A bitter laughed worked up from her chest. “Now you tell me.”
“It’s overwhelming when you realize just how deep the corruption goes.” Duval stared out the passenger side window at the dark countryside rolling past. “When I got the first package of leaked documents, I was horrified at some of the things I was reading. I spent a week pacing my grubby flat in Paris, going over the material, hardly daring to believe some of the things in those files. I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to believe the very same agencies that were supposed to be keeping us safe could be responsible for covering up such atrocities.”
“Why did you release it?” Sam asked. “You had to know they would come after you.”
“Why did you rescue me?” He looked over at her. “Because it was the right thing to do.”
“Touché.”
Flashing lights winked in the darkness up ahead and the first giddy rush of fear started in Sam’s belly. She sat up a little straighter. Duval, noticing her sudden tension, peered through the rain-streaked windshield and the color drained from his face. “Mon Dieu. We’re caught.”
“Don’t panic,” she told him. “Could be a traffic accident.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sam’s foot eased up on the gas pedal. Traffic was slowing down and stacking up. A line of cars crept toward the flashing lights. Duval clutched the dash with one white-knuckled hand and whispered under his breath, “No, no, no, no…”
Sam tried to calm him down, but her own gut was screaming a warning at her. They eased forward, stop and go, until the flashing lights came into view. French police had set up a roadblock and were checking cars.
Sam’s stomach did a flip-flop. The line of cars suddenly seemed to be moving too fast. The Renault in front of her kept edging forward and Sam wished it would stop. She needed time to think.
It could be a routine drunk driving stop. France had started cracking down on drunk driving in recent years. Gone were the days when French drivers could enjoy an entire bottle of wine with dinner and then climb behind the wheel of a car. The government had set the legal limit at .05 and even passed a law requiring French motorists to have a breathalyzer in the vehicle, but supply problems essentially made the law unenforceable. Sam drummed the steering wheel. A drunk driving stop or something more?
“What are we going to do?” Duval wanted to know.
Sam took a deep breath, offered up a quick prayer and said, “Buckle up.”
“Mon Dieu.” Duval fastened his seatbelt and gave it a tug to be sure it was secure.
When the Renault in front eased up, Sam cut the wheel hard and pushed the pedal down. The stolen Citroën swung out and crossed a grassy median toward the westbound lane. The back tires threw up tuffs of wet sod. Horns bleated. Sam narrowly avoided a fast-moving Mazda as she joined the flow of traffic going the opposite direction.
“You trying to get us killed?” Duval pulled out his inhaler, gave it a shake and took a hit.
Sirens blared. Sam glanced in her rearview in time to see a pair of patrol cars break away from the checkpoint. They tore across the grass and bumped onto the black top, weaving through traffic. Their horns moved slower motorists out of the way.
Sam pushed the pedal down and watched the needle climb to eighty miles an hour. The engine let out a plaintive whine and the van started to rattle. She had to wrestle the wheel to keep them on the road.
Duval craned around for a look out the rear window. “You think you are going to outrun police cars in a stolen minivan?”
“Don’t distract me while I’m driving.” Sam jogged around the back of a slow-moving truck. She was hunched forward over the wheel with her shoulders drawn up, then remembered her training. “Sit back,” she told herself. “Arms extended. Focus your eyes where you want the car to go.”
“How long did you say you’ve been with the CIA?” Duval asked.
“About a year,” said Sam. “Remember what I said about not distracting me?”
Duval took another look out the back window. “Well, I don’t want to distract you, but they’re gaining.”
“It’s not about who drives the fastest.” Sam swung the wheel and the Citroën veered back across the grassy strip. “It’s about who makes the first mistake.”
Duval clutched the dash with both hands. His chest rose and fell in panicked gasps. “We’re going to die.”
“Stay positive,” Sam said.
“I’m positive we’re going to die.”
The stolen Citroën crossed the breakdown lane and into oncoming traffic. Drivers mashed their horns and swerved. Tires shrieked on the blacktop. Duval screamed and threw one arm over his eyes. Sam had to jerk the wheel to avoid a head-on collision. The back end of the Citroën slipped on the wet macadam and the van started a slow, sideways drift. Her heart crawled up into her throat and her hands locked on the wheel. Her foot came off the gas and she was just about to slam on the brakes.
Remember your training! a voice screamed inside her head.
She resisted the urge to hit the brakes, tapped the gas instead, and steered into the slide. The tires caught traction and Sam managed to pull the vehicle out of the deadly drift in time to avoid a wreck. A panel van knocked off the passenger side mirror with a sharp crack. Duval shouted and crowded toward the center console. Sam took one hand off the wheel long enough to push him back into his seat.
“Stay!” she ordered. If they got hit, she wanted the airbag to catch him.
From behind, she heard the tell-tale crunch of metal and glass and one of the sirens fell silent.
Duval twisted around in his seat. “They crashed!”
“Both?”
“Just one.”
A nervous grin tugged at Sam’s lips, but she didn’t let herself celebrate yet. One more to go. She spotted an exit ramp and said, “Hold on!”
She had to time it just right. She waited until she was even with the exit, let off the gas, pulled the emergency brake and spun the wheel. The Citroën went into a controlled slide. Rubber howled on the blacktop. Duval let out a long, high-pitched wail. The minivan humped up onto two wheels and the breath froze in Sam’s lungs. For one terrifying moment, she thought she had over-steered. Then the vehicle crashed back down on all four. Sam released the parking brake and pressed the gas. The Citroën surged forward.
The remaining police cruiser tried the same stunt with different results. A pickup slammed into the passenger side as the officer tried to make the turn. There was a shriek of tires and a split second of silence before a rending crash. The siren cut out.
Sam glanced in her rearview and winced. “Hope he’s alright.”
They shot down the exit ramp toward a small French village. Sam took corners at random and doubled back to make sure they weren’t being followed. Duval slumped down in his seat like a limp doll and brought out his inhaler for another toke. He took a shot, shook it, and tried again before tossing the empty inhaler in the floorboard.
“Take it easy on those things,” Sam told him. “How many more do you have?”
“Just one,” Duval told her.
She gave him a worried glance.
He said, “I’ll be alright.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Burke considered slipping down the hall to his office where he could sneak in a short nap. They were no closer to finding Sam than when they first got word Frank Bonner was dead. Burke checked his watch. Outside, the sun would be sinking toward the horizon. Being cooped up in a situation room all day under the artificial glow of fluorescents had screwed up his circadian rhythm. A yawn tried to split his jaw in half. He gave his head a shake to clear out the cobwebs. His feet were aching, but he didn’t dare sit down for fear he would nod off in the situation room.
The cadre of analysts and surveillance experts crowding the computers weren’t in much better shape. They were all younger, but hours watching traffic patterns took a toll. Burke would have to start rotating them, four hours on, sixty minutes off. And if this went
on much longer, he would need to bring in fresh faces. That meant more people who knew what was going on and more opportunity for sensitive intel to leak. Burke reached for a cup of cold coffee.
Dana put her hand over the mug. “You need rest,” she said. “We might be at this for hours yet. Stretch out. I’ll let you know if anything pops.”
“You’re probably right.”
“I’m always right,” she whispered.
Before he could slip out, Ben Jameson turned on his swivel chair and gave Burke a barely perceptible nod.
Burke bent low over his shoulder, tried to hold his breath, and whispered, “What have you got?”
“Take a look.”
Burke watched a grainy black and white image of a masked assassin with a Heckler & Koch MP5 marching a terrified man along an ocean boulevard toward an unmarked van.
“Who is that?” Burke wanted to know.
“Not sure,” said Jameson. “But it gets better.”
Burke was so focused on the video feed that he forgot to hold his breath. The smell of Jameson’s cologne overwhelmed his senses and started a throbbing headache at the back of his skull.
On screen, the man elbowed his attacker and made a run for it. The assassin gave chase and they disappeared out of the frame.
“Is there another angle?” Burke asked.
Jameson held up a finger. “Wait for it.”
Burke watched. It was a quiet seaside boulevard in the middle of the night. Only the patter of rain drops in puddles told him the video had not frozen. He said, “What are we waiting…”
A silver Audi roared onto the screen and slammed on the brakes. Rain made halos around the headlamps. The tires locked and the doors cranked open. Four men leapt out.
Burke said, “Is that...?”
“Bonner,” Jameson said, “Along with Grey, Preston, and LeBeau.”
“Why would Bonner take an entire covert action team to investigate a low-level smuggler?” Dana said. “And who was the other guy?”
“Don’t miss this part,” Jameson told them.
The assassin came back into view, just barely visible in the lower right corner of the frame. The mask was gone now but only the top of the head was visible. It was clear Bonner and the assassin were talking. Bonner took a few steps forward. He looked like he was yelling. Then he brought his gun up and backpedaled to the open car door for cover. Windows blew out of the vehicle. Grey and his team returned fire. Burke watched silent muzzle flashes. Frank Bonner got caught out in the open. His head snapped back and he dropped to the ground.
Dana cursed under her breath. “They had a shootout in the middle of the street.”
“And it looked like everybody started shooting at the same time,” Burke said.
Jameson asked, “You think that was Gunn they were trading bullets with?”
“The figure is right,” Burke said.
Dana gave him a significant look.
He shrugged.
While they watched, Grey and his crew chased the shooter off-camera. They were gone maybe ten minutes and then came back. They rifled Frank Bonner’s pockets, loaded into the car and took off.
Burke said, “Get still images over to the boys in IMINT. Have them compare it to photos of Sam and see if they can get a positive match. Any idea who was with her?”
Jameson shook his head. “I tried running his face, but they’re at a bad angle. No close matches. One probable popped in the system, but it’s impossible.”
Burke questioned him with a look.
Jameson switched screens. “The software returned a forty-two point two percent match for Sacha Duval, but he’s holed up in the Ecuadorian embassy in London.”
Dana grabbed Burke’s forearm. “The smuggler was bringing something over from England. How do we know it wasn’t a person?”
“You think that’s Sacha Duval?” Jameson asked.
“I don’t know what to think,” Burke said. “I know Grey lied about how Bonner got killed and we have only his word that Sam Gunn pulled the trigger.” Burke turned to Dana. “Go back to my office. Use a secure line. Get on the phone with the Ecuadorian embassy in London. Find out if Duval is still a guest.”
She nodded and hurried off.
He turned back to Jameson. “I want you to put a copy of this footage on a thumb drive.”
“We aren’t allowed to have thumb drives in here,” Jameson pointed out.
Burke bared his teeth, revealing the gap between. “Close copy it to my company email. Eyes only.”
Someone across the room said, “Sir?”
Burke looked up. “What do you got?”
“A stolen minivan just took French police on a high-speed chase along the A2. Witnesses say there were two occupants. One male. One female.”
“Are they still in pursuit?”
The analyst shook her head. “This report is about an hour old. The minivan got away. Believed to be somewhere in the vicinity of Vesoul.”
“Where in the hell is that?” Burke wanted to know.
“South east France,” she said.
Someone else added, “It’s near Lyon.”
Burke put his hands on his hips and considered his next move. The report wasn’t a positive ID. It might have been a couple of drug traffickers, but Burke didn’t believe in coincidences. Grey and his team would get hold of the report soon, if they hadn’t already. There was no way Burke could bury this and let Sam slip through. He said, “Reroute one of the drones. Give them the description of the minivan.”
“Just one?”
“We don’t know for sure it’s them,” Burke said. “Let’s not put all our eggs in one basket.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Noble woke up with his face submerged in freezing water. Callous hands gripped his hair and held him under. His own hands were cuffed behind his back. Concrete bit into his knees. He tried to lever himself up, but his captors forced him back down into the icy depths and gave him a rough shake. His lips parted in a muffled scream. Bubbles boiled out of his mouth and raced to the surface. The cold attacked his eyes and rushed down his throat. His lungs screamed for oxygen. The contents of his stomach tried to escape. His body convulsed.
The next thing he knew they were hauling him up. Cold water exploded from his mouth and nose. His eyes burned from the freezing temperatures. Tears welled up, doubling his vision. He gasped for air, retched, and hacked out a series of coughs intermingled with curses.
Before he could get air back into his lungs, he was plunged forward again. Noble fought with all his strength, but two sets of hands forced him down and freezing water enveloped him. He clamped his lips shut, closed his eyes and tried to wait them out, but it was no use. Seconds ticked by and his chest cried out for air. The muscles in his back and legs tensed and he started to thrash. One of his captors gave him a knee to the ribs and Noble choked out a scream. His heart tried to hammer its way out of his chest. He strained at the cuffs. The metal cut into his wrists and he could hear his own garbled screams through the water. His lungs felt like they would burst.
Just as his mind started drifting toward oblivion and his struggles tapered off, they pulled him back up. This time they let him catch his breath. He coughed, sucked air, and blinked a few times.
They were dunking him in an old metal wash basin covered in rust. The building was an abandoned warehouse. Forgotten machinery stood like shadowy hulks in the darkness and a thick layer of dust covered the cracked concrete foundation. Grime-encrusted windows let in just enough light to see. Beyond the windows was a deserted industrial district, miles from the nearest inhabitants. His messenger bag, along with all his gear, laid in the corner near the door.
The accident victim with the neck brace and the unibrow stared down at him. He took a bottle of prescription strength pain relievers from his coat pocket, shook a pair into his palm and dry swallowed. Noble wracked his brain and came up with a name.
“Mateen,” he choked out.
The French gangster didn
’t react but the pair of thugs holding Noble gave him another dunking. They didn’t keep him under as long this time but he still came up coughing.
“What do you want?” Noble managed to say.
“Moi?” Mateen motioned to himself. “Nothing, Monsieur. I’m a business man providing a service. Nothing more.”
“You must want something,” Noble said. “Or I’d be dead already.”
A half smile turned up Mateen’s face. It looked like a painful grimace. “You have your employers,” he said. “I have mine.”
At a motion from Mateen, the two goons submerged Noble again. They held him down until his struggles ceased and then pulled him up and brought him around with a few slaps across the face. This went on for what felt like hours but was in reality probably only thirty minutes. Noble was starting to believe they would kill him by accident when he heard a car pull up outside.
David Grey entered through a side door, dressed in slacks, and a heavy overcoat. His dark hair was cut short and swept back from a high forehead. He had a business-like demeanor; cold, detached, professional. He wasn’t here to waste time. He reached in his coat, handed Mateen an envelope stuffed with cash and Mateen passed over Noble’s wallet.
“ID says he’s John Comstock from Milwaukie,” Mateen said.
Grey tossed the wallet aside, knowing everything in it was fake. “I’ll take it from here.”
Mateen pocketed the envelope and exited through the side door, leaving Noble with Grey and the two bruisers. A moment later they heard the sound of an engine and then tires on broken asphalt. Grey stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and sniffed. “So who are you really?”
“Benny Goodman,” Noble told him.
One side of Grey’s face hitched up in a smile. “We got a comedian.”
One of the goons reached in his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. The knife opened with a sharp snap and steel flashed in the dim light. He said, “Comedians get their balls cut off.”
“How original,” Noble said.
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