Echo Trigger Mike NoMads actioN thriller echo triGG er Mike Nomads Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer c Echo Trigger Echo Trigger Mike Nomads Mike Nomads An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer c Echo Trigger Vienna, Austria – February 2nd – 08:13 a.m. S ebastian “Bash” Keller had just reached the bot- tom of his French press when the past knocked on his door, politely, in brown paper and twine. He sighed and set the mug down. The steam curl- ing from it smelt of cardamom and Colombian roast, aged just enough to be romanticized but not enough to justify the price. He moved across the creaky floor- boards of his antique shop like a man whose bones had learned diplomacy: with careful negotiation and the occasional complaint. The door chimed. Vienna’s winter air slid in like a burglar. Mike Nomads “Danke,” Bash muttered to the courier, who had already disappeared into the cobbled mist. On the front step was a small package. Neat. Too neat. No return address. Vienna postage. His fingers itched. Inside, he found it. A copy of The Art of War. Cheap binding. Faded title. Page 87 dog-eared. He stared at the page. “Know the enemy. Know yourself. A hundred battles, a hundred victories,” he recited aloud, then muttered, “Well. Shit.” He looked up at the Roman bust that sat atop the bookshelf like a smug marble sentinel. “You told me this day would come,” he said. The bust, as usual, had no rebuttal. He pulled it down with a grunt, opened a hidden panel in the base, and pressed the green button in- side. The ancient flip phone blinked to life, groaned, and rang. He stared at it. “Hello, disaster.” Then answered. “Echo Trigger confirmed,” a voice rasped. Digital- Echo Trigger ly scrambled, thick with command. “Primary target: ‘Seraphim.’ Vienna State Opera. Curtain rises 2100. Prevent the collapse. No fallback.” “Good morning to you too,” Bash said. “Still using burner phones like it’s 2003, huh?” Click. The line went dead. Bash sighed and looked at the steaming mug. “This is why I can’t have hobbies.” * * * * * 09:02 a.m. — Shop Cellar, beneath the antique rug He pulled back the tattered Persian rug, revealing a steel hatch that looked more bunker than basement. A retinal scan later, still worked, somehow and he descended into what could only be described as the love child of a spy thriller and an old speakeasy. He lifted a false floorboard and uncovered his old FN Five-seveN, matte black, clean, loyal. “Hello, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Let’s see if you still bite.” Mike Nomads Beside it: a compressed pack of tactical gear, a worn dossier marked ‘Seraphim – Contingency Only’ , and an envelope containing a single gold coin engraved with the NATO trident. The coin was a relic, proof that once upon a time, Bash Keller had been some- one you activated after diplomacy failed He checked the FN, holstered it under his tweed coat, and made a mental note: find whoever designed this mission, smack them upside the head with a dic- tionary, and remind them what “retired” means. * * * * * 10:37 a.m. – Café Krampus, near Naschmarkt Irina Volkova had flour on her nose and a glint in her eye. It was like old times, except the apron said “Sugar & Flour” instead of “KGB Special Recon.” “You’re late,” she said, stirring something danger- ously red. “You’re baking. I assumed you’d need time to finish defusing the strudel.” Irina didn’t smile. She never did. Her eyes did, though. That was always the trick. Echo Trigger “You look old,” she said. “I age like wine.” “You smell like wine.” “I am the wine.” She poured coffee into a chipped mug and slid it across the table. “Still black?” “Like my faith in democracy, yes.” They sipped. “Seraphim,” Bash said after a beat. Irina’s spoon froze. “I figured you’d know,” he added. “I burned that codename twelve years ago,” she said. “After Belgrade.” “It’s back. Target’s in Vienna. Opera House. To- night.” Irina muttered a string of Russian that needed no translation. “Diplomat?” she asked. Mike Nomads He nodded. “Julia Branford. UN Special Envoy. She’s been sniffing around black-market weapons deals. Someone wants to shut her up before she testi- fies in Brussels.” “And you? You’re playing bodyguard now?” “Babysitter. With a license to sass.” “You’ll need more than sarcasm.” “Which is why I’m here.” He held up the gold coin. “We’re back in play.” She leaned in, eyes narrowed. “There’s a mole.” “Of course there’s a mole. There’s always a mole.” “Security detail?” “Interpol, MI5, some Austrian locals. One of them is dirty.” “You want me to bake him a truth tart?” “I want you in the opera house.” Irina smirked. “As what?” “Sommelier.” Echo Trigger She blinked. “I’ve seen you drink a Hungarian wine steward un- der the table,” he added. “And then interrogate him on the table .” Irina stirred the pot slowly. “Fine. But I get to pick the dress.” * * * * * 19:43 – Rooftop across the Vienna State Opera Bash lay flat on the cold stone rooftop, opera glass- es in one hand, a thermos in the other. Vienna spar- kled like a seductress down below, all warmth and glamour and hidden knives. His earpiece buzzed. Irina: “I’m in. Sommelier credentials worked. One guard gave me the eye. I told him I’m married to a bottle of Rémy Martin.” Bash: “He’s going to cry himself to sleep tonight.” Irina: “You’re in position?” Bash: “Eyes on the box seats. Branford just arrived. Red dress. Flanked by muscle with necks thicker than their IQs.” Mike Nomads He took a slow sip from the thermos. The coffee was still warm, aromatic, spiced just so.... CRACK! A bullet whined past his cheek. The thermos jerk- ed, hissed, and exploded hot Colombian roast all over his coat. “Son of a...!” He rolled, ducked behind the chimney stack. A second shot punched through a terracotta tile inches from his boot. Irina: “Bash?!” Bash: “They shot my coffee, Irina.” Irina: “Are you hit?” Bash: “Worse. That was a limited edition roast. Do you know how rare that was?!” Irina: “You can mourn it later. Find the shooter!” Bash peeked, spotted the glint of a scope on the next rooftop, just before the sniper adjusted. He rolled, sprinted, leapt to the adjacent building like a pensioner with a grudge. His knees hated him. His lungs staged a protest. Echo Trigger But the adrenaline was back. The chase. The game. He grinned. “Vienna’s heating up,” he muttered, loading a fresh mag into the Five-seveN. “And I didn’t even wear gloves.” * * * * * Vienna State Opera – 21:05 p.m. Inside the glittering cathedral of velvet and gold that was the Vienna State Opera, the aria rose like a siren’s call, echoing off centuries-old marble. The chandeliers trembled faintly. Outside, snow whis- pered against the glass. Inside, death waited in box seat seven. Julia Branford, UN Envoy and the evening’s un- knowing target, smiled politely at a bow-tied Austri- an minister whispering policy into her ear. Neither of them noticed the man three rows back in a tux that didn’t quite fit, adjusting his cuff a little too precisely. Or the violin case on the floor next to him, latched a little too tightly. But Sebastian “Bash” Keller noticed. From the raf- ters. Mike Nomads “I see you, maestro,” he muttered, upside-down, as he crawled along the backstage rigging forty feet above the crowd. “I always hated violin solos.” Irina (in earpiece): “I’ve got eyes on the baritone in seat 43. He’s not clapping. Definitely a psychopath.” Bash: “That’s half the audience. They came for the death scene, not the music.” Irina: “Fair. But this one’s got a wire running down his collar. Earwig. Comms.” Bash: “Clock it. Keep eyes on Seraphim.” Irina: “Copy.” He moved fast across the rigging, reached a steel catwalk, and slipped behind the curtain. The opera’s third act thundered behind him, drums, cellos, high notes sharp enough to cut glass. Fitting soundtrack for what was about to go down. He checked his watch. 21:07. The kill window had opened. * * * * * Echo Trigger Below – Orchestra Level The tuxedoed assassin with the too-tight cuffs un- snapped the violin case. Inside was no violin, just a disassembled SIG Sauer with a custom suppressor nestled in velvet. He assembled it in rhythm with the music. Click. Twist. Lock. A long breath. Target locked. Red dress, third box from the left. Right between the eyes. * * * * * Backstage – Corridor E Bash rounded the corner and nearly plowed into a security guard with a clipboard and all the spatial awareness of a drunk walrus. “Sir, this area is restricted...” “Good! That means you’re not allowed to be here either,” Bash said cheerfully. He shoved him into a closet, zip-tied him to a mop, and yanked his radio off the belt. Mike Nomads Bash (on radio): “Security breach. Sniper in audi- ence, seat level, near aisle seventeen. Confirm back- up.” Security: “Copy... wait, who is...” Bash: “Your guardian angel with a vendetta. Move!” * * * * * Box Level – 21:08 p.m. Irina glided toward the VIP corridor like she owned it, wine tray balanced on one hand, and a concealed taser tucked into her skirt slit like a stiletto. The man in seat 43 stood suddenly, murmured into his collar. She was already moving. “Evening, sir,” she purred. “Care for...” The man spun, gun half-raised. Irina threw the tray like a discus. The silver edge cracked his jaw; he stumbled. She drove a heel into his knee and zapped him mid-fall. He spasmed, dropped the pistol, then slumped into a snoring pile of betrayal. Echo Trigger Irina: “One tango down. I love Austrian silver- ware.” * * * * * Catwalk – 21:09 p.m. Bash dropped to the box level just as the sniper raised his sightline. He didn’t shout. He ran The crowd below gasped as Bash leapt the railing into the mezzanine aisle, tackled the tuxedoed man mid-trigger squeeze. BANG. The bullet struck the opera box’s marble lip with a crack. Dust exploded into the air like a silent gasp. Chaos erupted. Bash and the sniper wrestled down the stairs. The suppressor clattered away. The man was fast. Too fast. He elbowed Bash in the jaw. Stars danced. Bash tasted copper and last night’s pasta. The next punch Mike Nomads never landed. He twisted, slammed the man’s face into the stair rail, then pulled his FN Five-seveN. “Give my regards to Tchaikovsky.” He fired once. The man dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. * * * * * Stage – 21:12 p.m. The opera’s crescendo climaxed as the heroine sang of betrayal, passion, and poison. Above her, a second figure appeared, different from the first assassin. He had climbed the lighting rig. A final player. A true ghost. And he had a remote detonator in his hand. Bash’s blood ran cold. Bash (to Irina): “There’s a bomb!” Irina: “Where?!” Bash: “He’s wired to the rafters. Final act. Take out the UN envoy and the opera house.” Echo Trigger Irina: “I just found my plus-one.” She sprinted. * * * * * Rafters – 21:13 p.m. Bash climbed fast. The second bomber was already kneeling at the rigging console. “You think this’ll make history?” Bash called out. “Newsflash, pal. Nobody remembers the understudy.” The man turned, startled. “You’re Keller,” he hissed. “Guilty. And sweaty.” The bomber pressed the remote. Nothing happened. Bash grinned and dangled a tiny circuit board be- tween two fingers. “I borrowed this on my way in.” The bomber lunged. Too late. Bash kicked him in the chest. The man fell back- Mike Nomads ward into the stage rigging, tangled in wires like a spider caught in his own web. “Curtain call,” Bash muttered. * * * * * 21:15 p.m. – Front Steps of the Opera Fire trucks. Sirens. Dozens evacuated. Julia Bran- ford stood, wrapped in a fur coat, staring at Bash. “You could’ve just let me skip the opera,” she said dryly. “I was promised culture,” Bash replied. “You saved my life.” “I also ruined my coffee.” She smirked. “I owe you a drink.” “Two. And cake.” Irina joined them, brushing blood off her glove. “Make it strudel. With good silverware.” Bash looked out across the square. Snow still fell. Behind him, the opera house blazed with light,