Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3)

by Vaughan, Susan

  The exit door swung open a few inches. A dark-jacketed figure hunched in the gap. The man’s eyes narrowed as he spotted Lucas. Three shots blasted the stairwell. Bullets sliced chips off the step above Lucas. Another ricocheted off the metal railing an inch from his hand. He opened fire, put two rounds in the man’s chest.

  The man fell sideways through the opening, his free hand clutching his chest. The door swung shut.

  Lucas’s ears rang from the barrage in what amounted to a vertical cement tunnel. Shit, now he couldn’t hear with either ear.

  He approached, low, dragged the assailant away from the exit. Blood pumped onto the floor then slowed to a trickle as the light faded from his eyes. The dead man stared at nothing with one blue eye and one brown. Average build, brown hair, soul patch. A neck tattoo pegged him as a local gang member.

  A quick search of pockets located no ID but he hadn’t expected to find one. He pocketed the man’s pistol, a Glock 19, and the extra clip stowed in the jacket. One less bad guy. One less weapon for the other dickwads to use.

  He worked his jaw to loosen taut muscles, swallowed to clear his ears as he pictured the lobby. Double glass doors to the street, security desk to his right, seating area and bushy potted plants opposite. Whatever the plants were, their foliage would provide concealment. The shooters in the lobby would wait to see who came through the door—their man or somebody else.

  He fired two shots into the stairwell’s back corner. The blasts would confuse the issue, make them wonder. He gripped the door handle.

  ***

  Thomas waited beside the open elevator car, listened, watched for any movement or shadow in the hidden corners.

  Only a soft violin version of “Take Me Home, Country Roads” with a distinct French lilt and the faint tang of sweat exited the car. Before the doors could glide shut, he bent low and scanned the interior.

  “Clear,” he barked. “Cleo, with me.”

  Once she scooted inside with him, he punched the button. “They might be watching the rear of this building. Third floor has a way into the next building. We’ll leave from there.” Del Rio would give them time. “Stand in the corner by the buttons. Just in case.”

  Cleo obeyed instantly, without a word, eyes as intent and focused as those of any soldier on a mission. He’d ask her about that later.

  Offering a prayer they would have later, he steadied the Beretta with his left hand. This automatic model could fire controlled bursts of three rounds, close in operation to the Sig Sauer he preferred.

  When the doors opened on three, he sidled into the opening, scanned the area, gun leveled. A closed door with three brass nameplates faced the elevator. A wide corridor stretched to the right and left. Empty. More doors with brass plates, also closed. Nearly eight o’clock, so those offices should be locked up and empty. He beckoned to Cleo.

  Tapping the button for the ground floor, he sent the car down empty.

  Toward the right, he spotted his goal. “Del Rio said to take that exit door to the next building.” Their shoes swished in near silence on the dark green carpeting as they hurried toward the lighted Sortie sign.

  “Is there any escape hatch or ambush spot Lucas hasn’t checked out?”

  “Doubt it. He’s a worst-case-scenario kind of guy. A good man to have your back. He overlooks nothing.”

  They hustled along a dim corridor to the other building’s exit sign.

  He signaled her to stay to the side while he checked the stairwell. Silent and clear. “In case they’ve fanned out to look for us here, keep it fast and quiet.”

  They made it to the ground floor without incident. He groaned inwardly. No window in the door to see what was outside. Beretta ready, he inched open the door and caught the smells of wet pavement and car exhaust. No voices or scrape of shoes, only the rain’s patter and the traffic’s muffled roar. As he eased out farther, rain soaked his hair and splashed his leather shoes.

  The scene before him explained the lack of near traffic. Shit.

  He let the door close again. “Problem. Del Rio said to go right, then left up Franklin D. Roosevelt Avenue to the Métro stop. Outside’s a U-shaped courtyard. Right end is closed. No public building entrances I can see. After eight everything’s locked up tight.”

  She nodded, her eyes bright. The color of the freckles across her nose and high in her cheeks stood out against the pallor of her skin. “Maybe he meant to go right on the Rue Camille beyond the courtyard.”

  “You know the street?”

  “Before I moved to Venice, I lived in Paris for a year and worked at an art supply store near here. Camille is lined with restaurants, hotels, and shops, busy even after offices close for the night. Turning right on Camille will take us to Roosevelt.”

  He should’ve known. She’d been knocking around Europe awhile. What artist wouldn’t spend time in Paris? Kissing her would yank him right out of the zone but, man, he really wanted his mouth on hers. Focus, Devlin.

  “Your route works, but it means going back the way we came,” he said. “Maybe Del Rio has distracted Zervas’s thugs. Maybe not. We don’t know how many there are. Probably deployed outside as well as in the lobby. Definitely armed.”

  Concentration deepened the sea green of her eyes. “What can I do to help?”

  “I need your eyes and ears. Watch for teams of two.” He pulled her into his arms, absorbed her softness, the rapid thump of her heartbeat against him, the fragrance of her skin. She wrapped her arms around him, holding on as if her life depended on the connection. Damn, she was braver than he’d ever imagined.

  Stepping away, he checked his weapon. “Cleo, my aim is to get us out of here without detection. I’m hoping these hired thugs won’t risk a shootout in the middle of Paris. But if it comes down to it, I’ll protect you with my life.”

  ***

  Lucas opened the stairwell door a crack and listened. His hearing hadn’t recovered enough to distinguish subtle sounds. Hell, go for it. He scuttled low through the opening.

  A staccato burst of bullets sprayed the door.

  He answered with a burst of his own as he dived behind the plant pots. Shots cracked one washing-machine-size container, spraying ceramic shards and dirt. The shrub tilted at a precarious angle but didn’t fall. He scooted closer to the other two, prayed their pots held together. Warm liquid trickled down his temple. Damn clay shards had dug a gash at his hairline.

  The shots came from behind the security station. Curved desk rose about chest height, tall enough to conceal more than one man. But they wouldn’t stay down long. He changed the Beretta’s magazine and set it on the floor, then checked the Glock he’d liberated. Nudged it through the green leaves, ready.

  One man rolled out from the desk’s right side, firing.

  Lucas pulled the trigger. His bullets splintered marble and wood, sending the man diving for cover.

  Shots erupted from the desk’s other end. Two more men rushed out, bent low as one continued firing. The other spoke into an ear module.

  Shit, double coverage. The entire block could hear this racket. How long before the gendarmes mounted up? And how long could he last even with two guns? What the hell, he’d offered to distract the bastards, hadn’t he?

  He returned fire, then took aim again at the first man. Heading for the glass doors beside the elevators. The corridor beyond led to a rear exit. Creep had to be stopped. His shots had to count. As he fired, more blasts from the other two shooters shattered the ceramics, his only cover. Dirt, shredded leaves and clay bits showered him as the plants toppled to the floor.

  He lay prone behind the wrecked pots. Gun firm in a two-handed grip, he lifted his head only to see the two men disappearing out the front doors and into the darkness.

  Fuck, they’d played him. The first shooter had drawn his fire so the other team could escape. He turned toward the first man. Down just shy of his exit door. Not moving. One arm trapped beneath him, the right outstretched, hand still holding the automatic. No blood v
isible.

  Lucas pocketed his Beretta and clambered to his feet, Glock ready. He edged around the planter debris toward the still form. Dead eyes. Heaving a sigh, he kicked the pistol away into the corner.

  He took out his phone and punched Thomas’s number.

  The faint wail of sirens penetrated his deadened hearing. Shaking his head, he tried his hearing aid. Blown battery. He had bad enough news for Thomas, but what the hell was he going to tell the cops? And Special Ball-Breaker Agent Hunt?

  ***

  With his life.

  The declaration—delivered in a matter-of-fact tone—thundered in Cleo’s ears. After the knife fight, she’d avoided thinking about the fact he was risking his life for her. Hearing him say the words again gave the possibility form and substance. Zervas’s men wanted to grab her, not kill her, but that wasn’t true about Thomas. If he were hurt or killed, she—

  Icy shards scraped the back of her neck and she felt the blood drain from her face. He held her gaze with his steady appraisal—always observing every detail, every nuance. She swallowed and nodded, calling on Cleopatra’s boldness. “I’m ready.”

  She followed Thomas outside. No shots, no running footsteps, only the rainy tap dance on the paving stones. They dashed across the courtyard. Although the downpour had ebbed, the drizzle quickly soaked her face and hair, and the pounding of her shoes fountained cold water against her jeans. She ought to be shivering but maybe adrenaline insulated her from the discomfort.

  When they reached the partial shelter of the opposite building, he backed them into a doorway and surveyed again. Always cool, always aware, always alert, he would see the bad guys before they saw him. Trusting him, believing in him helped her maintain her adventure mind escape— deep inside, yeah, she did know it was a fantasy.

  “The heavy rain kept people indoors,” he said. “The let-up is in our favor if more people come outside.”

  “Cover?”

  “Right.” He held up a hand as he pulled out his mobile phone, its vibrations humming. “Del Rio,” he mouthed.

  His gaze scanned the courtyard, the street beyond. “Copy that. Don’t see them yet.” A pause. “Roger. ETA at least an hour to meet you.”

  He urged Cleo back into the drizzle. “I’ll fill you in later. Two men got away, may come around the building after us. Could be others. Here we go.”

  They raced for the street. The Rue Camille teemed as usual.

  As they joined the other pedestrians, he slowed their pace. “In this crush, they might not spot us. Don’t act too careful. A dead giveaway you’re trying not to be seen. Walk normally. Look in shop windows.”

  Slowing to the pace of the crowd didn’t come too soon. Thank God. He barely breathed hard, nothing like the frantic bellows pumping in her chest.

  She angled her head. In the glare of car headlights, she saw two men in hooded black jackets striding toward them from the direction of the Champs-Élysées, about fifty yards back. Even though the team wasn’t running after them, her heart somersaulted. She clutched Thomas’s sleeve.

  “I see them. And two more out the back door. Del Rio said there was another rear exit,” he said, keeping her between him and the building. “I’ve got you, babe. They haven’t spotted us yet.”

  Buoyed by the security of his arm around her shoulders, she forced herself to stroll.

  Pedestrians scurried along, hunched beneath colorless hooded raincoats and dark umbrellas. Street lights reflected the white sprays kicked up the passing cars and a bicycle slicing through the gutter. The scene could’ve been a shades-of-gray painting by Caillebotte. Little did people know they were actually in a black-and-white thriller film.

  He steered her around a trio of tourists with maps and cameras and past a bakery, closed but still redolent of pastries and yeast. They edged by a gang of hoodie-clad teens studying an outside menu. In spite of her tension and the traffic fumes, her stomach growled at the aroma of herb-roasted chicken wafting from the restaurant’s kitchen.

  The Rue Camille was a long city block, a marathon distance to go before they reached Roosevelt. How much farther to the Métro entrance? She couldn’t remember.

  They nearly collided with a large woman toting a net shopping bag. She gasped and shrieked her complaint. Her umbrella dipped, dumping rain on them. One tip snagged on Cleo’s scarf. She tried to pull it back over her hair but the soggy silk wouldn’t cooperate.

  “Let it go.” Thomas kept her hurtling onward as he replied to the shopper’s irate French in English, “Sorry. Excuse us.”

  A shout behind them. Then another in answer.

  “Don’t look. They see us now,” Thomas said, propelling her into a run.

  Her damn hair. She might as well wear a neon sign on her head. She pumped her legs harder, ignored the protestations of her muscles. All that walking in Venice wasn’t the same as running.

  One pair of pursuers had to sidestep a family of four lugging multiple bags. Some passers-by turned to glare at the running men. The other pair darted across the busy street.

  “Splitting up to flank us,” Thomas said, tossing his head toward the team on the opposite sidewalk. “Too many people here blocking their way.”

  “Our way too.” She panted as they wove through the gauntlet of hotel guests, diners, and late shoppers.

  “We can’t shake them. They’ll stay with us all the way to the Métro. Cleo, you know the area. Is there a detour or short cut, some way to throw them off?”

  She spotted the canopy entrance of a familiar hotel. “In here.” She darted up the steps and beamed a smile at the doorman.

  After a quick glance back at their bloodhound teams, Thomas took the steps up to the entry two at a time.

  The doorman held open the door and they slammed through.

  “They’re not following?” she puffed. Their images reflected in the lobby’s mirrored walls as they trotted across the burgundy carpet.

  “The change in direction seems to have confused them. But don’t count on them to wait for long. Where are we going?”

  “Down here. The shop past the reception desk.” She waggled fingers at the desk clerk. “Robert! Bonsoir. Ça va?”

  The man blinked and nodded. Color rose to his cheeks as recognition clicked in. “Oui, ah, Cleo, pourquoi—”

  She touched a finger to her lips. “Tu ne me vois pas, d’accord?” You don’t see me, okay?

  He bobbed his head, puzzlement on his face, but any further reply was lost as she hustled Thomas onward.

  No time to explain. He’d take charge again soon enough but for now he trusted her knowledge of the city, trusted her enough to go along. She had to make her idea work.

  “Here it is. I worked here for a short while too.” She pulled him into the shop, its displays laden with miniature Eiffel Towers, posters, lingerie, and bottles of French fragrances, among other goods hotel guests might need.

  Thomas remained watchful as always but also managed to look indulgent.

  The clerk, a thirty-something woman draped in a fashionable scarf, looked up from the cash register and announced the shop would close in five minutes.

  Cleo mollified her by saying they would make a quick purchase. She whisked Thomas into another section of the shop. Around them were racks and shelves of men’s and women’s clothing. The dyes of cotton and wool mingled with the oil of wood polish. The headlights of cars strobed the shop’s exterior window and glass door.

  “The shop door leads to a smaller street, around the corner from Camille. We can cut across to Roosevelt.”

  “Good call, finding this detour. Hope our guys are chasing their tails.”

  She plucked a hat off a shelf. A black felt fedora, perfect. So Thomas. “And while we’re here, how would you like to buy a hat?”

  His answering grin fanned crinkles around his eyes. “Babe, I love the way you think.”

  Chapter 22

  A FEW MOMENTS later, they slipped back into the drizzle.

  While Thomas checked out
the street for black-jacketed goons, she tightened the hood of the slate-gray raincoat over her bright hair. Not her color or style, but urgency had forced her to go with the only rainwear her size. The large sum of euros he’d charged to his credit card switched the shop clerk’s impatience into fawning gratitude.

  Besides, now they could stay dry as well as incognito. All good.

  Apparently satisfied, Thomas took the plastic shopping bag containing their wet jackets from her. Tucking her hand in the crook of his right arm, she set off at a brisk pace.

  “Whoa, no racing,” he said. “Cool and casual won’t attract attention.”

  “As long as I keep this hood on. Casual, okay, if I can, dressed like a spy.”

  “What was that about with the desk clerk? He won’t sell us out?”

  “He owes me. When I worked in the shop, I let him buy an expensive gift for his girlfriend on the installment plan. Not a perk the hotel condones.”

  He worked his jaw as he nodded. “Girlfriend. I see.”

  She couldn’t read the emotion in his voice. Jealous? She watched him with fascination, the grim line of his mouth, the intensity belying his nonchalant stride. Why the predatory scowl if they’d ditched their pursuers?

  When he turned his gaze on her, the heat glowing in his amber eyes scorched her. Whoa, more than jealousy. And he looked so 007 in his fedora and charcoal Gore-Tex jacket—not unlike the ones their pursuers wore—she wanted to jump him. Nearly hyperventilating, she hustled along beside him. Unaccountably, he’d lengthened his stride.

  At the end of the short block, he used the reflection in a shop window to check behind them. “Snuggle up to me. Smile and point like you want me to buy the display.”

  She clutched his arm, snuggling closer, and felt his muscles tense. “Ooh, Thomas, something I’ve always wanted—a dreadlocks wig.”

  They turned left on Roosevelt, a wide commercial street clogged with a steady stream of pedestrians headed to restaurants and clubs. As they neared a busy intersection, she spotted the orange M marking the Métro entrance and beyond it the white-columned front of Saint-Phillippe du Roule, the church lending its name to the subway stop.