A/N: Hello. This story is a bit different from some others. For those that have read my more recent fics, this falls into that universe (11th Hour, ADJ, Deadly Encounters, The Consortium). These events are mentioned by a few characters throughout "The Consortium" fic. I finally decided to write it out for fun. It takes place in the timeline between 11th Hour and ADJ.
I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing this!
CAPE TOWN
CHAPTER 1
With a groan, Phil started to wake. Something had pulled him from sleep and it took a moment for his mind to register that his cell phone was ringing.
Shifting a little, he pulled Alena tighter against his body. The warmth of her skin excited him and he buried his nose into the side of her neck, inhaling her scent and the lilac aroma of her shampoo. Maybe if he ignored the phone long enough it would stop and he could return to enjoying his time with his girlfriend.
Alena scooted back against him, a soft hum escaping her lips.
The phone didn't stop ringing.
"You should probably answer that," Alena said groggily. "Whoever it is clearly needs to speak with you."
"Doesn't mean I want to speak to them," Phil replied. But he planted a kiss on her neck then rolled away from her.
His phone was still in his pants pocket. His pants were somewhere on the floor next to the bed. Their date that evening had been a simple one, just a play and a semi-formal dinner. Phil had wanted to do something bigger for Alena, but his bank account had said otherwise. Alena didn't seem to mind; she'd said she was perfectly happy with just being with him and spending time with him. But he still wanted to do something nicer for her and soon. Most of the time Alena had been able to coordinate her trips to the states to see Phil in conjunction with her work travels. But this time she had come on her own, so Phil wanted it to be special.
But tonight, after they'd left the restaurant and arrived back to his apartment, they'd ended up in bed almost immediately.
With a sigh, he clicked on the lamp on his nightstand. Squinting against the sudden illumination, he spied his pants on the floor. Rummaging through the pile of clothes, he grabbed his jeans and retrieved the still ringing phone. A quick glance at the clock on his nightstand showed the time was just after 2 a.m.
Flopping onto his back on the bed, he answered the call just as Alena was resettling her head on his chest. Her fingers grazed lightly against his chest and abs muscles. Phil's eyes fluttered in response to her arousing touch.
"Corbin," he said into the small cell phone. He had to concentrate to keep his voice steady.
"A mission came up," the voice on the other end said. Phil recognized it as belonging to Agent Blake who was working the GOC that night.
"I'm on vacation for the next two weeks," Phil countered with annoyance. "My paperwork was approved by my section chief and signed off by Director Stephens. Isn't there someone else?"
"Stephens is the one that told me to call you," Blake said, her tone apologetic. "Sorry, Phil."
Phil sighed heavily. Alena's hand had come to rest on his hip.
Phil pressed his eyes shut. "When?"
"He wants you here within two hours ready to go," Blake reported.
"Fine. I'll be there." Phil hung up. He tossed the phone onto the nightstand.
"What's going on?" Alena raised her head and looked into his eyes.
"I don't know for sure, but I've been recalled for a mission," Phil answered. "I'm sorry, Alena. This isn't fair to you. Maybe it'll be something short. Or maybe I can convince my boss to send someone else. They've known about this vacation time for months now."
There was a brief moment of silence before Alena broke it. "When do you have to go in?"
"They want me there in two hours." Phil told her.
Alena responded by kissing his chest. That made Phil smile and when she pushed the blanket back and climbed on top of him, Phil's smile turned into a wide grin. Leaning down, Alena's hips rolled against his and he groaned when their mouths met. His hands framed her face as their kiss deepened, their tongues searching and exploring.
They continued to kiss and caress each other. Sometimes Phil's tongue slipped to her neck. Sometimes she found his earlobe with her lips. And when they finally parted, Phil was fully aroused.
Alena sat up, her hands planted firmly on his chest. Phil's eyes explored her. Her firm breasts with her piqued nipples; her smooth skin and toned legs.
With a smile, Alena purred, "We have plenty of time before you have to leave."
Phil didn't argue. He concentrated completely on pleasing his girlfriend.
"Sorry about the recall," Blake said.
Phil tossed his gym bag into his chair at his cubicle in the bullpen. Blake had been waiting for him to arrive. Besides her, there was only a couple other agents in the area. At this time of night (or early morning depending on how one looked at it) the agents on duty were in the GOC. It was only 4 a.m. so most agents wouldn't be arriving for another 2 or 3 hours.
"Not your fault," Phil replied.
The love making session he and Alena had shared had been one of the most intense of their relationship to date. He'd worked hard to make it last, to make himself last. And the things they'd done, how they explored each other so intimately, had made Phil's orgasm one of the most powerful he'd ever had. And from how Alena had responded, he knew it had been the same for her own reaction as well.
And when it was over, Phil had half a mind to say "fuck it" and not go to work. Take the reprimand. Take the getting fired. All he wanted was to be with Alena.
But she'd prompted him to get up and get ready, reminding him of his duty to his country, not just his duty to her as a boyfriend. Phil had laughed, kissed her again, and then got ready. And while he'd showered and dressed, she'd brewed him some fresh coffee and made him a breakfast sandwich.
When he kissed her again on his way out of the apartment, he promised he'd make it up to her. And he insisted that she stay for the rest of her time off because he'd hoped to be back before she had to return to Prague. He said he'd check in with her if and when he could, but insisted she not worry about him. He'd be fine. She'd promise to stay until her flight and hoped he'd be back before then. They'd kissed again and then she pushed him out the door, telling him he was already at risk of being late. He'd made it to office just in time.
"Stephens is waiting for you in his office," Blake said, bringing Phil's mind back to the present.
"Yea for me." Phil rolled his eyes.
"Is your girlfriend going to stay? Want me to check up with her while you're gone?" Blake asked.
Phil grabbed his notebook and pen. "She is. At least until her flight back home. And that would be nice of you, Blake. Thanks."
"Bannon should be back in a couple days," Blake said. "We'll take Alena out for dinner and sightseeing."
Phil nodded. "Thanks."
He made his way up to the Director's office.
The temperature was perfect. A cool breeze drifting in off the sea. Phil had never been to Cape Town, South Africa before, but from what he'd seen so far, he was impressed.
Seated at the outside pool bar of the Lagoon Beach Hotel and Spa, Phil took in his surroundings with keen interest. Dressed lightly in tan slacks and a white button down shirt, he also wore dark sunglasses and an expensive silver watch. His handgun was perfectly concealed in a hidden holster tucked against the small of his back. He had another handgun, an additional ammo, in the gym bag that sat on the floor next to his bar stool.
He was posing as a young Slovak criminal named Stefan Kral. Kral was here to buy military grade weapons from a German named Rolf Ubel. His contact didn't know he was an American intelligence agent. Phil was not to make any arrests, simply buy the weapons, transport them back to the safe house and then I-1 would move in and make the arrests with a full force of agents that were due to arrive soon.
Sipping a local beer, he waited for his contact to arrive. While he waited, he couldn't help admiring the views; both of the scenery and of the number of ladies that were enjoying the pool. Even though he was currently dating, and in his mind madly in love with Alena Stasny, he was still a man, and he couldn't help but look. Look, but never touch. That was his mantra.
But Stefan Kral would look and touch. When he was single he didn't mind this type of undercover work, but now that he had a girlfriend, an amazing girlfriend, it bothered him. Yet he still had to play the part.
And the women seemed to be taking him in as well. A number of bikini clad ladies of multiple ethnicities, with amazing curves, and beautiful hair shot him seductive glances; suggestive smiles. Two climbed out of the pool. Dripping wet, they made a show of walking purposefully past Phil then waggled their fingers, waving, at him. He smiled back.
They took it as a sign. Not bothering to towel off, they giggled to each other as they approached. Shoulder to shoulder, they came over to Phil and smiled. "How about some drinks?" One asked. They were both Caucasian, a brunette and a redhead, and had Russian accents. Their mannerisms made their intentions clear. Kral wouldn't care. And if he was being watched, he had to play his part.
He nodded to the bartender, who had come over and waited. The women ordered and when their drinks arrived they sipped and chewed on the straws suggestively.
"So what's brings you here, handsome?" The second woman, the redhead, asked.
Phil smirked. He's worked on his fake Slovak accent the entire flight over. From now until he got home he'd have to use it.
"Work," he answered.
"Awww," the brunette pouted. "No time for pleasure?"
Phil slid a hand over her hip and pulled her between his legs. "There is always time for pleasure. And the more the merrier, I say."
The women grinned at each other.
A man came up beside him and took a seat. He cleared his throat.
Phil frowned. He held the brunette against him for a second then let go. "I'll find you later tonight. I have business to take care of now."
The women exchanged glances. The brunette leaned down, ran her hand over his neck then whispered into his ear. She made sure her lips brushed his skin when she whispered her room number to him then added, "We'll be waiting…eagerly."
With that they took their drinks and left, but not without stealing glances back at him, winking, and continuing to make suggestive motions with the straws of their frozen margaritas.
Phil glanced at the man briefly before turning back to his beer for another swig. "You're late."
"I imagine you managed to occupy your time, friend," the man replied. His colonial accent pegged him as one of the educated upper elites of Cape Town. He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the two women then back at Phil. "It appears you've already made plans for this evening."
Phil smirked. "I will definitely be occupied."
The man shot him a knowing grin. "I imagine you will, Mister Kral."
Phil replied, "I plan to enjoy my time in your city. Thoroughly."
The man nodded. "Yes."
Phil gave him the once over. A fortyish year old black man with impeccable skin, pearly white teeth and fine clothing, Themba Dube had done well for himself since the end of apartheid. He wore a number of gold rings and a Rolex watch. Phil imagined Dube also made a handsome amount of money as an informant for any number of interested parties in South Africa.
He also knew he couldn't trust Themba Dube. South Africa was still a dangerous place. The power shift at the end of apartheid had benefitted many, but also hurt even more. In the end, the rich had stayed rich and the poor had gotten poorer.
Like just about anywhere else in the fucking world.
Phil finished his beer. Leaving some cash under the bottle, he stood and secured his gym bag. "We ready to go?"
"You are in that much of a hurry to see The Flats?" Dube chuckled.
"I'm here for a reason, Themba," Phil countered. "And now that you're here, I'd like to get on with it."
"So be it, friend." Dube sighed. "But I must warn you, The Flats are no place for a foreigner. Especially after dark."
"Well, then let's get our business done before the sun goes down," Phil retorted.
"Yes, let's do so." Dube acquiesced. "Follow me."
A little over an hour later, Dube maneuvered his SUV through the roads of the shantytown known as The Flats. Residents of The Flats had suffered the most over the decades, unable to escape poverty and crime, they lived their lives as best they could. Lawlessness reigned here and it was the perfect meeting spot for Phil to make the deal with the weapon's supplier he was supposed to meet.
Men, women, and children went about their business, but some of the braver kids chased after Dube's dusty SUV.
"Fucking gutter rats," Dube grumbled.
Phil gave the man a look, but said nothing. He was posing as a weapon's buyer; a man that would be unconcerned with the suffering of the less fortunate. In fact, as Stefan Kral, he'd have the same feelings as Dube.
"Let's just get this over with," Phil replied. "I'm ready to get this filth off of me. And I don't want to keep my evening entertainment waiting too long."
Dube laughed. He pulled the vehicle up in front of a shack made of metal. Two men loitered out front on one side of a crooked, rotten door. Phil didn't see any weapons, but that didn't mean they didn't have some.
"What a shithole," Phil grumbled. Grabbing the gym bag from the floor between his feet he stepped out and slammed the SUV door shut. He was dripping with sweat.
Dube led the way. The two men gave them both a look which Phil returned in kind. They said nothing and went about their business of smoking cigarettes and drinking.
The shack was a makeshift bar. A few tables with chairs were close to the door. A surprisingly well-kept billiards table occupied most of the center of the room with the bar tucked into a dark corner on the right. Beyond the pool table was some more tables and chairs and a door-less threshold that led somewhere deeper into the maze of corrugated metal structures. A number of fans moved hot, musty air around, but did little to cool the place off.
Immediately Phil was on alert. He didn't like this place at all.
Dube led him to the back where a large, muscular black man sat. He chewed on a half of a cigar and drank a clear liquid out of glass bottle with no label. Phil knew it wasn't water; he could smell the reek of homemade booze when he approached. He wore old camouflage fatigue pants and a black shirt. Over the shirt he wore a shoulder holster with a large semi-automatic handgun snapped into the holster. He was clearly a gang leader or some former warlord.
The two men from outside entered and lingered by the pool table. Phil made a mental note of where they stood.
"You must be Stefan Kral." The man waved at the chair across from him. "My name is Demarco Coetzee."
Phil didn't sit.
The big man poured himself another shot. He poured one for Phil and pushed it across the table. "I do not know the ways of you Slovaks, but I doubt you'd be so rude. Sit."
Phil made a show of sitting, but not liking it. He didn't pull his chair back under the table.
"I was told I'd be meeting with Rolf Ubel." Phil sneered between Coetzee and Dube. "I don't appreciate being lied to."
"No one lied, Mister Kral," Coetzee stated. "You meet with me. Then you meet with him."
"I don't have time for this," Phil said. "Just show me the weapons and I'll be on my way."
"Do you have the money?"
Phil hefted the gym bag. He unzipped it a little, flashing the bundles of cash inside. "Where's the weapons?"
Coetzee snapped his fingers. Two more men entered from the hallway. One carried unloaded AK-47s and the other had two LAWs.
"The rest?" Phil said.
"Out back," Coetzee replied. "I could not bring the larger Stingers inside. You understand? Space and all that."
Phil scowled. "Totals?"
"200 rifles, 42 LAWs, and 12 Stingers missiles. And over 100,000 rounds of 7.62mm ammunition."
"I'm supposed to pay Ubel," Phil said.
"Yes, you will," the man chuckled.
Phil flinched. He didn't like that tone.
In a flash, the two men at the pool table attacked. Phil was already on the move, drawing his weapon from the holster at his back. He fired, taking one of the men out, but the other sidestepped and hit Phil in the knee with a cricket bat.
His leg buckled and Phil went down. He tried to recover, but the two other goons had him by the arms and the bat was jammed into his gut. They tore his pistol from his grip.
"What is this?" Phil choked.
"You tell me," Coetzee said. In a flash, the man drew his own weapon from his shoulder holster. He pointed it at Phil. "You are not a Slovak."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Phil spat.
"You should find more reliable confidants." Coetzee turned, pointed his handgun at Dube and fired. The round slammed into Dube's chest, piercing his heart and killing him instantly. The other man never had time to react.
Casually, Dube's murderer strode over to his body and stripped him of his jewelry and watch, jamming the items into the cargo pockets of his pants. He looked back at Phil.
Phil struggled and was rewarded with a swing of the bat against his lower back. He cried out from the flash of pain.
Coetzee laughed. "Not such a tough guy now. But do not fear, I am not going to kill you."
"I'm not afraid of you." Phil spat on the floor.
"You are more valuable alive," the warlord responded.
"What?"
"He means to me."
Phil careened his neck. The man he was after, the German arms dealer Rolf Ubel, appeared in the doorway Coetzee's men had previously walked through.
"What is this?" Phil asked. "This was all arranged!"
"It was," Ubel nonchalantly examined his pedicured nails, "but unbeknownst to you, I had a better offer."
More men scrambled in behind their boss. Quickly, one grabbed Phil's chin while another slipped a gag over his head and into his mouth.
Phil's mind raced. He was in trouble. Deep trouble. And he knew things were about to get a whole lot worse.
"You see, Mr. Kral," Ubel taunted, "I know you are not who you say you are. But what I do not know is who you really are. But I am not too concerned. You will tell me. You will tell me everything."
Phil tried to scream. Tried to make one last attempt to free himself from his captors. He might not make it out of the bar alive if he could run, but at least he wouldn't die on his knees. But they held him in a death grip. Ubel came forward. One of the men handed Phil's own handgun to the German. Phil glared as Ubel hefted it in his hand, then flipped it over and smacked Phil across the face with the grip. Phil waivered from the blow, immediately he felt warm blood streaming down the side of his forehead towards his eyes.
A moment later a canvass bag was slipped over his head. He struggled to stay awake as his mind went fuzzy. The last thing he recalled was being dragged across the grimy floor.
To Be Continued…