strapped to his back, it seemed the safer option. Her gun traced his movements, waiting for a clean shot.

  Ahead, she spotted was a gap in the crowd. Eva would have her chance. But as the bomber reached the edge of the gap, a bearded man carrying his daughter stepped into the line of fire. Eva lowered her gun, unable to take the shot.

  Ball nuggets.

  Eva broke into a run, determined to not lose her prey. She followed him into the narrow side street.

  Her first priority was to make sure he didn’t sacrifice any more innocent lives. Plus, he could provide vital information if taken alive. Eva thought back to why she’d been in the square in the first place. Her mission had changed. Eva was now on the tail of a terrorist. And she was gaining on him.

  Lyon was one of the worst cities in the world for a street pursuit. The city was a labyrinth. One Eva didn’t know. Old Town had over 300 secret passageways, most behind unlocked doors. Despite this, the bomber’s course was amateurishly straight. No double backs, no detours to mask his intent. It was like he’d been shot out of a cannon.

  So much for a cruisy first assignment. Having been at MI6 for a year, Eva had only recently graduated to field work. She was still learning the ropes. Turned out there was more to spycraft than knowing how to mix a martini.

  The kid was either unfit or the backpack was heavier than it appeared. Probably both. Good.

  A straight section of paved street stretched out before them. Eva had her chance. She stopped and lined him up in her sights, then took the shot, followed by two more in quick succession. All three missed their mark. Her prey didn’t break stride, and tore around the corner. She recommenced her pursuit.

  Cursing herself, Eva sped up. She was normally an excellent shot—just shy of Olympic qualifying, apparently. This was due in part to her MI6 training, but mostly to her emotionally abusive douchebag ex-boyfriend, who used to own a firing range. Running and shooting with any semblance of accuracy was next to impossible. A steady hand and controlled breathing were key. Eva had no such luxuries.

  The pursuit surely hadn’t gone undetected. The explosions had rocked Lyon. A plume of ugly black smoke hung over the city like a portentous spectre. A young man wearing a backpack with wires hanging off it, being chased by a woman with a gun would surely have been called in. Eva had to make sure she reached the bomber first. The last thing she needed was a trigger-happy gendarme shooting a terrorist and accidentally exploding another bomb—and her.

  Eva ran on.

  She passed cafés and high-end boutiques. She flew past couples wearing scarves and berets. If she spotted someone carrying groceries with a baguette hanging out of the bag she’d have to yell at them for being a cliché. Eva shook her head. She had to focus.

  She darted through the narrow cobblestoned streets, her hours at the gym paying off nicely. Her quarry was a mere 30 metres ahead now, and she was gaining on him with every stride. The young man threw a panicked glance over his shoulder.

  Eva may have been a freshly minted spy, but she was accustomed to danger. Explosions and gunfire were all too familiar—in fact, she’d been shot at far less since becoming a spy. That was a concerning thought; one she’d have to digest another time.

  Rounding a corner, the bomber skidded and diverted his course. Something had spooked him. As she turned the corner, Eva saw why. Two police cars had pulled up and blocked his path. Gendarmes were clambering out, fumbling for their guns.

  The bomber scrambled sideways, watching Eva approach. The three young frightened gendarmes traced his erratic movements with their guns. Their eyes were wide, fear etched on their features.

  “Arrêt!”, one of the young police officers yelled, his voice cracking.

  The bomber didn’t hesitate. He sprinted toward a side street and away from the Eva. The gendarmes traced his movements and aimed.

  They were going to shoot him in the back. More specifically, in the backpack. The one that contained a very explodey bomb. Not only would they lose their only living bomber, they’d take out everyone in the area, including themselves.

  The cops hadn’t noticed Eva’s advance. With only a split second to act, Eva made a rash decision. Her forte.

  With a panicked eye on the terrorist, one of the cops yelled, “Tirer!” and the rest tensed.

  Still sprinting, Eva levelled her gun. Her target bounced in her vision, making precision virtually impossible, but she did her best to control her aim. Three shots in quick succession roughly hit their target. The front right tyre of the police car exploded, collapsing the front of the vehicle. All three cops turned their guns on her.

  At least she had their attention.

  The bomber careened toward the corner. Eva followed. She flung her gun arm backwards and fired into the windscreen of the cop car. The three gendarmes dove for cover.

  Over her shoulder, Eva yelled, “Pardon!” and waved an apologetic hand.

  She silently prayed the police would be slow to react. Eva didn’t want to wind up shot in the back instead. Not only would they be shooting the wrong person, but they’d mess up her smooth, unblemished skin. Eva was quite fond of her bikini bod; bullet holes would definitely cramp her style. Then again, so would death.

  Thankfully, no shots rang out. As she skidded around the corner, she saw that the bomber was still within striking distance, though the gap had widened. As if suddenly noticing the labyrinthine streets, the terrorist diverted from his straight path and tried a nearby door. It could have led to a hidden passageway, or it could just as easily have been someone’s garage. He lucked out and dove in.

  The bomber must have assumed he’d lose his pursuer in the warrens of the city, and she’d simply give up.

  He didn’t know Eva.

  She tore the door open, raised her gun and scanned the low passageway for threats. It was empty. Ten metres down, it split into three. Two of the paths shone with sunlight, the other was dark as a crypt. Eva slowed her pace and controlled her breathing, focused on sound; any sound.

  At first there was nothing but the slight sound of the city. Traffic, the faint sounds of sirens. Then, the slightest shuffle, the movement of a shoe, or a backpack against a wall.

  Got you, you little cockwomble.

  The darkest passageway. Of course. She edged her way down, listening intently, her pace careful, gun at the ready.

  Eva pulled back the hammer of her pistol, but it was all for show. She was a good agent, she’d counted her shots. She was out of bullets.

  No ammunition, no phone, no backup. If only she had a pencil.

  Her eyes finally adjusted to the semi-darkness. There he was, wedged against the wall like a spider. Just like a spider, being cornered didn’t make him any less deadly. Eva wasn’t about to take her eyes off him.

  Her weapon raised, she edged forward, mind racing. Her options were limited. The bomber relaxed his shoulders ever so slightly, perhaps suspecting what her hesitation meant.

  His face descended into a scowl. “You should go home while you can. Stay there for a long time. A war is here. You are not prepared to withstand the oncoming tempest.”

  Eva stopped her advance. “That’s where you’re wrong.” Her smile made him take a step back. “I am the oncoming tempest.”

  “Mere words. What could possibly make you the tempest?”

  “We haven’t been properly introduced. The name is Destruction. First name Eva.”

  The bomber grunted. “Eva Destruction? You sound like one of those Bond girls.”

  “Been one of those, don’t recommend it.”

  Amusement drained from his face. “What do you think is going to happen now, little girl?”

  “Little girl?” Eva’s hackles were up.

  “You with the gun, pretending to be like
a man.”

  “You’re right, this espionage stuff is really hard. My vagina keeps getting in the way.”

  A derisive snort. “So you are one of these forceful women, then? One that demands everything?”

  “No. I’m a woman. Welcome to the 21st century. We have smartphones, gay marriage and, like, eleventy billion ramen restaurants. Enjoy your stay.”

  “You have a very smart mouth.”

  “It’s kind of my thing. Now, back on topic, what do I think is going to happen? I’d like to say you put down the backpack and we go have a hot chocolate, but I’m guessing that’s not on the agenda.”

  “It is not.”

  “Not a hot chocolate fan?”

  The bomber grasped the red button, but still nothing happened. Unintentionally, Eva let out a snicker. That only made him press the button more frantically.

  She don’t know what three-year-old had constructed the bomb, but their soldering was as useless as the g in lasagne. She eyed the dangling wires, thankful for their ineptitude.

  The bomber followed her gaze. His head snapped around, trying to inspect the backpack, like a dog chasing its tail. He managed to grasp two of the dangling wires, a menacing sneer smeared across his mouth.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  As the youth twisted the wires together, Eva backed up. A beep from the bowels of the backpack didn’t bode well. The bomber grinned at Eva as he fumbled for the red button.

  Eva turned and ran.

  She managed to open the ancient door and leap outside before the explosion engulfed her and she was propelled forward. The world turned dirty orange and black, and the edges of Eva’s vision became ashen. Flaming debris, screams and smoke wrapped around one another in a terrifying cacophony of the senses.