The Secret Life of Tom Bradbury

Chapter Three: Cavalry of Necessary Chaos.

previous chapters..

Tom believed that the success of each operation for the Tribe was overwhelmingly dependent on one key factor; immersive research.

Studying diagrams, models and blueprints was one thing, but none of those compared to being embedded into the theatre of play. Very few covert agencies were effective at this, given the nature of the local civilian’s wariness towards new faces hanging around too long and having a few too many curious questions.

The genius of Tom’s mind went lock and key with the blessing of having good genes. Tom was a natural chameleon. His facial structure and unremarkable features allowed Tom to fit the general characteristics of almost every Caucasian ethnicity. He looked as believably Polish as he did German or French. With a fuller beard, he was a born Muscovite, a darker tan, and he was a native son to a long lineage of Spaniards from Santorini; and if he ran the clippers short, he was as Italian as spaghetti.

Slipping into a country as a tourist, he would drop himself into the culture. His eidetic memory recorded the tapestry of daily life. The mechanics of his mind broke down language to the phonetics of dialects; within a week, he could look and sound like a legitimate national carrying all the nuances of the neighborhood. Tom Bradbury was a master of hiding in plain sight.

Sitting in a passenger car of the high-speed Renfe-SNCF train, Tom allowed himself to rest. Passing through customs held no concern; finding the mark from Delia did. He knew her destination, a safe house secured to the two of them alone. It was the route she chose to get there that would be his challenge to discover. Direct communication between them was prohibited. Instead, they would rely on the codes of spy craft to draw the map. A rendezvous with his Marigold was not the plan; getting between her and the men pursuing her was.

The disadvantage of being beautiful is being beautiful. If Delia made herself look messy and plain, then she looked farm girl delightful. If she cloaked her face and covered her shape, then she looked enigmatic and appealing. It wasn’t that Delia was vain, far from it. It was the fact that she had features that made her alluring and seductive without any intention whatsoever. This did provide her an advantage when dealing with adversaries, authority, and the common folk. Still, it also made her memorable, and for a covert agent, that wasn’t the desired effect.

Securing a direct route would draw far too much attention and be easily discoverable by the tentacles of the octopus. Delia had no choice but to risk greater exposure to attain greater safety. At the border, she would leave the first mark for Tom. Fighting down the rush of excitement, Delia pulled up the hood of her sweater, concealing the delight dancing in her resplendent blue eyes. After four long, colorless years while residing in a virtual Van Gogh painting, the love of her life, Tom Bradbury, was racing towards her. As the mosaic of the countryside zipped across her view, Delia was formulating her own plan. Doomed or not, Delia was determined to live the rest of her life at her beloved’s side.

Coinciding events in Spain offered fortunate timing for both Delia and Tom. The first of which was a match in the European Football Championships. The influx of fans came from France on their way to watch Paris S.G. challenge FC Barcelona in the Spaniard’s home arena for the quarter-finals. The exuberant mayhem from the growing mass of fans was the ideal disruption for the men Delia knew were not far behind her.

Departing the station, Delia saw her messenger. A young boy was busking his wares, a bucket full of umbrellas, purses, hats, and Paris S.G. and FC Barcelona flags. Moving through the crowd, Delia positioned herself to be his line of sight and smiled back at him when his admiring eyes released a beaming grin. Then, when he beckoned to her in French, she stopped to listen to his pitch and peruse his wares.

“How did you know I was French?” she asked him, “I could have come from anywhere.”

The boy smiled and replied, “Mademoiselle, I see everything and everyone! Your handbag is Italian, but your heels are from Paris.” Working his best boyish charm, he worked for a sale, “But I think for the match you would be more comfortable in something like this, no?” he said, pointing to sets of flat bottomed summer shoes. Delia took a pair of pale blue shoes from his table and retrieved her phone from her purse to transfer payment. The boy’s smile faded, “Cash only Mademoiselle, I’m sorry.”

“Yes, of course. I have cash, and these are my size.” She replied. Setting the phone on the table directly in front of the boy, he could not look away from the device. The face of Tom Bradbury filled the screen.

“That is a very handsome boyfriend you have,” remarked the boy as Delia opened her small pouch crammed with bills. “Why is he not traveling with you? Is he at work? Maybe he doesn’t like football? Maybe you are running away from him?” The boy’s chatter ran excitedly, watching her pretty fingers sift through the money.

“It’s not possible I came to see him and not the match?” she asked with a raised eyebrow holding the gaze of the boy’s almond skin brown eyes.

Smiling again, the boy said, “I would know this man if he were in Barcelona. I know everyone in Barcelona!”

“You are a clever young boy,” she told him, handing over a fold of bills more than quadruple the cost of the shoes, “For the shoes and for your eyes. The man will be coming, and the match is not our destination. Find him and tell him, “The marigolds have gone, but you have other flowers.” Delia’s eyes locked his gaze, “Do you understand? Can you do this? Exactly as I have said?”

The boy nodded and said he would do exactly as she spoke.

“Good,” she answered, exchanging the shoes for her heels which she placed in her bag, “Now, the most important thing, my handsome young knight, is that the answer to anything he says must be Pamplona, yes? Pamplona only.”

“Don’t worry, mademoiselle,” he replied with a bow, “I will send him to you.”

In the few seconds, it took for the boy to stash his earnings to looking back up, the beautiful woman had vanished into the crowd.

From the moment Tom stepped off the train at the Barcelona station, his eyes were scanning for a mark. A handful of codes used to communicate in plain sight was taught to members of Tribe, and Tom expected that to find one that Delia had left for him. But, instead, the recognition in the young merchant’s eyes that followed Tom as he weaved through the crowd relayed that he was Tom’s messenger.

The message from Delia was delivered, and Tom’s focus turned to Pamplona.

The next train to Pamplona was at three-thirty. Unfortunately, Delia was six hours ahead of him, having caught the earliest seat at nine-thirty, and for now, all Tom could do was wait and hope that she arrived safely. With hours to kill before his departure time, Tom went into the markets to purchase a few specific items to assist in his plan to interrupt the pursuit of his enemy. Returning to the train station, Tom saw that the merchant boy was still at his station. Curious if he could glean any further information from the lad, Tom approached him once again.

“Boy,” summoned Tom, “tell me, did you have anyone else asking you about the woman or me?”

“Mister, have you looked at the bags I have?” asked the boy, moving his hands over the display across his table, “best leather in Spain, Sir, and you won’t find a better price!”

Tom retrieved a few bills from his pocket, selecting a plain black leather duffel from the table.

“One man, Sir,” the boy explained as he counted the dollars Tom handed over, “I didn’t like him. He showed me pictures of your lady and you. I told him I sold nothing to anyone who looked like you two.”

Tom felt the boy’s trepidation. A boy living on the streets saw the worst of men. He knew a threat when he saw one.

“What else?” Tom asked, dropping more folded dollars from his palm to the table as his hand moved through the shirts for sale.

“I didn’t pay attention to it until I saw the others,” he said, quickly pocketing the money. “They all wore the same ring.”

“An octopus,” Tom stated, moving away from the boy and further down the table.

“Yes, Sir,” the boy replied.

“How many?” Tom asked, lifting tourist mementos from a bowl.

“5.” the boy answered.

Tom handed the boy five dollars and pocketed a small folding knife emblazed with the logo of the Spanish team, tipped his cap, turned, and stepped away from the table.

The merchant boy jumped out from his kiosk with an umbrella in hand and hurried towards Tom. “The weatherman says it will be storming this week, Sir. So you should be prepared!” he said hurriedly.

Tom waved his hand at the lad like a tourist harangued too long and annoyed, but the panic in the boy’s tone made Tom turn to listen. “It’s an excellent quality, Sir!” the boy announced, “See how quickly it opens?” the boy asked, raising the umbrella up and pointing above his merchant table. “Do you see? See how good it is?”

Again, Tom waved his hand dismissively at the boy but followed where the umbrella pointed. A bank of security cameras was stationed directly above.

“It’s alright, boy. I plan to stay ahead of the storm,” Tom replied, leaving the young merchant calling out to the next passerby for the need of a good umbrella.

Delia wore the credentials of a foreign press reporter from her neck, the ID cards with her serious-looking portrait dangled teasingly at her cleavage. Her dress shirt was unbuttoned low enough to show she wasn’t wearing a bra; her camera straps crisscrossed her chest, framing the shape of her breasts. Leaning further into the view of the town official, her silky French accent, along with the view of her breasts being squeezed together for a long and salacious glance, gained her the favor she was seeking. Leading Delia to the second floor of the old telephone office and then escorting her to the small balcony, Delia had a perfect view of the running of bulls during the historic Festival of San Fermin. Here, at the end of Calle Estafeta, the bulls would make their final turn before entering the bullring through the Callejon. Situating above the scene of oncoming the frenzy, Delia gave herself safety and a position to see her enemies coming. Her well-trained eye spotted the gang of henchmen forcing their way through the crowd and towards the streets. Scanning the masses through her camera lens, her heart leaped to her throat. There he was. Her Tom. Joining a party of other runners, Tom was dressed in the traditional white shirt and trousers with a red sash tied around his waist and a red handkerchief around his neck. Taking slow, deep breaths to steady her nerves, she remained in the only place she would be able to help him, should he need it.

By the time the first rocket was set to go off at 8:00am announcing the opening of the gates for the bull’s entry, thousands of spectators were squeezed into the streets along the 875-meter course. Revealing himself to his enemies, Tom smiled; the raging of the bulls would bring the cavalry of chaos, masking the violence Tom was ready to unleash upon them.

The Octopus clansmen sighted Tom’s entry onto the street and pushed their way through the crowd. Thrusting themselves to the erected barriers, they slipped through the gaps left in place for runners to escape from the stampeding bulls. Dispersing through the groups of runners, three of them worked their way through the rambunctious gathering of men waiting for the run while the remaining two thugs hung back, guarding against Tom slipping away.

Tom made no move to signal he was aware of the intrusion of the henchmen into the melee of men ready to run with the bulls. Instead, he remained jubilant and singing the festive songs with the other runners flocked around him. The rocket blast launched the crowd into a roar of celebration and terror; the gate to the course was open. Moments later, a second rocket blasted over the cacophony of the spectators cheering and calling out support and warning to the runners signaling that the six ferocious, fearsome, and agitated bulls were on the street. Seconds later, the cobblestones shuddered, and bulls made their turn, the mass of red and white men sprinting forward, the bulls rampaging towards them.

Like a riptide flushing in, the energy in the narrow street shot the runners forwards, heads twisting over shoulders at the mass of animal muscle and mindless fury coming at them. Two of the henchmen were already in jeopardy. Ill-prepared and wearing slick soled shoes, they had no traction to maintain a lead from the oncoming bulls. Tom turned towards his closest pursuer, looking him dead in the eyes; Tom saw the confusion in the pawn of the Octopus soldier’s face, causing a delay in his decision to run for his life, or run towards Tom, his target.

Holding a deadpan gaze, Tom slowed his pace and drifted back towards the soldier. Reaching out with his arm, Tom clasped the forearm of his enemy, yanking him forwards towards his body. The thug quickly brandished a dagger drawn from his sleeve, readying to slash at Tom. The first two bulls were driving ahead of their small herd and were close enough for Tom to hear the heavy snorts and the panicked clop of their hooves on the cobblestone street. Still grasping his assailant’s arm, Tom dropped his body along the stone road pulling the thug off balance. Rolling towards the side street, Tom’s momentum hurled the man into the center of the road. Tom released the arm in a blur of hooves and hair and smiled with satisfaction at the sickening sound of bones being crushed, broken, and smashed.

Rolling himself safely out of the path of the animals, Tom turned to a sprinter’s stance, launching himself forward from fingers and toes back into the fray. “One down, four to go,” he said to himself. Dodging runners leaping for the safe escape of the barricades, Tom gained ground on the bulls and the men needing disposal. A rise of shrieking voices ricocheted off the ancient stone buildings as a bull dropped his horn, piercing one of the henchmen through the abdomen and raking his body along the boards closing in Santa Domingo Street. “Three to go,” Tom breathed out.

Three bulls were in front of Tom now; like a rumbling line, they shoulder and hip-checked each other, jostling and driving their skulls into one another as they galloped up the street. There was little chance of making a pass along either side, with the bulls now forming their offensive rush, three wide and enraged. Ahead of them, white bodies with red slashes taunted their eyes. The out-of-place man in dark clothes among the candy cane colors of the willing participants marked Tom’s next target. Then a face turned back in terror and panic to the bull’s horns slashing through the air wildly. Tom registered trouble; his eyes left his target and zeroed in on the young man in the path of the large black bull charging towards him on the left of the street. Less than fifty yards ahead, the course would make its abrupt turn to Estafeta Street before being pushed into the stadium. The young runner had nowhere to go. Tom moved directly between the middle bull and the threatening animal on the left. Making two hard lunges Tom’s left hand grabbed hold of the bull’s tail and yanked hard. The bull swung right and crashed into the center beast, swinging his left hindquarters sideways, Tom swung his right hand through an arc slapping his palm across the bull’s ass hard. A gap appeared along the wall, and Tom charged through. The young man had frozen in fear, legs locked and face drawn together, anticipating the crushing pain to come; he had given up. As the bull straightened itself and once again moved back to the left, Tom reached the young man in the animal’s path. Curling his arms around the man’s waist, Tom spun into a turn, throwing the paralyzed man up and into the dangling arms of the bystanders at the ready to help extricate the man to safety. The crowd’s roar that filled Tom’s ears wasn’t in rejoice of the lifesaving action; instead, it was the warning of the following six steers that were closing the distance between him and the bulls driving down the street ahead.

Denying the urge to shoulder check the oncoming menace, Tom instead saw an adversary standing stone stiff ahead of him. This man had nerves of steel. Oblivious to the bulls charging directly towards him, he faced Tom. Raising his pistol, he took aim and pulled the trigger. The crack of the gun made Tom duck and roll, but fortune favors the bold. The center bull had moved into the path of the bullet catching the impact and instantly shattering its shoulder. The beast dropped to the ground, tumbling in a death roll towards the shooter’s feet. The gap in the ruckus giving the thug a clear shot at Tom. Setting his gun sight onto Tom’s prone figure, Tom awaited the unavoidable impact of hot steel into his flesh. But there was nothing. No impact, no shot. Tom stood and saw the man lying face down, head to head with the dead bull, a gaping exit wound where the thug’s forehead had been.

Delia had her camera focused on Tom since she’d identified him in the street and watched as the scene unfolded before her. When Tom broke his focus and moved to save the runner, he exposed himself to become an easy target. Exchanging her lens for a pistol, she’d crouched low on the balcony and taken aim on the man holding Tom in his gunsight. She put two bullets through his skull in a split second, then casually dropped the pistol back into her bag and resumed her position on the balcony, her camera shielding her face. Delia remained in her place until Tom was finished with what needed to be done, her nerves stiff as steel, her heart thundering its pulse across her lips.

Returning to his feet, Tom charged forwards once again. The steers setting behind him drove his legs hard and fast. He was running out of time and space; two enemies remained. His life in the balance between beast and bullets, Tom’s vision narrowed, his focus was broad and alert. Tom moved down the street in sprints and leaps, dodging runners, debris, and the hind legs of the bulls in front of him. Having arrived at the turn in the course, beast, men, and mayhem were funneled into the final stretch. Tom spotted his foes. The nerves of one had given way to self-preservation as he moved frantically towards the outside fencing; desperate to find a gap made for escape, he had no time to think of anything else.

The remaining thug made a critical error. Tom watched as his blind obedience overruled his sense. On the far right edge of the melee, he had spotted Tom and moved towards him. Miscalculating his ability and the erratic movements of the animals the first two steps the thug made to cross placed him in no man’s land. He looked like a man intent on suicide stepping in the path of a train. Tom didn’t need to see it. The horror-struck cries from the crowd told him all he needed to know. Now there was one.

In the last few yards from the street to the Callejon, the lone remaining thug found his escape. The final gap in the barricades gave his exit. Shaken with fear and unraveled nerves, he stepped through to safety. Exhausted and relieved, the Octopus soldier stumbled away from the festival. Leaning into the shade from the canopy over a storefront, he doubled over, trying to regain his composure. The sharp, piercing cuts into his rib cage that punctured his lung came silent and swift. The last thing the soldier would see before drowning in his own blood was the Rune tattoo along the forearm of a man and the logo of FC Barcelona on a pocketknife covered in his blood.

Moving separately but in the same direction, Delia and Tom crossed the border back into France. By early afternoon they were in Lourdes and by late evening, under the half-moon’s light, in the coastal village of Saint-Cyprien Plage. The absence and ache of things left unsaid, and places untouched between Marigold and the Shepherd were forgiven and erased.

The crashing surf drowned the climax of their passion and the need to fall inside one another. Entwined and satiated, the two lovers slept late into the morning. The briny, warm sea breeze caressed, coddled, and cleansed their naked bodies, allowing them the rest and resurrection of spirit they would need to carry on to Sardinia and engage the mechanism of the green light. Despite the cost, it would be the only way they could ever be free.

Chapter 4

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