The Prophecy paj-5

by Chris Kuzneski

At least that had been the plan until Jones appeared in their elevator.

  The two seniors shrieked with surprise and moved to the far corner of the car where they huddled against the wall. Jones spotted them while still on his back and assured them they were safe, despite the fact that he was pointing a loaded gun towards the lobby.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m a cop,’ he lied.

  Mary stared at him, confused. ‘No, you’re not. You can’t be a cop.’

  Jones glanced up at her. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? I’m black so I can’t be a cop?’

  ‘Hold up!’ he said, annoyed. ‘This is supposed to be the City of Brotherly Love. Well, I’m a brother, so show me some love. I can’t believe how racist everyone is!’

  ‘But…’

  ‘But, what? Spit it out, Grandma.’

  Ann finished her thought. ‘But you’re wearing handcuffs.’

  ‘Oh,’ he mumbled, suddenly realizing how he appeared to them. The meathead cop had pissed him off so much he was actively searching for racism, even in places it wasn’t present. ‘Ladies, the lobby isn’t safe right now. You should go upstairs for a while.’

  Mary grumbled. ‘But we’re going to lunch.’

  ‘To get tacos,’ Ann added.

  ‘Not today,’ Jones said as he sprang to his feet. ‘What floor?’

  Both women sighed and answered in unison. ‘Ten.’

  Jones pushed the appropriate button. ‘Don’t come back down until dinner.’

  Thinking things through, Paul realized there was a decent chance Jones had an accomplice who had killed Vinnie. It would certainly explain why

  ‘What’s your name?’ Paul demanded.

  ‘Megan Moore,’ she said, curled up on the floor.

  ‘Are they coming for you?’

  ‘Who?’

  He pointed his gun at her. ‘Your friends.’

  ‘My friends?’ she shrieked, confused by the turn of events.

  ‘The ones who killed my partner.’

  She backed away from him. ‘We didn’t kill your partner. They tried to kill us!’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  ‘I swear to God, someone is trying to kill us. They already killed my neighbour.’

  The comment made him pause. ‘Who’s your neighbour?’

  ‘Ashley Henderson. She lived in 615.’

  That was the same woman Paul and Vinnie had been sent to investigate. The one who had been killed on the Pitt campus for no apparent reason. ‘Who are your friends?’

  ‘Jonathon Payne and David Jones. They’re investigators from Pittsburgh.’

  ‘They’re here to protect me.’

  ‘Did you hire them?’ he demanded.

  ‘No, I didn’t hire them.’

  ‘Then that doesn’t make sense. They must be here for some other reason.’

  ‘I’m telling you, they’re here to protect me!’

  A moment later, Paul found out that was true.

  Slamming on the SUV’s brakes outside the lobby, Payne thought about his best course of action. Jones and Megan had dashed inside the building, which was temporarily the safest place for them. Unless, of course, there were more gunmen approaching from the rear. If that was the case, then everyone inside was going to get caught in the crossfire.

  Not a pleasant thought.

  Thinking quickly, he tapped on the driver’s side window, trying to figure out what kind of material had been used in its design. He knew that high-profile vehicles in war zones were now being fitted with one-way bullet-resistant glass because it allowed security details to fight back without leaving their vehicles. He had never used it during combat, but he had tested it during drills.

  Based on what he knew about the Suburban and all the high-ranking officials who had used it before him, Payne decided the vehicle would be equipped with all the latest features.

  Only one way to find out, he thought.

  He twisted in the driver’s seat and stared out the back of the SUV. He put his finger in one ear while pressing his shoulder against the other to protect his ears from the noise of a gun firing in an enclosed space. Thirty seconds passed before the gunman inched around the corner. He swept his gun from side to side, searching for possible targets on the street and near the building. Due to the tint in the SUV’s windows, he had no idea Payne

  Second after second ticked by as the gunman crept forward. Finally, when he was no more than five feet from the Suburban, Payne calmly pulled his trigger.

  The shot ripped through the rear window like it was passing through paper. It struck the gunman just below his left ear and rattled around the interior of his skull before it settled in his temporal lobe. The bastard didn’t feel a thing. He was dead before he hit the sidewalk.

  From his position near the elevator, Jones saw a gun pointing at Megan, who was cowering away from the weapon. Considering everything that had transpired during the past couple of minutes, Jones wasted no time before he sprang into action. Sprinting across the lobby, he jumped head first over the couch and tackled the man who was threatening her.

  No warnings. No threats. Just a forearm and his opponent’s head.

  One moment Paul was questioning Megan, the next he was on the floor with a set of handcuffs wrapped around his neck like a hangman’s noose. Kneeling on the cop’s back, Jones applied

  ‘Drop the gun,’ Jones hissed, ‘or die!’

  Paul did as he was told, and it clanked to the floor.

  ‘Don’t kill him,’ Megan said as she scrambled forward. ‘He saved my life.’

  ‘That doesn’t give him the right to take it.’

  She touched Jones’s shoulder. ‘Ease up. Please, ease up.’

  Begrudgingly, Jones let him breathe. ‘Why’d you pull a gun on her?’

  ‘Someone killed Vinnie,’ he gasped, fighting for air.

  ‘What’s your point? We didn’t do it. You were with us the whole time.’

  ‘I thought you might have a partner.’

  Jones considered the cop’s answer. It was a valid point. If their roles had been reversed, he would have assumed the same thing. ‘We’re the good guys. We don’t kill cops.’

  Megan nodded. ‘That’s what I was telling him when you kicked his ass.’

  ‘Come here,’ Jones said to her. ‘Get his keys, and unlock my cuffs. Once my hands are free, I’ll let him go. I’ve got no beef with him.’

  ‘Left hip,’ Paul mumbled as he tasted the floor.

  ‘Point it away from us,’ Jones said as he climbed off the cop and turned him over. Ironically, Paul had the same look in his eye as Megan. ‘Listen to me. I am a licensed investigator from Pittsburgh. I did not kill your partner. My partner did not kill your partner. In fact, none of us killed your partner. Do you understand?’

  Paul nodded his head, still catching his breath.

  ‘Whoever killed your partner wants us dead. They already killed her neighbour, and they’ve been gunning for us all weekend. Do you believe me?’

  Paul nodded again.

  ‘Good,’ Jones said as he snatched the gun from Megan and handed it to Paul, ‘because we need all the firepower we can get. My partner’s name is Jon, and he’s a big white dude.’

  The colour returned to Paul’s face once his Glock was back in his hand. ‘I called for backup. They should be here soon—’

  Just then they heard a loud rumble, followed by a deafening crash as the back end of the Chevy

  Payne stared at them from the driver’s seat. ‘Need a lift?’

  Jones grinned at the stunned cop. ‘Feel free to stick around, but my backup just arrived.’

  42

  Interpol Headquarters

  Lyon, France

  Toulon, the Assistant Director of the Homicide Division, was a wine-loving Frenchman who practically lived at headquarters yet spent half his time avoiding the tasks of the day. In some ways, he was a great employee, able to speak at length on every subject under the sun whether it was history, sports, politics, or pop culture. But some
times he got lost in his own thoughts, and when that happened, he could usually be found outside the building, smoking a cigarette and preaching to

  Dial unlocked his office door, looking forward to a few minutes of peace and quiet before he responded to a handful of messages. Unfortunately, he was greeted by the sound of snoring.

  ‘You’ve got to be shitting me,’ he mumbled to himself.

  Wasting no time, Dial walked across the room and tipped the couch forward, dumping the unsuspecting Frenchman on the floor. Toulon awoke on impact, and launched into a string of profanity that Dial couldn’t understand. Eventually, Toulon shifted to English.

  ‘Why did you do that? I have done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Say that again.’

  ‘I have done nothing—’

  ‘Stop!’ Dial growled, cutting him off. ‘That’s the problem right there. I’ve been busting my ass all day, and you have done nothing!’

  Toulon ran his fingers over his grey hair, which was pulled back in his trademark ponytail. He certainly didn’t look the part of an Interpol officer, but his brilliance usually made up for his you need a siesta?’

  ‘Henri, I’m telling you right now: do not mess with me.’

  Toulon ignored the warning. ‘Why are you so cranky? Are you mad you are not French? I know if I was an American, I would be tempted to slit my wrists.’

  Dial stared at him, fuming.

  ‘Excusez-moi,’ Toulon apologized. ‘I did not know you were serious.’

  ‘Do I sound like I’m joking around?’

  He shook his head. ‘On reflection, you do not.’

  ‘And do you know why I’m so pissed?’

  ‘Several jokes come to mind, but I shall keep them to myself.’

  ‘I’m pissed because I gave you an important task this morning, and as far as I can tell, you haven’t taken care of it.’

  Toulon fiddled with his ponytail. ‘And what task was that?’

  ‘You were supposed to identify the second gunman who tried to kill Jonathon Payne in Pittsburgh, and then talk to our contacts in antiquities about that mysterious letter.’

  ‘Have you no faith in me? I completed those tasks long ago.’

  supposed to send the information to my cell phone, so I could forward it to my friend.’

  Toulon groaned. ‘That, I did not do. But two out of three is pretty good, no?’

  ‘Not good enough.’

  ‘If you’d like, I can send it to your phone right now.’

  Dial growled. ‘How does that make any sense at all? You’re standing in front of me. Just tell me what you learned, and I’ll call Jon myself.’

  ‘In my defence, it makes perfect sense because I do not remember all the details. If you give me a moment, I can run to my desk and get my notebook.’

  Dial waved him off. ‘Go!’

  Toulon nodded and walked away. He returned a few minutes later and sat in one of the chairs across from Dial, who was on the phone. Normally, Toulon would have cleared his throat and pointed to his watch, just to piss Dial off, but he realized if he did either, there was a decent chance that Dial would shoot him.

  ‘So,’ Dial said as he hung up, ‘what did you learn?’

  ‘The Pittsburgh police have identified the second shooter. He is an American named Chad

  ‘What about below the surface?’

  Toulon scrunched his face. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your notebook says there isn’t a connection, but sometimes detective work isn’t about paperwork. Sometimes it’s about hunches and gut feelings.’

  ‘Do you know where the term gut feeling originated? Soothsayers from ancient civilizations, particularly those near the Mediterranean Sea, used to read animal entrails in order to prophesy the future. They literally used to feel an animal’s guts in order to work their magic.’

  Dial rolled his eyes. He didn’t give a damn about the term’s origins, but he knew if he had interrupted Toulon, they would’ve wasted more time than the explanation itself. ‘Are you done?’

  ‘Oui, I am done. I kept my story short because you are angry.’

  ‘I’ll be a lot happier if you answered my original question.’

  ‘Your original question? Ah, yes, you wanted to know if I had a theory.’

  Toulon smiled. ‘What if shooter number two was a last-second substitute?’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The first shooter was from Belgium, but he was killed before the job was done. Whoever hired him refused to wait for a replacement to be flown in from Europe, possibly afraid that the letter might be taken out of the city. So he hired a substitute, someone who lived near Pittsburgh. According to our files, the American was from a small town in Pennsylvania. Obviously he would be more familiar with the region, and he would not have to worry about smuggling a weapon on board a flight.’

  Dial nodded. ‘Makes sense to me. Wilkinson was a pinch hitter. Of course, that leads me to the next question. Who hired him?’

  Toulon shrugged. ‘This, I do not know.’

  ‘What about the letter? What did our contacts in antiquities say?’

  ‘They said nothing. The letter you described is one they are not familiar with. But they will ask around. If they learn anything, they will let me know.’

  ‘If that happens,’ Dial stressed, ‘call me immediately. No more of this forgetting to tell me bullshit. Understand?’

  Oui, I understand.’

  ‘And no more naps in my office. If I can’t sleep here, neither can you.’

  Payne’s phone rang several times before going to voicemail. Normally Dial would have been reluctant to leave confidential information in a message, but considering the urgency of the situation, he explained everything he had learned and apologized for the delay.

  ‘If you have any questions, give me a call back.’

  Dial smiled and added, ‘Preferably at a decent hour.’

  43

  Raskin leaned back in his chair. ‘What’s the good news?’

  ‘Whoever bulletproofed the Suburban did a wonderful job.’

  Raskin rubbed his eyes, trying to massage away the migraine that was starting to form. ‘Please tell me you’re joking. A senator reserved that vehicle for tomorrow!’

  ‘No problem. He can pick it up at a parking garage near the Penn campus.’

  ‘And what’s the bad news?’

  ‘He can pick up the rest of it along a half-mile stretch of Spruce Street.’

  Raskin growled softly. ‘I can’t believe you guys. Every time I help out, I always end up paying for it.’

  He growled louder. ‘What happened this time?’

  Payne told him the basics about the shootout, including the murdered cop. For Raskin, the death of an officer always struck an emotional chord. Over the years, he had met a lot of people who later died fighting for their country or had lost someone who had. Somehow it helped him keep things in perspective. Even though he worked gruelling hours in the Pentagon basement, he never faced the threats that field operatives did on a daily basis. And because of that, he was more than willing to help Payne and Jones whenever he could — even if it meant risking his job by circumventing rules and regulations on occasion.

  ‘How can I help?’ Raskin asked.

  Payne explained. ‘There was a cop at the scene named Paul Giada. As a favour to us, he let us leave before the cavalry arrived. In return, I promised him that someone from the Pentagon would explain who we were and the mission we were on. Obviously there isn’t an actual mission, but if you could make it sound good, it will keep our names out of the newspapers.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  ‘I hope you realize it’s not a secure facility.’

  Payne nodded. ‘Secure or not, it has to be safer than the closest Starbucks.’

  ‘Definitely. Four bucks for a cup of coffee is highway robbery.’

  Two hours later, Payne was shown into a cramped back office at NASJRB Willow Grove. It was a windowless room lined with cinderblock
s that had been painted white ten years earlier. A musty scent filled the air. Inside was a cheap desk, three chairs, a phone, and a dry-erase board — all the things Payne had requested. He thanked the guardsman and asked him to retrieve Jones and Megan, who were finishing their lunches in the small cafeteria down the hall. Years in the field had taught Payne and Jones one of the basic keys to surviving a mission: eat whenever you had a chance because your next meal might be days away.

  Payne took his spot behind the desk and waited for the others to arrive. The last forty-eight hours had included three attempts on his life by three different gunmen. The first one had been a

  Jones walked into the office, carrying the envelope he had taken from Ashley’s storage locker. Jones had taken it from Megan as soon as they were inside the Suburban. Not only for the letter’s protection, but because he didn’t want Megan to see what he had discovered.

  It was something he wanted to spring on her when the time was right.

  And that time was now.

  Megan sat across the desk from Payne, and Jones sat on her right.

  ‘How are you holding up?’ Payne asked.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a horrible headache, but other than that I’m fine.’

  Payne nodded knowingly. ‘Probably from the excess adrenaline. It’s tough to get used to. Thankfully, the food you ate should help. So would a shot of bourbon.’

  Jones scrunched his face. ‘Now that’s a pretty image.’

  She shrugged. ‘Sorry, I’m just being honest.’

  Payne smiled at the segue. ‘Speaking of honesty, we were hoping you could explain something for us.’

  ‘I’ll certainly try.’

  ‘When we first arrived at the airfield, DJ pulled me aside and showed me something that confused the heck out of me. Ever since then, I’ve been trying to come up with a rational explanation for it, but I’ve been unsuccessful. In fact, both of us have failed.’

  She arched her eyebrow. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Jones replied. ‘When I was in the storage unit, I found the mysterious letter that compelled Ashley to track us down in Pittsburgh.’