If You're Going Through Hell Keep Going

by Tinnean

  “We’ll talk about it in Paris. Now get going so your lover won’t have to wait forever to see you again. And do me a favor please? Don’t get yourself killed.”

  “Okay, Quinn. Bye.”

  “I’ll see you, Mark.”

  Yeah, he would. I ended the call and started formulating plans. I needed to make arrangements for someone to watch over Spike until Paul calmed down. Matheson was tied up with that situation at the WBIS; that left Rayne and Winchester, since I hadn’t given Johnson and Ahrens the final okay.

  But Quinn lingered in the back of my mind. Yeah. He deserved more than a single word.

  I booked an airline ticket and a rental car. Matheson was more than competent, but he was one man, and I wanted him to have some kind of backup. Rayne was finding her balance, and this would be good for her.

  I’d give this job to Winchester.

  He picked up on the second ring. “Lo?”

  “It’s Vincent. Wake up.”

  I heard the sound of water running and then spitting. “Sorry, sir. I am awake. I was brushing my teeth. What can I do for you?”

  “I need you to guard a friend.” I waited for him to object, to insist this wasn’t WBIS business. He didn’t do either.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right. Get dressed and pack—about a week’s worth of clothes, and you’ll check that suitcase.” I didn’t have to tell him to put his Glock in his suitcase. “Drive to Dulles and pick up your ticket at the American Airlines counter. You’re flying to LA. And you’ve got two hours before your flight departs.”

  “I’d better get hopping then, hadn’t I?” He was bright and chipper for 7:00 a.m. DC time, but then he was always bright and chipper. Meanwhile, I’d been up for twenty-four hours, and it was starting to catch up with me.

  Jesus, was I getting old? I pushed that thought out of my mind.

  “Call me as soon as you get in, and I’ll brief you.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but I’m very good at multitasking. If you don’t mind, I’ll put you on speaker and you can brief me while I pack.”

  “Go ahead.”

  I could hear some banging and muttering, and then he said, “Ready, sir.”

  “Okay. I have to fly to Paris, so—”

  “Paris!” He sounded awestruck, and I cleared my throat. “Sorry, sir.”

  I told him where he needed to be and what I needed him to do once he arrived in LA. “Stay on the alert. These are friends of mine, and I want them looked after.”

  “I won’t let you down, Mr. Vincent. I’ll take a bullet for them, if I have to.” He didn’t have that puppy dog enthusiasm in his voice—he sounded dead serious.

  “Thanks, Winchester, but that shouldn’t be necessary.” This was to reassure Paul, not because I thought someone would come after Spike.

  “Okay, I’m set. Is there anything else, sir?”

  “No. As I said, I’ll be in Paris, so if there are any problems, contact Matheson.”

  “I’ll be on my way to Dulles, then.”

  “Okay.” We hung up, and I put my phone back in my pocket.

  ***

  I held the compress against Spike’s cheek. My hand was getting numb, but the compress needed to stay there another five minutes.

  My phone rang, and I knew from the ringtone it was Quinn’s uncle. “Vincent.”

  “Quinn tells me you need a flight to Paris. Do you have any objections to a female pilot?”

  “No.”

  “Good, because I’ve contacted Chili Valdez. She’s a good pilot—she flew me and Tony to DC last spring after Quinn had been taken by Prinzip.”

  “Thanks, Sebring.”

  “Just don’t get her killed.”

  “Unless she’s planning to ditch us into the North Atlantic, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Fine. Her fee is five thousand dollars—twenty-five hundred up front and the rest when she lands at Charles de Gaulle—plus the cost of fuel.”

  That was steep, but I wasn’t going to haggle with him. “Okay. I’ve got some things I have to take care of, but…” I checked my watch; it was almost four. “… I should be good to go in an hour and a half.” There was a storefront on Sepulveda, near the airport, run by a retired WBIS staff person—few agents lived to collect Social Security, but the support staff did pretty well. I kept a safe deposit box under the floorboards in his backroom, containing cash and passports. And I knew I’d have to bring along more firepower.

  “All right, then. She’ll meet you at LAX at five thirty.”

  “Sebring, I seriously appreciate this.”

  “You’re welcome. Actually, I should be thanking you. After last night’s excitement, Tony decided I should take the day off.”

  “You’re going to work on the koi pond?” He’d mentioned the pond on New Year’s Eve and how it was for his oldest brother, but something always seemed to come up to interrupt the work.

  He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, there was amusement in his voice. “That too.”

  “Well, enjoy your day.”

  “Oh, I will.” And he chuckled softly and hung up.

  I put the compress on the bedside table, went around the bed to where Paul lay, and lowered the side rails before I shook him gently. I hated to wake him up, but I needed to make tracks, and he needed to know I hadn’t just walked out and left him.

  “Huh? Wha…?” He rubbed his eyes, then dried the moisture at the corner of his mouth. “Vince? What’s wrong?”

  “I have to leave.” I raised a hand before he could say anything. “I’ve got someone coming in who’ll stay with Spike.” I scrolled through the photos on my cell phone and pulled up Winchester’s. “This is the guy I want you to keep an eye out for.”

  “He reminds me of Wills.”

  Winchester looked nothing like Matheson, but when they were working, they both came across as innocuous and anonymous.

  “Hey, did you know Theo is marrying him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m gonna be his best man!”

  “That’s great.” I patted his shoulder.

  “Are you going to the wedding?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cool!”

  “Paul, I have to go.”

  “Okay, sorry. So what’s the story with Winchester?”

  “Like I said, he’ll look after Spike. Give him your spare bedroom, feed him, and don’t let him get in trouble. He’s very… enthusiastic.”

  “Oh, you felt like you had to warn me?”

  “I’m just telling you.”

  “Vince.” He swung off the bed and grabbed me. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I patted his shoulder again. “I have to go. By the way, you’ve got about twenty minutes before you need to put the compress on Spike’s cheek again.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” He got back on the bed and cradled Spike. “I’ll see you at the wedding.”

  “You bet.” I checked my watch and walked out to the parking lot.

  Chapter 29

  Goddammit. I had five minutes to get to the area of LAX where I was supposed to meet Chili Valdez. I was cutting it close.

  I strode through the concourse and shrugged my shoulders. I’d needed serious firepower, but the cannon under my arm—a Smith & Wesson Model 500 whose .50-cal cartridges could punch a hole in a brick wall—was going to take some getting used to. My Glock weighed only a fraction of the five pounds of the double-action revolver.

  A woman stood observing the passersby, tapping her foot and drumming her fingers on her thigh. Her gaze slid past me, then returned, and she approached me. “Are you my passenger?”

  “Are you Chili Valdez?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then yeah, I am. What gave me away?”

  “Mr. Sebring told me to look for someone dangerous.”

  “And you thought I....” I shook my head. “Here’s the first half of your fee.” I took an envelope from the inside pocket of my jacket and handed it to her.
>
  She peered into the envelope, nodded and put it in her own jacket pocket, and said, “Let’s get going.”

  The first leg of our journey was over land, and I took advantage of it and slept the entire time—I knew I wouldn’t sleep once we were over the Atlantic—giving me the opportunity to catch my second wind.

  Bryan Sebring was right. Chili Valdez was a good pilot, and we reached the East Coast in less than half the time it would take a commercial jet.

  While she refueled and filed the flight plan to Charles de Gaulle Airport, I hit the head and then picked up coffee and sandwiches for both of us.

  We caught a good tail wind, but even with that and with as good as she was, the Lear jet she flew wasn’t an SST. It took six hours before the coast of Ireland appeared to our left, and another hour before we landed in a small airport outside of Pairs. I’d instructed Ms. Valdez to alter the flight plan as soon as we neared Ireland.

  We unfastened our seat belts and climbed out of the jet. “Do you want me to wait for you?” She looked into the second envelope I’d handed her.

  “No, this was a one-way trip.” I’d fly home with Quinn. Neither of us could sleep on transoceanic flights, but we should find some way to amuse ourselves.

  She met my gaze. “The last time I saw Paris was a few years ago. I think I’ll stay awhile.” She grinned at me and tapped the envelope against her palm. “And I hope you’ll consider flying Air Valdez again.”

  I gave her a small salute, took out my phone, and walked away. “Hey babe,” I said when Quinn’s voice mail picked up. “I just wanted to let you know I’m in Paris. I’ll call you once this is cleared up. I… uh…” Damn. “I’ll see you.”

  I hung up. I had to call Pete. He’d be waiting for me to get in touch with him.

  Giuliani picked me up, driving the same black van I’d ridden in last May, when I’d come to get my spook away from the bastard who’d kidnapped him. This time they hadn’t bothered blacking out the windows—we weren’t going to Division headquarters.

  Twenty minutes later we arrived at the building where Quinn had been held almost a year ago, to find the place like an anthill that had been stirred up.

  Giuliani grabbed an operative who dashed by, pale and sweating. “What’s going on?”

  “Reuben’s been taken.”

  “What?”

  “He went out on a recon operation and didn’t come back.”

  “Shit!”

  Yeah, Giuliani had that right.

  “Where’s De Becque?”

  “In Command.”

  I gave him an impatient look. “Mind taking us there now?”

  Turned out Command was the office Richard—who’d headed up Prinzip before Quinn speared him with a scalpel—had claimed as his own. Babineaux was seated at the huge desk, his fingers flying over the keyboard of his computer. Pete stood to Babineaux’s right, studying the screen.

  He glanced up and then came around the desk and embraced me. “Mon cher m’sieur. Thank you for coming.”

  I let him hug me. “I heard about Reuben just now. Any idea what happened?”

  “Reuben went out to reconnoiter with two other operatives. None of them returned. And then Tactics called. He has Reuben, and he’s willing to make a trade.”

  Sure he was. “What does he want?”

  “Babineaux and Femme. As far as he’s concerned, they’re the most valuable.”

  “And everyone else?”

  “He says we may return.”

  “All is forgiven?”

  “Oui.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  His expression became blank. “Non. He’s giving us three hours to come to a decision.”

  I didn’t pat his back; I’d have hated it like hell. “We’ll get Reuben back.”

  “Of course we will. We’ll find a way to get into the Division. It’s an old building, and there must be passageways leading into the lower levels. Babineaux pulled up the Division’s architectural plans and is studying them.”

  “Pierre, I’ve got it.” Babineaux looked tired, and he gave Giuliani a grateful smile when his lover went to him and began working the tension out of his shoulders.

  “What did you find?” Pete returned to his place at Babineaux’s right.

  “This antique shop on rue de Navarin? This passageway runs through the shop’s cellar, do you see? At one time it connected with the lower level of the Division, but that opening was sealed off when Richard and Lindsey took possession of the building.”

  Pete nodded. “Can we gain entry?”

  “A little plastique should do the trick.”

  “It should also make enough noise to alert them they’ve got visitors,” I reminded Giuliani.

  Pete tugged on his lower lip. “If there should be an accident just outside….”

  “Do you honestly think they’re going to drop everything to run and see?”

  “Perhaps not, but if the car should hit the front façade?”

  “I have a friend who owns a Citroën he’s retrofitted,” Giuliani said. “If we fill it with explosives and then drive it into the building—that will definitely bring them running.”

  “What happens to the driver? Your people may love you, Pete, but would they be willing to commit suicide for you?”

  “I’ll be driving.” Giuliani met my gaze. “And I promise you I’m not suicidal.” Babineaux reached up and gripped the hand Giuliani had on his shoulder. “We all do what we need to do.”

  Yeah, but this wasn’t a good idea. I’d known it from the moment The Boss had told me about Robert Lynx’s demand for help.

  Still… if it was Quinn being held, I’d storm the fucking building alone if I had to.

  “Okay, Pete. What do you need me to do?”

  It worked, maybe because the operatives who stayed with Tactics were idiots, maybe because the fates decided we deserved a break.

  I gazed down the corridor, which was littered with bodies. The operatives on both sides who’d been in Limbo were dead.

  Well, I guessed that made sense, since if they’d been more competent, they wouldn’t have been sent to Limbo in the first place.

  One interesting thing—no one from the Scarlet Chamber was identified. Was Kiska playing her own deep game, an attempt to wipe out the Division? More than one of the Division operatives had died cursing her name.

  Pete came up beside me, the line of his mouth grim. “We’ve cleared every level. There’s only one place they can be.”

  “They” were Tactics, Anacapri, and Reuben—if Reuben was still alive.

  “Where’s that?” I wiped sweat off my brow with my forearm. I’d shed my jacket in the van before we entered the antique shop on rue de Navarin and made our way down to the subbasement.

  “The Dungeon.”

  “I always wanted to see Femme’s workplace.”

  “Let me do the talking, Mark.” Pete and I had never worked together, and I observed him carefully. In spite of the fact that Tactics held his lover, Pete was cool and contained.

  “This is your operation.”

  “Bien sûr. Homme.” Pete gave him a signal, and Homme faded out of the room. “He’ll search the other rooms of the subbasement.”

  It looked like Pete was getting into the delegating thing too.

  We went into the room Femme called the Dungeon

  Tactics stood behind a Plexiglas partition. The smirk on his lips made it clear this wasn’t ordinary Plexiglas.

  “Where is Reuben?” Pete demanded. Homme was still searching the other rooms of the subbasement.

  Tactics’s smirk broadened, and he waved a negligent hand. “He’s around somewhere. Why don’t you send your people to look for him? Oh wait. There’s just you and the American.”

  “I’d prefer you tell me where he is. It will save us all time. Once we have him, we will leave, and the Division and Scarlet Chamber will all be yours.”

  “Oh, they’re mine. And you’re all going to be dead. Why did you think I h
ad you come to this chamber?” He raised his hand toward something that was out of view. “A press of this button, and this chamber will be flooded with carbon monoxide, as well as this entire level. You’ll all be dead.”

  I ground my teeth. Tactics wasn’t suicidal—we couldn’t be that lucky. That partition must enclose part of this room; it would keep the son of a bitch safe.

  “And Reuben?” Pete asked.

  “His chamber is being flooded even as we speak.”

  Jesus. Why did these idiots feel the need to go into loving detail about their plans?

  “Pete?”

  He’d turned gray, but he was still under control. “Yes, mon cher m’sieur.”

  That was the only signal I needed. While Tactics was still yammering on, I yanked the Smith & Wesson out of its holster.

  Dammit, it was too fucking long. The barrel snagged in the harness, and I lost precious seconds wrestling it out.

  Tactics started laughing. With his attention focused on me, Pete slipped out.

  I squeezed the trigger, and the Plexiglas erupted in a spiderweb of cracks angling out from the contact point just to the left of Tactics’s head.

  He shied back, then sneered at me. “Asshole!”

  “Come on, baby. Don’t fail me now.” I fired again, and this time the Plexiglas shattered.

  Tactics’s amusement changed to dismay.

  “Who’s the asshole now?” I snarled and fired once more. This bullet hit him square in the chest, punching a hole in it you could drive a semi through, and he dropped like a marionette whose strings had been sliced through.

  There was a high-pitched keening. I knew it couldn’t be Tactics—he was dead. I wheeled toward it just as what sounded like a cap pistol went off, and a bullet clipped me in the meaty part of my right arm.

  My arm went numb, and I lost my grip on the Smith & Wesson. “Son of a bitch!”

  Carlyle was aiming a pistol at me. His hands shook, and the next bullet he fired went over my head.

  “I loved Robert and he loved me. I only went with de Becque and his traitors because Robert asked me to.” Tears streamed down his face.

  “He treated you like shit.”

  “No. Powerful men do things their own way. He loved me!” He pulled back the slide, then cried out when it bit him—he’d caught the webbing between his thumb and forefinger in the slide.