by Brad Taylor
Kerry said, “That’s crazy.”
“Really? They’ve kept this as quiet as we have and know how our hands would be tied if a story got out. I think it’s a lead. Whoever killed him is working with the people who have our hostages. What do the police know about the crime?”
“I have no idea. Not something I’m really worried about, beyond questioning you two jackals.”
“You mind if I look into it?”
“What do you mean, ‘look’?”
“Just poke around. See what I can find.”
“That depends on the next few minutes. We resolve this in Paris, then let the police handle it.”
There was a knock on the door and President Warren said, “Come in.”
The director of the FBI stuck in just his head and said, “They got the phone. They’re rolling.”
50
Knuckles saw a flurry of movement, then heard a command in French.
Brock said, “Might be time,” and jogged over to the man who was apparently in charge.
Brett said, “You think they could neck down a phone location with that little drone?”
“I was wondering that myself. I’m thinking of volunteering your services. Get you inside with a Growler. If they’ve got the phone talking to the router, you could pinpoint.”
Brett raised an eyebrow and said, “You mean because I used to work in Ground Branch? Because I’m used to penetrating hostile environments and can’t be flustered by ordinary pressure?”
Brock came back to them, and Knuckles said, “No. Because you’re the only black man in the room.”
Before Brock could utter a word, Brett muttered, “Always about the black man.”
Brock looked at him, then at Knuckles. “You guys got a problem I need to know about?”
“You tell me. What’s up?”
“They’re ready to go, but it’s going to be a little bigger than we wanted. They’ve got the phone pinpointed to the fourth floor based on signal strength, but that still leaves fifteen apartments. The signal’s stronger in the west, so we’ll hit that first, then roll forward, taking three rooms at a time.”
Incredulous, Knuckles said, “That’s fucking insane.”
Brock said, “I know, it’s not optimal, but the guys who are augmenting all have SWAT training. They’ll lock down the floor while the GIGN clears. Nobody will get out.”
“Get out? What if the bad guys just start shooting? This isn’t a capture/kill mission. It’s a hostage rescue. The precious cargo takes priority. I don’t give a shit if all the terrorists run out the back. I do, however, care greatly if they decide to bring harm.”
Brock said, “Not our call. It’s their country. Their show. They’ve done this sort of thing a hell of a lot.”
“Screw that. What if we can neck it down?”
“‘We’? You mean us? How are you going to do that?”
“You got a signal-intercept capability with all of that tech shit you brought?”
“No. It’s all biometric. We got a Quick Capture suite here with us. We can scan an eyeball or fingerprint and get a read via satellite in seconds.” He said the last with a little pride.
Knuckles deflated him. “Who gives a shit about who they are after we’re done? You need to get back to what this is. Forget about your tours in Afghanistan. It’s all about the rescue. We can do the forensics afterward, but that’s just a sideshow.”
Stung, Brock said, “I get that, but the rescue is their mission. I’ve been given mine. What do you want me to do? Take over the operation?”
“Yes. Tell them we have some kit to isolate the phone. Get us something better than an entire floor. I’ll send Brett in. He conducts a recce and comes back.”
“What skill does he have?”
“Not much, but he’s black.”
Brett, digging through a Pelican case, snorted and said, “Trust me, I’ve got more skill than anyone in this room for the mission. Get the commander over here.”
Brock stood for a moment, and Knuckles could see the options banging through his skull, the implications of action competing with the results of inaction. He knew Brock was feeling enormous pressure to do nothing and let the French take the blame for any problems, but the hostages’ lives weighed in the balance. Knuckles waited on the correct decision and had no doubt Brock would make it. They were both too much alike not to.
Brock turned away and waved. The troop commander came over, and Brock began speaking French to him, surprising Knuckles. They went back and forth, and the commander looked at Knuckles. Speaking with a heavy accent, he said, “You have done this before?”
“Yes. It’s what we do.”
“The FBI does this? I have never seen this, and I’ve been to Quantico several times.”
Knuckles grinned and said, “Special cell.”
The commander slowly nodded, then started barking in French. Soon enough, Brett was outfitted with derelict clothes and given a motorbike. The commander said, “No weapons. You go, you come back. Understand?”
Brett said, “About what I expected.”
Knuckles buried the Growler in a knapsack slung over his back, running the antennae down the shoulder strap. He said, “You want backup?”
“No. I don’t need a white-boy spiking.”
He pulled out of the garage, and Brock said, “Need to send in a SITREP. Let them know the FBI is operational on this mission.”
Knuckles grabbed his arm. “You don’t need to send shit. He’s my man. My responsibility. I’ll send the SITREP.”
“To who? This is my show.”
“To the National Command Authority. Trust me, it’s not your show.”
* * *
Brett returned barely thirty minutes later, tooting his horn to get the garage door up. He entered, the GIGN surrounding him. Knuckles pushed through and said, “Well?”
“I couldn’t get a single apartment, but I necked it down to two. Fourth floor, just like the Frogs said.”
The GIGN commander smiled at the verbal slight and said, “Show me.”
Brett spent twenty minutes describing the entrance, the stairwell, and the target doors. The GIGN men, through the commander, asked questions about breach points, security positions, and lighting, all of which showed Knuckles they were on their game. He relaxed, letting them get to it.
Brock said, “I guess that was a good call.”
Knuckles said, “Intelligence is always a good call.”
“Doesn’t change anything. You’re still in the back, and I’m still the ground force commander.”
Knuckles looked at the ceiling and said, “No worries.”
Five minutes later they were rolling, a caravan of various panel vans and bread trucks, all designed to blend in to the environment. Knuckles looked out the windshield, following along as the men in his vehicle checked and rechecked breaching charges, weapons, and radios.
They turned down a street and he saw a large Orthodox church at the end. The stick leader in his van said something in French, and Brock said, “Thirty seconds.”
Knuckles stacked against the back of the van, next to Brett, giving the GIGN full access to the sliding door. He saw two vehicles continue straight, the regular gendarmerie locking down the block. Sealing off the operational area. The vehicle in front turned into a narrow lane, revealing a metal gate. Incongruously, as often happened in such operations, there was a single man out front on a park bench, talking on a phone, oblivious to the impending storm. Knuckles realized he was white, the sight looking completely out of place.
The lane opened into a courtyard and Brett recognized the building. He said, “This is it.”
Knuckles forgot about the man and focused on the fight, taking deep breaths and getting his adrenaline under control. He elbowed Brett and whispered, “This is cool shit, huh?”
Brett smiled. “Yeah, when we’re surrounded by all this firepower. It was some scary shit thirty minutes ago. You’re lucky you’re not black.”
They pulled in behind the single van. The doors slid open at the same time, and the GIGN spilled out, moving like water from a split dam.
They raced to the stairwell, sprinting up, very little noise other than the clank of equipment. At each floor, two men in the front of the column peeled off, locking down the entrance to the stairwell and preventing any surprises from the rear.
They reached the fourth floor and the teams split, two men locking down the hallway to their rear, and the rest sprinting to their designated targets. The two FBI agents were supposed to follow the first team to their room, leaving Knuckles and Brett for the second door, but there was a tangle in the hallway, and they ended up at the back of the same stack.
The electricity of the operation flowing through him, weapon held high, Knuckles saw the two GIGN breachers look at each other and nod. They raised their battering rams and struck the doors at the same time, shattering the locks. The men shot into the rooms like lava from an erupting volcano, shouting commands to gain dominance.
Knuckles heard no gunfire.
Last in, he entered to find the room empty, the GIGN dominating the entire structure. No furniture and no terrorists. On the floor was a Samsung Galaxy cell phone, blinking. On the walls were packages.
It coalesced in his brain in a nanosecond, and he shouted, “Avalanche!”
Nobody in the room other than Brett understood the Taskforce command for immediate evacuation. Bulling his way to the entrance, Knuckles grabbed one GIGN man and bodily flung him through the door. He took two steps toward it, seeing Brett dive outside, when the room erupted in fire.
51
After four solid hours of staring at the Bulgari store, I began to relax, wondering if we’d spooked them off the target because of our shenanigans in Brussels. Honestly, I felt a little relieved. Sort of wishing I were with Knuckles, getting some on a hit that had sanction instead of sitting here half praying nobody showed up. After Knuckles’s call I knew I was hanging way out over the ledge without any support.
Jennifer said, “How long do you want to stay?”
“Well, at least until they close. We know they’re after some special necklace, and they said it would be on display in the day, then locked up at night. The Pink Panthers aren’t sneaky safecrackers. They’re brazen daylight guys. The store closes, and we’re done for the day.”
“And after that?”
I thought about Kurt, and the fact that he’d ignored my call. I wasn’t sure what it meant. He wanted Kylie back more than life itself, but he’d hung me out to dry on a serious lead. And now wouldn’t talk to me. I didn’t know how to read those tea leaves.
I said, “I don’t know. We’ll get back to the hotel and reassess.”
She saw what I was thinking and said, “Kurt didn’t do that on purpose. Don’t wonder about his motives. There’s much more going on than our little hunt.”
“Yeah, inside I know that, but it’s still a little scary. Maybe something’s happened and he’s been forced to abandon us. I’m worried that we’re out here doing shit on our own now. No sanction whatsoever.”
She smiled and said, “Does that ever matter to you?”
“Well, yeah, it matters.”
“You mean like the sanction you got to bring in Nung?”
I hadn’t yet told Kurt about flying him over—or that he had to be paid—and she was gently reminding me that operations were fluid. I was doing what I did for the good of the mission, and so was Kurt. I said, “Point taken,” and returned to staring at the boring facade of the Bulgari store.
Located where two roads came together at an angle, it was situated on the point, with a door to the west and a door to the east. We’d found a café on the east side and had been watching for the better part of the day, drinking coffee.
The store was two stories tall and had some serious security, with a man just inside each door who actually unlocked them for patrons he deemed worthy to enter. Don’t look like you’re going to drop a quarter mil on jewelry? He’d just nod at you, indicating that you could head on down to another store to window-shop. The doors remained locked otherwise, with cameras everywhere, and two other roaming guards inside.
I looked at my watch and saw it was 4:58. I said, “Let’s call Nung. Head on back to the hotel. Figure out our next steps.”
Nung was currently driving our rental, parking at various locations until told to move but remaining close enough to engage when called.
“What are you thinking?”
“Honestly? I’m thinking about what I’m going to tell Nung. I can’t pay him for flying out here for nothing.”
She smiled and said, “Let me talk to him,” then, “Holy shit, Pike, take a look.”
I glanced at the store and saw a smoking-hot female being escorted by an older male. They stood outside the door, smiling, and were let in. Two minutes before closing.
One minute later, two other couples approached, the females dressed to the nines, and the males in suits. They were let in as well.
“Shit. This is it. Call Nung. Get him staged on this road.”
She started dialing, saying, “We don’t have the police. What’s the mission?”
“Catch that fuck Braden.”
Looking through plate glass, I saw the first couple start browsing the displays on the western side. Next to the guard at that door. The other two couples split, one headed to the interior of the store, and the other focusing on the displays near the eastern door. Near the guard.
I said, “Get him on the phone. It’s going to happen quick.”
And it did. I saw the eastern man pull something from his coat, and the guard at my door dropped like he’d been hit in the head with an axe handle. Looking through the glass, I saw the western door was empty. Two seconds later, the men were replaced by the two suits, both shoving in the earpieces of the door guards and looking as if they belonged. I couldn’t see the two roving security guys but knew they were down as well. The females took off their high heels and started racing through the store, smashing the glass in the displays and shoving gold into their bags.
I said, “Jesus Christ, they’re fast. This is about to be over. Where’s Nung?”
She held a finger up, speaking into the phone. “No, don’t pull up yet. Get where you can arrive in five seconds. No earlier.”
I saw a man on a motorcycle coming toward us on the eastern side, driving at an unhurried pace, keeping with the traffic. He had on a helmet, but I knew who it was.
I said, “Braden’s coming. Get Nung moving. We’re about to lose him.”
Jennifer relayed, and I watched impatiently as the bike pulled up to the eastern entrance. It sat there puttering, then one couple burst out of the exit. The man shoved a bulging canvas sack into the bike rider’s arms. I watched them run into an alley, seeing the woman toss her hat to the ground and whip off a wig.
They were gone.
I looked through the store, trying to find the others, but could see nothing. I knew they’d exited through the west door. And that they’d also gone through the profile change, altering their appearance with wigs and jackets.
I saw the bike hammer the throttle, headed to the Champs-Élysées, and shouted, “Where the hell is Nung?”
A Fiat slammed to a stop in front of us, and Jennifer said, “Here. Let’s go.”
We raced out of the café, the owner behind the bar screaming at us. I had no time to pay our bill and simply ignored him, piling into the back, Jennifer taking the passenger seat.
52
Nung started driving, not saying a word, making me wonder what he thought he was doing. It was like Thailand all over again. The Terminator robot walking relentlessly forward with his last order
s, calm and immune to chaos.
A tall man with a shock of crew-cut black hair, he looked vaguely Thai, but with a mix of something else. Exotic, he’d probably get more ass than a toilet seat if he weren’t so damn straightforward. I was pretty sure any woman who approached him would say one coy thing, and he’d answer with something honest, like, “I don’t seek females with small breasts.”
We approached the Champs-Élysées and he asked, “Destination?”
I said, “See that bike? The one headed away from the Arc de Triomphe? That’s the target. Stay on him.”
He took the turn, and I started thinking of options. From the front, Jennifer said, “We need to get him clean. We can’t take him down on the streets of Paris. We’ll all get locked up by the police.”
I cursed Kurt under my breath and said, “I know. We’ll follow to a bed-down site. Nung, don’t lose him, but don’t spike either.”
He said, “That may be a command I cannot accomplish. If forced, which is it? Don’t spike or don’t lose?”
I said, “Don’t lose. Whatever it takes, don’t let that fucker get away.”
We traveled down the thoroughfare, passing all the high-end stores and entering Franklin Roosevelt circle. We continued on, the stores falling away for tree-lined promenades, with palaces left and right. Jennifer said, “The Louvre is ahead. Is he doing something else?”
“No. No way.”
We hit a dead end at a large oval, and he turned south, crossing the Seine. I said, “He’s going home.”
He took a left on boulevard Saint-Germain and started weaving in and out of traffic, picking up the pace. I said, “Stick with him.”
Nung floored the accelerator, driving me into my seat. I shouted, “Jesus Christ, just keep him in sight.”
Nung said, “You need to be more clear.”
I looked at Jennifer, and she rolled her eyes, silently telling me, He’s your crazy team member.
I said, “Nung, stay with him, but don’t kill us.”