by John Sneeden
She looked back at him. “I thought we were leaving.”
“We are. My car is waiting outside the other entrance.”
Car? The other entrance? Drenna felt the first twitch of concern. Things had just turned in a direction she hadn’t anticipated. O’Sullivan’s was situated on the corner of the rue de France and a crossing street. She had known of the second entrance but hadn’t anticipated that Botha would use it. Alan Bowles and Vinay Rana had said he’d left using the front entrance when they watched him two nights before. She was certain of that.
That fact alone wasn’t a big deal, but combined with Botha’s mention of a car, it took on greater significance. Still, there was no need to panic, at least not yet. Rana would let Driscoll know that she and Botha were exiting onto the other street. That meant Driscoll was probably on his way right now. And when he saw them get into a car, he would alert Alan Bowles to be on the lookout at the apartment building.
It’s fine. We covered all our bases.
As they continued on, Drenna found herself weaving ever so slightly. It had been a mistake to finish the scotch. She should have told Botha that she got sick whenever she drank too much. Surely, he wouldn’t want his date to get sick and ruin his plans for an amorous evening at his place.
When they emerged onto the street, a silver Mercedes A-Class sedan waited at the curb. A large man with wavy hair sat behind the wheel, and his eyes seemed fixed on her. It was dark inside the car, but she could have sworn it was the large man she had passed on her way to the restroom. The man who hadn’t looked at her.
“Normally, I walk home, but I called my associate and told him to come pick us up,” Botha said. “The sooner we get back, the sooner we can enjoy the view.”
He opened the back door and motioned for her to get in. Drenna hesitated, wondering if she should. The driver was the third red flag to come up in less than a minute. A disruption of plans was always expected, but something about those particular things had set off an internal alarm. She could always tell Botha she had changed her mind and walk away. But if she did, they might lose their best chance to discover Nikita Petrov’s location.
After considering the matter for a few seconds, Drenna decided to press on. Finding the Phantom had to take priority over a few red flags. Besides, Driscoll was probably watching her. Plenty of cabs were around, so it would be easy for him and Rana to grab one and follow at a distance.
Drenna smiled at Botha then climbed into the back. As she sank into the plush leather seat, she felt a wave of dizziness hit her. She swore softly at herself for finishing the drink.
Botha climbed in on the other side and looked at her. “Are you okay?”
He can tell I’m drunk.
Drenna nodded. “I’m fine. I just drank a little more than I usually do.”
He put a hand on her leg and squeezed it. “Don’t worry. We’ll be at my place in five minutes. We’ll get you some water and something to eat.”
Strangely, he seemed more alert than she did. How long was it going to take for the drug to have some effect? She wondered if they should have given him half a pill just to be safe.
As they pulled out into traffic, Drenna felt the car spin. She hadn’t felt this way in years. Reaching up, she rubbed her face with her hands.
Botha smiled and squeezed her leg again. “Just relax.”
There was something strange about his smile. It had a sinister quality that she hadn’t seen before.
Suddenly, a series of memories flashed in her mind: Botha ordering her the same scotch he had been drinking; her getting up to go to the restroom; and finally, Botha insisting that she finish her drink before they left.
A wall of panic hit Drenna as she realized what had happened.
How could she have been so foolish? She’d thought she was playing him, when all the while, he had been playing her.
She tried to keep her eyes open, but it was a fight she wasn’t going to win.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Simon Driscoll set his coffee down and checked the time on his phone again—8:47. A half hour earlier, he had received a text from Drenna stating that she and Botha would be leaving in five or ten minutes. There was still no sign of them. Nor had Vinay Rana responded to Driscoll’s request for an update.
He wondered what could have happened to delay their departure. Maybe Botha had suggested they have another drink. That didn’t seem possible. When a man like him had the chance to take a woman like Drenna Steel to his apartment, he definitely wouldn’t create a delay.
What if Drenna had decided to push back? She said she was going to play hard to get, so perhaps she was trying to feign a reluctance to leave. Even if that were the case, it wouldn’t explain the lack of a response from Rana. That was perhaps even more troubling than Drenna not leaving when she said she would.
Needing answers, Driscoll fired off a quick text to Rana. I need a SITREP. Are they about to come out?
After checking a half minute later, Driscoll could see that the message had been delivered but not read. Something didn’t make sense. Even if Rana thought Botha had made him, there could be no harm in looking at a phone and responding to a text. In fact, it would probably look strange for a man in a bar not to play with his phone from time to time.
Something was wrong.
Driscoll decided to try one last time. He typed another text, and this time, he upped the pressure for his partner to respond. Can only assume there is a problem. If no response in 2 mins I’m coming in.
The two minutes passed without a response. Driscoll could understand his partner not responding to one text, but three? He didn’t think the operative was in danger. After all, he was in a public place surrounded by other people. Then again, what could possibly explain the silence? Had someone approached Rana and started a conversation?
Driscoll checked the time again. It was 8:55. He had given his partner more than enough time to respond. Even though it was outside of their original plan, it was time to find out why everyone inside O’Sullivan’s had suddenly gone silent.
As a sense of dark apprehension rose inside him, Simon Driscoll stood and hurried across the street.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Villefranche-sur-Mer, France
Drenna hurtled through utter darkness. It was like traveling through space, only in this universe, no stars or planets were lighting the way. The ride felt pleasant, yet something about it was troubling.
After an indeterminate amount of time, hints of reality protruded into the experience. A soft wind caressed her face. The smell of the salty ocean air filled her nostrils.
Soon a familiar sound reached her ears. Voices. People were talking, and they seemed close by.
Drenna strained to hear them but could make out only a few words.
“Is she…”
“He confirmed that everything is…”
“… headed there now.”
As the voices grew louder, Drenna’s other senses began to wake up as well. She felt a cushion underneath her right side. Was it the back seat of a car? She didn’t think so. The acoustics were wrong. She was outside.
Take a look around.
She tried to obey the command of that little voice but couldn’t force her eyes to open. A moment later, she felt a swaying sensation beneath her.
A boat. I’m on a boat.
A man asked a question, and this time, she heard each of his words. “Anything to report?”
“No,” another man answered. “I told them we were on the way.”
Drenna felt certain she knew the second man’s voice. She had heard that accent before. Recently, in fact. Then it hit her. Botha. Jacques Botha.
The man’s name brought back memories of what had taken place. She remembered sitting next to Botha at the bar. For a while, things seemed to be going well. The plan was working. He had invited her to his apartment. But when the time came to leave, things took an ominous turn. Instead of walking to Botha’s place, he led her to a car waiting ou
tside. After climbing into the back seat, Drenna remembered thinking she was going to pass out. Then she did.
He drugged me. That much was abundantly clear. But how had that happened? He was supposed to be the one who blacked out. Instead, it was her.
Drenna reviewed the events at the bar. She had dropped the pill into Botha’s drink when he went to the men’s room. She was sure of that. She even remembered seeing the whiskey fizzle for a moment as the pill dissolved. Then she realized what had actually happened. Botha had known about the pill and simply switched drinks with her. That was why he had insisted she finish her glass before they left.
But how had he known? She was certain he hadn’t seen her drop the pill into his drink. Either he had brought someone with him to watch, or he knew she was going to do it in advance. Drenna could live with the former. That was simply part of the game. Sometimes you won, and sometimes you lost. But if Botha had known about the operation in advance, that meant someone had tipped him off.
If so, who had helped him? According to Driscoll, only four people in British intelligence knew about the operation—the three-man team in Nice and Driscoll’s boss, Andy Scott. Although she couldn’t definitively rule out Driscoll and Scott, she believed it was more likely to be Vinay Rana or Andy Bowles.
As an officer who worked out of Marseilles, Rana might be the more likely suspect. He had probably interacted with dozens if not hundreds of criminals and terrorists. If he was experiencing some extreme financial distress, she could easily see him crossing over to the other side.
Still, something didn’t fit. Drenna had a remarkably accurate ability to read people, and Rana had not set off any alarms. She liked everything about him. He was a skilled agent who seemed loyal to the British government. Not only that, but Western intelligence agencies monitored the finances of their highest-ranking officers. The CIA did, and Drenna felt certain the SIS did as well. If Rana had any financial difficulties, they would have watched him closely for signs of betrayal.
“Check her,” Botha barked, pulling Drenna out of her thoughts.
He’s talking about me.
“I just checked—”
“Check her again.”
There was a short pause. “Yes, sir.”
Drenna felt the boat sway as the man came toward her. A moment later, two fingers pressed against her neck. After holding them there for several seconds, the man lifted Drenna’s left eyelid. She kept her gaze steady as a light was pointed at her face.
“She’s fine.”
“Good,” Botha said. “We’ll give her something to wake her up when we get to the boat.”
Drenna thought the comment was strange. They were already on a boat, so he must have been referring to a larger craft, perhaps one of the many yachts anchored offshore.
“Let’s get moving,” Botha said.
Seconds later, the boat’s engine growled to life. It seemed close to her, a couple of feet at most.
Sensing her strength was returning, Drenna managed to crack one eye open. It was nighttime, which meant she hadn’t been unconscious for very long. They were on a motorboat, and she was stretched out on a cushioned seat situated on the port side of the stern. She looked toward the bow. One man sat at the wheel. Botha and another tall man stood next to him. The tall man held a rifle that looked like a Kalashnikov, probably an AK-47.
The three men were talking, but their voices were drowned out by the motor’s sound.
Drenna cast her gaze out beyond the gunwale and saw a number of other boats around them. She knew there weren’t many private docks in Nice—the beach there was largely left open for tourists to bask in the sun. That meant they were probably in Villefranche-sur-Mer, a small town just north of Nice. Several marinas were there.
As the boat backed out of its space, Drenna tried to assess her physical condition. Strangely, she didn’t feel too bad. She was tired and sore but could certainly get up and move around if she had to.
Having backed the boat away from the dock, the driver directed the craft out into the harbor. The boat moved slowly through the no-wake zone. Drenna wondered how long it would take to get to the yacht. If I’m going to escape, it needs to be now.
She tried to move her extremities and was shocked to discover that her legs and hands were free. Why wasn’t she tied up? She could think of only one reason. The harbor was crawling with maritime police, and if one of the patrol boats came quickly alongside, it might not give them enough time to remove the cuffs. It would be easy to explain a woman who was passed out on one of the seats—the wealthy were known to go into town for nights of partying—but it would be impossible to explain the presence of a woman in cuffs.
As the boat picked up speed, Drenna considered what if anything she could do to get away. Once they arrived at their destination, she would be woken up and placed in restraints. That meant she had to make her move before then. But what could she do? The tall man was armed with an automatic rifle. If she attempted to rush them, he would simply turn the weapon in her direction and fill her with lead.
It would also be foolish to dive overboard. She had no doubt she could get into the water without being shot, but there would be nowhere for her to go. They would simply circle around and wait for her to come up.
No, she needed something else. She needed something that would take her captors completely by surprise.
She looked at the immediate area around her. Two life preservers were stacked against the stern, and a few beer cans were strewn across the hull. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything close by that could be used as a weapon. No anchor. No flare gun. Nothing.
Drenna was about to feel around under the seat when Botha walked in her direction. She closed her eyes to slits. At first, she thought he was going to check on her, but instead, he stopped a few feet away and fished for something in his pocket. His hand came out clutching a cigarette and box of matches. He was about to have a smoke.
As he fished a match out of the box, Drenna noticed a pistol tucked in Botha’s waistband. That meant he could make a quick draw, but it also meant someone else could do the same thing.
Botha pushed the cigarette into his mouth then struck a match against the side of the box. There was a brief flash of light, but it died immediately. Botha swore softly then tried two more times with the same result. The wind in the harbor was too brisk.
Finally, he turned and called out to the tall man. “Hey, let me borrow your lighter.”
Lighter. Suddenly, an idea formed in Drenna’s mind. It was risky, but it just might be crazy enough to work.
The tall man fished the lighter out of his pocket and tossed it toward Botha, who missed the catch. Cursing, the South African stooped to pick it up.
Now.
As he closed his hand around the lighter, Drenna extended her arm and grabbed the boat’s fuel line. She had recognized it earlier by the primer bulb. She ran her hand up the line until she found the fastener that attached it to the motor. She carefully flicked the fastener up while keeping the line in place. Her timing would have to be perfect because the engine would begin to sputter the moment she pulled the line out.
Botha stood with a grunt of satisfaction. Drenna watched him bring the lighter up toward the tip of the cigarette. When she heard the lighter’s distinct click, she pulled the fuel line off the motor. A bright light flared in front of Botha’s face. Drenna pressed her thumb against the escaping fuel to create a spray. She sat up and directed the stream toward Botha’s face.
A moment later, the area around his head exploded in flames. Crying out, he stumbled in Drenna’s direction. It couldn’t have played out any better.
She jumped up, drew the pistol out of his waistband, then swung him around to use as a shield. Tall Man had the AK-47 pointed in their direction, but he hesitated, unsure whether to shoot, since his boss would bear the brunt of the barrage. Drenna didn’t hesitate. She brought the pistol up and shot Tall Man twice in the chest. He squeezed the trigger of the Kalashnikov in response, b
ut it was too late. His body was knocked backward over the gunwale and into the water.
Throwing Botha aside, Drenna turned her attention to the helm. The boat’s driver was coming toward her. He lifted something that looked like a weapon, and Drenna shot him in the face. He crumpled to the deck. Not wanting to take any chances, she walked over and shot him again.
There was movement in the stern. Drenna spun around to see Botha rising to his feet. Even in the dark, she could tell his face was a twisted mass of darkened flesh.
“No, please…” He held up a hand. “Just let me live. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
Drenna aimed the pistol at his chest.
Clearly sensing she might shoot, Botha let loose a shout and charged in her direction.
“You’ll thank me for this,” Drenna said as she squeezed the trigger twice.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Igor Sobolev stood at the stern of Ma Petite Fille, one of the largest luxury yachts anchored off the coast of Nice. He glanced at the time on his phone again. The South African and his men were ten minutes late, which wasn’t the least bit surprising. Botha was never on time for anything unless it involved drinking or chasing women half his age.
Normally, Igor would be bored at the prospect of greeting the man when he came in, but this time was different. This time, they were bringing in the biggest catch of all, the one woman the organization feared could bring them down. Igor hadn’t been told exactly how they had pulled it off, only that she had been drugged.
Still, Igor wouldn’t believe it until he saw the infamous assassin with his own eyes. The organization had already been fooled once. Just days before, they had gotten word that she had been killed on American soil, only to find out later that she was still alive and perhaps coming to hunt them all down. Igor was struck with fear when he had first gotten news of the woman’s survival. He had heard stories of how she could materialize out of the darkness and slash someone’s throat with one surgical slice.