Spy for Hire Read Online Free

and French and Italian. So he knew he was on safe ground pretending not to understand Turkish.
    Mark repeated in Kyrgyz, “I will help you!”
    He saw the tousled black hair of a child poking up above the rear seat of the Camry.
    In Turkish, the younger man said, “Leave us, sir. I tell you, we are not in need of assistance.”
    Mark climbed out of his car. “Do you have a spare tire?” He eyed both men, looking for odd bulges that might indicate one ofthem was carrying a concealed firearm. He saw none, but something about the way the older man in the suit carried himself—a hint of arrogance that Mark had found to be common in people who were confident in their ability to defend themselves—raised his hackles.
    “Sir,” said the older man in Turkish. “I must insist that you leave us.”
    Mark glanced up and down the road. No cars were visible in either direction. He stuck his hand through the open driver’s side window of his Mercedes, grabbed his rifle, and pointed it at the older man.
    “Both of you on the ground, hands clasped behind your necks.” He spoke in Turkish now too. His tone and expression had changed from that of village idiot to one of bored, steely competence.
    “We are guests in your country, sir. This is no way to treat guests.”
    Muslims were known for showing deference to guests. Given that Kyrgyzstan was a Muslim country, it wasn’t a bad angle to work, Mark thought. In theory, that is. If a random act of highway robbery was what you were trying to avoid.
    Mark pointed to the shoulder of the road. “This isn’t my country, neither of you are my guests, and I’m not here to rob you. Both of you, on the ground. You can use your hands to lower yourselves but keep them in sight at all times and once you’re down I want them clasped behind your necks.”
    The two men glanced at each other, then at Mark. Inside the car, the child was quiet.
    “What is it you want?” said the younger man. “If it is money—”
    “I just told you what I want,” said Mark.
    “There is a child in the car.”
    “I’m aware of that.”
    “I cannot leave him alone in the car while you—”
    Mark was getting tired of this conversation. “You’re not in a position to make demands.”
    The older man in the suit glared at Mark with an unyielding stare as the younger man rushed forward. Mark backed up, aimed quickly, and shot the younger man in the foot. It all happened in less than a second.
    The older man didn’t even so much as flinch, or show any concern whatsoever, as his colleague began hopping on one leg, howling in pain.
    “Both of you on the ground.” Mark watched as they awkwardly lowered themselves into the dirt. He hadn’t wanted to use the gun. Not with the kid in the car. Not without knowing the full extent of what was really going on. “Spread your legs wide.”
    “I have a wallet,” said the older man. “Inside is over three thousand dollars, US bills. Take it, and leave us.”
    “Hand it over.” Mark noted that the older man wore a watch on his right wrist, which meant he was likely a lefty. “Reach for it, slowly, with your right hand. No sudden moves.”
    The man did so, then began to open his wallet and extract the money.
    “Hand the whole thing over.”
    Mark grabbed the wallet when it was offered up and flipped it open. It was stuffed with cash—US hundred-dollar bills.
    But what Mark really found interesting was the driver’s license. It was green and white, with a photo of the man in the lower left-hand corner, and was covered with Arabic script—except in the top right section, where, in English, it read KINGDOM OF SAUDI ARABIA, MINISTRY OF INTERIOR, DRIVING LICENSE .
    “Huh,” said Mark, eyeing both men. “You both Saudis?”
    Neither man answered.
    “Is the kid a Saudi?”
    Still no response.
    Mark used his phone to snap a photo of the driver’s license, and then tossed the wallet, and the cash inside it, back to the older Saudi.
    He pointed to the younger man.