by L. T. Ryan
Bear nodded slowly. He said nothing while thinking through the scenarios Mandy faced. She likely was in an orphanage or a foster home. According to the hospital, she didn't know who she was, but she functioned fine. Knowing the girl's temperament, he considered her a flight risk. But it wouldn't matter as long as he didn't know where she was.
Perhaps sensing Bear's line of thinking, Pierre said, "I can have a team pick her up the moment we have her location. She'll be protected by the people I trust."
"Okay. Let's get Kat."
Pierre had little regard for the speed limit. The government issued credentials could get him out of most any situation, and he once again took advantage of it. The three-hour drive only took them two hours and fifteen minutes.
A long gravel driveway led to the small ivy-covered house. The front windows were shattered. Shingles had blown off the roof and never been replaced. The surrounding lawn was thick and overgrown. Bear studied the brush cover. Lots of places to hide. Few places to escape cleanly through. Back down the driveway was the only sensible option.
He drew his pistol.
Pierre glanced down at the weapon. He shook his head. The trunk popped open. The Frenchman retreated to the rear of the vehicle and produced two MP7s. He held one out for Bear.
"Compliments of the French government," Pierre said.
Bear took the weapon, inspected it, switched it from single shot to three-round burst.
"I'll take left," Pierre said. "Meet me in back."
Bear moved to the house and swept around to the right. He glanced inside windows, or empty panes in some cases, but for the most part he focused on the field surrounding the place. Why after two weeks did they reveal Kat's location to Pierre? Admittedly, Bear knew little of what had happened over the past fifteen days. Once he was incarcerated, that was it. And the two men had spoken little during the drive out. It had been preparation time. Neither man had been on the offensive in some time. They had to right their minds.
He saw nothing in the surrounding brush. The only sounds were birds and the occasional car passing on a road he couldn't see. But the vehicles kept moving. If they had stopped, he'd have grown concerned that someone had followed them, either visually, or using Pierre's cell phone to track them.
Bear rounded the corner and saw Pierre waiting by an open door. Whether that was good or bad was yet to be determined.
"Found it opened?" Bear asked.
Pierre nodded. "I'm going in first."
Bear didn't object. He covered the opening as Pierre stepped inside. Both men held their MP7s with both hands, ready to open fire. Bear took one last look at the brush before stepping inside. They followed the narrow hallway to a set of descending stairs.
"Smell that?" Pierre said.
"Human waste," Bear said.
Pierre hurried down the stairs. All attempts to follow protocol had been voided.
"Dammit," Bear said as he followed the man down. By the time he reached the bottom, the Frenchman had already entered the adjoining room. Bear scanned it. Saw the empty bottles. The chair on its side. Dried, clumped dirt in the corner.
"She's not here," Pierre said.
Bear nodded and said nothing.
"There must be another room, or another structure." He pulled out his cell phone. "Shit. No signal."
"Probably 'cause we're underground."
Pierre pushed past him and started up the stairs.
Bear remained behind for a minute. He walked the perimeter of the room. The chair was missing a leg. Odd, to say the least. Why would it be like that? Could Kat have snapped it off to break the door open or use as a weapon?
He exited the room and headed up the stairs to run it by Pierre. Got up there in time to see the Frenchman exit the door at the end of the hallway, holding his phone toward the sky. Pierre cursed about not having a signal.
And then half his head disintegrated.
"LA CIBLE EST morte."
The target is dead.
France's top assassin, a man Laure Desault only knew by his codename Geai Blue, said the words.
Laure thought about the implications. Pierre, the man who'd once led the team she now run, was gone. The charade complete. At least he died while working for the government and not as some alcoholic bum on the street.
Then she heard something else. Gunshots. But they didn't originate from the assassin's sniper rifle.
"What's going on?" she asked.
"I'm taking fire."
"I thought you said he was alone."
"I only saw him come around the side of the house."
"What about at the car?"
He said nothing.
Laure said, "I asked you a question. What about at the car? How many were there."
"I didn't see him pull up. Only come around the house. By the time I reached the nest, he was inside."
"Goddammit," she shouted. After a pause to collect her thoughts, she added, "Don't bother reentering the country."
BEAR PRESSED HARD against the exterior wall. The shooter hadn't returned fire, which meant he was on the run. Or wanted Bear to think so.
He fired off into the brush again, then returned to Pierre's body. There was no saving the man. He was dead before he hit the ground. Bear grabbed Pierre's MP7 and headed toward the brush in the direction he estimated the shot had come from. He zigzagged his way there, making himself small. Well, small for him. He was still a large target, and that concerned him.
It was obvious he was dealing with a sniper.
And the sniper wasn't prepared for him, otherwise he would have nailed Bear in the head the moment he stepped through the open doorway.
The brush had looked impenetrable from the house. Up close, it wasn't as bad. Bear disappeared into it. Took him about thirty seconds to locate the nest. He'd fired directly at it. And if the blood on the ground was any indication, he'd hit the sniper.
The trail went cold ten feet later. Bear looked for other signs. Broken branches led the way. Another ten feet further and the blood reappeared.
The sniper was losing strength.
Bear led with his submachine gun aimed straight ahead. He followed the sound of the sniper's ragged breathing. Only a few more steps. He pushed through the thick brush.
The man leaned back against a stump. His right hand held the butt of his rifle. He tried to pick it up.
Bear depressed the trigger once. Three bullets fired in fast succession. The first hit the man in the thigh, near his waist. The next passed between the guy's abdomen and arm, and slammed into the ground. The third smashed into the sniper's upper arm, obliterating his Humerus.
The sniper yelled out, then gritted his teeth. Blood poured from his wounds. Bear saw that the first shot had hit the guy's upper right chest. He must've risen up after making the fatal shot, either preparing to disassemble his weapon, or to move right away. It had been a lucky shot on Bear's part. Had he not hit him, the next bullet the sniper fired would have hit him in the head.
"Who are you?" Bear asked.
The sniper said nothing.
"Who do you work for? Which government?"
The sniper turned his head away without a word.
Bear squeezed the trigger again. Sent three shots into the guy's other arm. They all hit near the same spot. The arm hung on by a thread.
"Answer me."
The guy forced his head to the middle. His chin rested on his chest. He looked up at Bear, then down at the phone on the ground. It appeared to be connected.
"Screw you," the guy said with a French accent.
Bear pulled the trigger twice. The bullets traveled in a line up the sniper's body, starting at his belly button and ending at his forehead.
Then he reached for the phone.
"Who the fuck is this?"
No one responded.
"I'm gonna come kill all of you."
The line went dead.
Bear dropped the phone and exited the brush. He started toward the car, stopped, went back to Pie
rre's body.
"You deserve better than to be left out here."
Bear slung the remains of the Frenchman over his shoulder and returned to the vehicle. He opened the trunk. Inside was a blue blanket. He wrapped Pierre in it, and placed him inside the trunk.
"THIS IS OVER," Laure said. "Enough. We are no longer cooperating."
BEAR FELT HIS phone buzz. He pulled over and fished it out of his pocket.
"Hello?"
"Listen closely, Mr. Logan. This is the only time I'm going to tell you this." She provided him with an address in a suburb of Paris. "That is where your daughter is."
The call ended before he could correct her.
Chapter 82
New York City.
"SEEMS YOU'RE IN a world of trouble, Paolo."
Beck sat across from the guy while Clarissa remained outside the room. She was joined by Special Agents Howell and Shelton of the FBI, and Detective Harris from the NYPD. She had grown to distrust all three of them. Beck told her that made her a perfect agent.
The men were like vultures, waiting until she and Beck had maimed the suspect enough that they could swoop in and clean up, levying charge after charge. It was as if they hoped Paolo wouldn't talk. Getting a conviction against him would be far easier than taking down Charles DeCosta. All these guys cared about was their won/loss record. As long as they were on the winning end, it didn't matter what monsters roamed the streets.
"This is pretty simple," Brett said. "If you want to survive with minimal jail time, give up your boss. Simply implicate him in this scheme, agree to testify, and we'll make the deal."
Paolo stared away, saying nothing.
After everything they'd uncovered, how Charles had sent Paolo upstate to be executed, sent in a hit team to kill him after he escaped, and the rumors that Charles had kidnapped Paolo's sister, why would the man hold his tongue?
"I'll never understand these guys," Shelton said, shaking his head. "Guess they consider them old school. You know damn well almost every other guy in that organization would flip on Paolo here if given the opportunity."
Inside the room, Beck switched tactics. He leaned over and reached into a bag. Produced a handful of photographs and laid them on the table. Clarissa knew that the photos were of the crime scene upstate. The evidence was circumstantial. But these were men that Paolo had known for two decades. They'd been together almost daily. One of them was married to his other sister.
They weren't looking for a confession.
They wanted to see his reaction.
"Look at them, Paolo," Beck said.
The man glanced down, averting his eyes.
"Longer."
Paolo didn't budge.
"Humor me, Paolo. Take a look at what you did to these guys."
Paolo's eyes drifted toward the picture. He focused on the one that showed both bodies lying next to one another. Clarissa thought she saw a slight smile form. He didn't allow it to linger.
"What do you make of that?" Beck asked.
Paolo jutted his chin toward the window. "Who's back there?"
"Where?"
"Behind the glass, man."
Beck shook his head. "Not sure what you mean."
"Humor me," Paolo said.
"Just my partner. You met her earlier."
"Who else?"
"No one else. We're the only ones here."
"Bullshit, man."
"How so?"
"You drag me into a building in Manhattan. We take a service elevator up who knows how many floors. Then we come into this office, which is really nothing more than a cell inside four walls. There's a reason why. What is it?"
Beck straightened and placed his forearms on the table. "The reason is that you're in deep shit, Paolo. You may not think so, but I've got enough evidence to put you away for forty years. Then, when I turn this other evidence over, you'll probably get life for murder. And believe me when I say we'll try to pin something on you out of state as well, just so we can apply for the death penalty."
Paolo smiled. "You think that scares me? I've been living with that hanging over my head for twenty years. Ain't no one safe doing what I do." He took a drag on his cigarette, then added, "Now answer my question. Who's back there?"
Beck said nothing.
"FBI? NYPD? That's it, right? You got everyone back there. Just gonna turn me over to them once you're done with me?"
"I'd rather do a deal with you and make anyone else irrelevant."
"Send them away, and I'll talk to you."
Beck remained silent for a moment. Then he glanced back at Clarissa and nodded.
"All right, gents. Need you to step outside."
The three men argued with Clarissa, but in the end nothing they said swayed her. She locked the door behind them. Entered the interrogation room.
"This is my partner, Clarissa," Beck said. He turned to her. "Is the room empty?"
"I locked them out," she said.
"Satisfied?" Beck asked Paolo.
The man stared at the glass for a long time. "Guess I have little choice but to trust you right now."
Beck nodded.
"OK," Paolo said. "Here's what I need from you: a solid promise that you are going to get my sister out of that compound safely."
"What is she doing there?"
"Charles kidnapped her."
"One more charge we can bring up."
Paolo shook his head. "She's seen too much. I need to get her away from there. Away from all this."
"Where is he keeping her?"
"In a place he calls the dungeon. It's the basement. Outfitted with several cells."
Remembering the layout, Clarissa looked away for a second. She glanced back in time to see Paolo narrowing his eyes.
"Hey, I remember you. He had you down there. Threatened our lives if we interfered."
"Not a man among you," she said.
Paolo shrugged. "Business decision, lady."
"Yeah, well you want to hear mine? How about I say no deal on your sister. Give us what we want, or hang."
"Hey, look, I was on my way to get her out of there when you idiots arrested me. Counterfeiting? Give me a break. Go take care of a real crime, like putting that asshole away for forty murders over the past six months."
Beck said, "That's what we're going to do, but first, we have to charge him with something we know will stick. So give us the details of the counterfeiting ring, and then we'll turn you over to our friends and they'll put together the other charges."
Paolo said nothing.
"And if you do this, we'll do what we can to get your sister out of that compound alive."
Beck and Clarissa said nothing else. It was up to Paolo now. If he refused to cooperate, they'd file their charges, and let the FBI and NYPD have at him too. The guy would never see sunlight again, and he'd have to live knowing that he failed his sister.
Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. Clarissa was ready to exit the room and bring the three men back in.
"I have your word?" Paolo said.
"About?" Beck said.
"Essie." He looked up and met Clarissa's stare. "My sister. You'll get her out of that hole, right?"
Clarissa said, "You have my word."
For the next three hours they listened as Paolo detailed everything he knew about the counterfeiting operation. He didn't stop there. He told them about shell corporations they had never heard of that Charles, and the Old Man before him, used to launder money, avoid taxes, and fund organizations around the world that weren't necessarily friendly to the United States.
When Paolo had finished, Beck remarked, "We have enough to put DeCosta away for five hundred years. I almost hate to turn you over to those assholes in the hallway. If it weren't for the families of the deceased, I wouldn't. Fact is, though, you have immunity now. They can't go back on that."
"So do we do this here?" Paolo asked.
"No," Beck said. "We're bringing you back to D.C. They can conduct their interviews at our
facility. We'll control every aspect of this until you go into the program."
"Program?"
Clarissa said, "Witness protection."
Paolo lowered his head and shook it. "Never thought I'd be a snitch. I mean, I know he's a bad man. Guess I'm really not much better, though."
Beck said, "I'd be happy to let you back on the streets after this is all over. If you feel like you need some kind of punishment, they'll dole it out."
"Just get my sister out of there."
"Don't worry," Clarissa said. "We're gonna hit them hard."
"The tunnels," Paolo said. "That's the only safe way."
"It's compromised, Paolo," Beck said. "You had a guy waiting. When you didn't show, you can bet he grew suspicious. Wouldn't doubt if he's already started asking questions."
Clarissa left Beck to finish up. She headed out into the hall where the FBI agents were waiting.
"Where'd Harris go?" she asked.
Shelton gestured toward the elevator. "He got a call and split. Guess homicide never rests."
"Do me a favor," she said. "See what dirt you can dig up on that guy."
"Don't trust him?" Howell said.
"I don't trust you guys," she said, smiling. "He creeps me the hell out. I can smell a rat from a mile away, and guys, let me tell you, Harris stinks."
Neither man said anything. They both stared toward the elevator. She could see them thinking over the channels they would utilize to research Harris's background. Where he lived. The kind of car he drove. What his wife did. Where the kids went to school. Who he hung out with. Financial records would be scrutinized. If the guy was on the take, they'd figure it out. Quick.
"Anyway, that aside, we'll see you guys back in D.C. You can have at Paolo there."
"Ah, what the hell?" Shelton said. "We've been waiting all day. That's bullshit, and you know it."
Clarissa shrugged. "Take it up with my boss."
HARRIS DUCKED INTO the deserted alley. He stayed in the shadows, watching the entrance. Five minutes passed. He hadn't been tailed. He pulled out his cell and placed a call. The man answered with a gruff greeting.