Papal Plunder: an Action Thriller: Alex Pope, #2

By Gene Tooms

A fiercely ambitious Saudi prince. An international bounty hunter.

Only one can get what he wants.

Someone's stealing art that's not supposed to exist. Items presumed lost to history when the Nazis fell.

When Alex Pope gets contracted by an ancient insurance company to bring in this thief, he never expects to get involved with one of the big power players in Saudi Arabian politics. A man with the loyalty of the National Guard at his fingertips. A man with no qualms to wield this power to get what he wants. A man who has never known failure in his life.


Anonymity in a Saudi prison, being framed for an international incident, certain death—all of these threaten Alex hours after he lands in Riyadh. The stakes have seldom been this high.

How do you escape a man with an entire police force at his disposal?


***

Papal Plunder is the second book in Gene Tooms' Action Series starring Fugitive Recovery Artist, Alex Pope.

If you're into so-real-you-can-taste-the-blood-and-smell-the-sweat action, if you're okay to stay up all night reading, and if you crave a lead that's not just "another Jack Reacher", then Papal Plunder is exactly what you want to read next.

GET IT NOW and Immediately start (or continue) your Alex Pope Journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: IntWell Action
• Release date: Apr 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386460855

Book preview

PAPAL PLUNDER

An Alex Pope Action Thriller

Gene Tooms

Papal Plunder

Copyright © 2018 by Gene Tooms. All Rights Reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. 

Cover designed by Gene Tooms

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. 

Gene Tooms

Visit my website at www.GeneTooms.com 

CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE

DEAR READER

PAPAL ORIGINS (EXTRACT)

ONE

MY FACE LIGHTS UP IN pain as a big hand slaps me across the face. The thwack! echoes off the walls.

It stings.

My eyesight alternates between a black fuzziness and a spray of yellow and white dots swimming in space.

I try to drag my mind out of the fog. Someone, a man, says something. I don’t understand the language.

Where am I?

I’m sitting down. On a metal chair—it feels flimsy, like a fold-up.

There’s a spotlight trained on me. A lamp of some sort. My pupils still strain to see. Eyeballs pain bright red still from the light. I squint and try to turn away.

Mouth feels wooly. Taste of metal, blood. Tongue tests teeth. All intact. A molar feels loose. Something crusty on my face as well. More blood.

Pain in shoulder. Normal.

Bare chested. I smell sweat. Old sweat from exertion. My own or another’s.

Cigarette smoke. Fresh.

Soft trousers. Dress shoes.

Hands not tied, right little finger feels sprained. I sit up a little. Two large hands press down on my shoulders from behind, forcing me to stay put.

Okay, I try to say. My voice a hoarse whisper. I clear my throat.

My spine relaxes and the hands of the person behind me do the same.

Ankles are constrained. Chains? Feels like it. I lift an arm against the light, trying to create a shadow on my face, maybe get a better idea of my surroundings.

I see shapes and figures behind the lamp. People sitting at a table. How many? Not many.

Two.

The voice says something again. Sounds like an instruction. The tone of someone used to giving them. Arabic.

What? I say. I try to turn to the voice, but a hand from behind forces my face to the front again.

Mr. Deeh, comes another, different voice from in front.

Mr. Deeh? Oh yes, that’s me.

A foot by the table moves and steps on something. The light goes out, the bright filament dimming slowly, leaving a mark on the inside of my skull. Another source of light in the room—a long fluorescent tube, covered in some metal caging—is fixed to the wall above. The globe is on its way out, flickering lazily, bathing the room and the figures by the table in fast strobes. The room looks to be about thirty feet deep, maybe the same width. There’s no door in my field of vision. A table—one of those fold-up metal types—positioned right below the fluorescent light. At the table sits two men, one wearing a white, Arabic thobe. The other has on some kind of military uniform. Their faces are mostly bathed in shadow from the light shining over them. It feels like put-on drama.

Mr Deeh, the voice says again. The fat guy in the thobe it seems like. I feel I recognize him from the Twitter thing we saw. When was that? Yesterday? This morning? A million years ago?

I clear my throat.

Where...where am I? I ask. I decide to play dumb civilian for the moment. Things are coming back to me now. Mouth is so dry.

The military guy takes a drag from his cigarette. Slowly lowers the hand back down to  an ashtray by the table.

Are you awake? the man in white asks.

I blink my eyes a couple of times and try to sit up again. Two hands, as if from nowhere, press me back down. The fat one gestures at the person behind me and the pressure lets up. I sit up completely, subtly trying to feel what the situation with my ankles is.

I turn again to look back at the guy behind me, but he pokes a thumb in my cheek—right where the loose molar is—turning my face forwards again.

I wince. I don’t like people touching my face.

Are you awake Mr. Deeh? the man asks again.

I look towards them, swallow.

What’s going on? I ask. Where am I?

That means awake, says the military guy, his English much more accented than the other’s. My eyes have adjusted better by now. I make eye contact with the smoker—but he keeps on staring at me like I’m a wall, takes another careful drag from the cigarette. He looks to be mid-forties, one of those career guys you find in every armed force. Sun-toughened face shaved clean, thick, metal-gray hair cut according to some regulation. His uniform looks to be the same kind of digital camo of the national guardsmen we’d seen earlier.

He gingerly balances his cigarette on the side of the ashtray again, gets up. I notice the other man, the younger, softer one, look at the cigarette without hiding his disgust. More drama as the other loudly shoves the fold-up metal chair backwards on the concrete floor. He comes around and stands slightly in front of me, to the side. I see him glance at whoever’s behind me. His gaze only stops once before it comes back to meet mine. It means probably only one other guy—the face-toucher—to keep track of.

Where it is, Mr. Deeh? he asks in my face, examining me with no discernable expression. Like a student dispassionately examining a specimen in a laboratory.

Where’s what?

The lean military guy stands up straight again and removes his sidearm—another Five-SeveN—and lays it on the table behind him. But making sure I see him do it. As if to say this is going to get difficult, better let me put the gun down else I kill the prisoner...

I have no idea what you’re talking about... He steps back towards me and lands an expert back-handed slap across the other cheek, his knuckles just contacting the cheekbone. No time for me to counter it or try anything. I take it and pain explodes in my face again. I allow my head to turn around and try to keep my eyes open despite the reflex—taking in as much of the rest of the room behind me as I can. I see most of the face-toucher standing a few feet behind me. He’s big and broad. What surprises me is that a large rolling-door, maybe three car lengths away, makes up the entire opposite end of the bare, narrow room. So this is not a police station or something like that. Maybe some sort of storage area?

I feel the cuffs around my ankles as I test the length of chain between them. About two feet. Pretty standard.

I turn back. Mister bad cop removes a dirty white handkerchief from a back pocket and wipes his hand with it. He walks back to the table, picks up the cigarette. He leaves the gun on the table.

The taste of fresh blood in my mouth.

Please stop playing, Mr. Deeh, the other man at the table now says. He looks up from the phone he’s been typing on since I became aware of him. His tone is a weird combination of boredom and mild irritation. I wonder what time it is.

We know you are not what you say you are. You made a big mess this afternoon. People died by your hand. Where is the Stone you stole tonight? Is it with the woman? The man from Abu Dhabi?

I hope they got away safely.

TWO

BLOOD POOLS IN MY MOUTH—I spit some to the floor. My senses are all but with me now. Ironically the pain from the backhand woke me up completely. I try to keep my body language limp and non-threatening. How much did they know or suspect? They keep on calling me Mr. Deeh, so even if they didn’t know who or what I really was, they didn’t have a real name. Plus, my hands are unbound.

On the other hand, they of course know about the thing that happened at the hotel, then on the highway after that. I expect a lot of Saudis would have been very unhappy with the traffic situation afterwards. The question is, how much do they think I caused, and how much is just show from them? Do they actually think I came here to execute a badly planned heist and failed? Or were these guys also involved in what really happened?

I don’t know what you’re talking about, I say. We went to go have a look at the exhibition, at the invitation of Prince Faisal...

Prince Bin Faisal, the one in the thobe interrupts, looking at me like a cat looks at a mouse. He emphasis the ‘Bin’. I estimate him about ten, maybe fifteen years younger than me.

Excuse me, yes, I say, shaking my head. Bin. Then, these guys with their guns come and...I don’t know what happened... I trail off.

I see the guy sweating, but not from nerves. He rolls his eyes at me as I speak, looks to the smoking man next to him, then back at me.

We have proof that you, along with your lady friend, came here to steal that artifact. Your actions led to the death of a senior Saudi official on a national highway.

He gives himself away. Whatever happened last night, however they tried to stage it, one thing was clear. It was supposed to look like a general heist—an art theft of many objects, not just one item. But they’ve now mentioned that ‘one thing’ more than once. Everything is coming together, simply because he’s asking about the single stone. This, along with us not being in a police station—at least this is what I am assuming now—all makes me think that this whole situation is very much off the books. Which would mean, critically, not a lot of backup for them.

Probably.

What stone, sir? I try to sound exasperated. There were many items on display last night. Am I under arrest? I have to try to bait them into coming back into me.

You are in a deep trouble, Mr. Deeh, says the military guy now, blowing a long stream of smoke up at the ceiling as he finally extinguishes the cigarette.

No need to be under arrest to disappear...  he continues in his broken, but precise, English. You come into my country and threaten security of The Kingdom, you embarrass us in front of the Emiratis, you make the National Guard look...inefficient...

As he says this, he gets up from his chair again, picks up the pistol and gestures with it to make his point. For me this means that this guy at least doesn’t think me a serious physical threat. He’s being textbook intimidating, like he’s probably been to dozens of other people in my position. He continues his act by striding back towards me. His finger is off the trigger.

I have a feeling the next step in his repertoire would be a pistol whip.

My face hurts enough already—I don’t feel like getting pistol whipped today.

The man behind me, the big invisible face-toucher, gives a step to the side and I hear a small jingle of what must be a key-chain. Is he armed? If so, not with a rifle. Earlier, when he’d rested both hands on my shoulders to keep me in place, I didn’t hear any motion or adjustment. He just reacted. If he has a rifle, it’s probably slung over a shoulder, to the back. I didn’t see anything when I looked behind me earlier.

Mister Bad Cop speaks again. He’s about six, seven feet away from me. I keep on looking at him like I’m someone who’s had enough adventure for today, thank you very much. I try to look scared. If he gets an inkling of too much confidence, he’ll react accordingly and play it safer.

I make...deal with you, Mr. Deeh, he says now, looking down at the pistol. He flicks the safety off. Then back on. Then looks me in the eye as he flicks it off again.

Give us the stone, or take us to it, and you leave the country on a plane tonight. Business class...

First class, the other one interrupts, to the chagrin of the military dude.

Any class you want. No questions, no problems after that. His face points a humorless smile at me—a smile that’s basically just pinched lips drawing back over stained teeth. Like someone had told him what a smile should look like. There hasn’t been kindness in this man’s face in ages.

I suddenly wonder if he’s going to hit me with the butt of the pistol, or simply sweep the gun across my face and let the barrel do the damage. I am absolutely sure he is about to do something—he still has a tight grip on the weapon, but the trigger finger is wrapped around the grip, below the trigger guard itself. We’ll have to see. I avert my eyes and take a deep breath. As much to look vulnerable as to get ready for what’s to come.

They should have bound my hands.

THREE

SIR, PLEASE. I... — those are the only words I manage to get out before shit hits the fan for them. I’ve been told that I have freakishly quick reflexes. Some genetic thing. Personally, I think it has more to do with sheer luck and obsessive preparation in anticipation for situations like these. Surprise often helps—and engineering surprise in others is something I have come to relish in the field.

He goes for the more dramatic—and also more telegraphed—option. It is almost identical to the backhand he delivered a few moments ago. Except now the pistol would exponentially increase the impact and damage to my face. He makes like a racquetball player, pulling his right hand into him and then quickly sweeping it towards me, like a backhand. His hand makes it most of the way to my head. He is close enough that I would almost be able to kick him in the groin. I don’t though. I have the guy behind me and—thanks to the chain—very limited kicking space available. Instead, in one motion, I grab his oncoming arm with both hands, one at the wrist and one just above the elbow. I put a lot of force in my heels to stand up as quickly as possible, then rotate around and back on my left foot, swiveling the right as far back as the ankle chain would allow. This shoots the metal chair backwards—hopefully catching the other guy off guard as well.

I adjust my grip by the surprised man’s wrist just as he instinctively tries to pull his arm back again. But the commitment he’s already put into his swing, the addition of force from my other hand above the elbow, and the added momentum from the swivel causes him to lose his balance forwards and give a step forward with his left foot. His entire weight rotates around the other foot as he tries to find balance with the left. I take advantage of this, and rotate the hand and wrist and elbow under my control back around in the opposite direction—a large sweep on my part, designed to do a lot of damage. His arm remains half bent, not straight. This brings enormous leverage.

In an aikido class, or an online video, this would probably have had the other guy flying through the air as if by some mystical force radiating from touch. But, being unprepared, he definitely does not whirlwind around his arm and gracefully roll off to the side, ready for another attack.

Instead, before he could properly react, physics and biology obey natural law—causing muscle and sinew and cartilage to rip to shreds in his shoulder and elbow. His own reflexes—in an attempt to avoid pain and extreme damage—lifts him almost vertically in the air in the opposite direction before gravity takes over. He lands on his back right by and almost on my left foot. I follow him down in a crouch in order to maintain my own balance as well as to keep control of the wrist with the hand that still held the pistol.

When he lands, the back