The Eagle (Spy Girl Book 2)

by Jillian Dodd

  “I’ll be there in less than an hour.”

  I check the road signs ahead and see that the A8 autoroute, known as La Provencale, is a few miles ahead, which will take me northwest toward Nice.

  “I’m hungry,” the boy says, looking up from his game. “Are we in London yet?”

  “No, we are going to see a castle. Have you ever seen one?”

  “I’ve been to many castles. I want to be a knight when I grow up. Knights protect the people.”

  What he says makes me smile. “Want to hear a secret?”

  “Yes, I’m good at keeping secrets.”

  “I’m a knight.”

  “Girls can’t be knights.”

  “They can if they are very brave.”

  “I’m very brave,” he says.

  “I know you are. You knew to get the backpacks and took me to see your daddy’s friend.”

  “That was our escape route. You only take the escape route when things are bad. My house exploded. That was bad.”

  “Yes, it was. I’m going to take you somewhere else to live.”

  “While Daddy is on his trip?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “While Daddy is on his trip.”

  The boy nods in understanding, puts his head back down, and focuses on his game. I stare at his little dark head and pray I can pull this off without getting us killed.

  We arrive in Nice, park near the beach, and then walk up the stairs to the castle, stopping to view the waterfall and lookout along the way. I took a bottle of water and some snacks out of his backpack, and he’s happily chomping away and running through the ruins of the castle. I curiously watch as he sneaks around the edge of a doorway, his fingers forming a gun, then pops out and pretends to shoot. I wonder just what other skills his father taught him.

  A memory flashes in my brain. The painful kind that I usually block, but this one comes at me with too much force. My mother is trying to take a photo of me, but I keep popping behind the castle wall, hiding, then leaning my head around the corner and sticking my tongue out at her. “You should let me take your picture, Lee,” she says, her voice like music to my ears. “I want you to always remember our visit to the Palacio de la Vallenta.”

  “Huntley,” Intrepid says, startling me.

  I frantically scan the ruins for the boy, quickly spotting him, still playing. I take a deep breath and rub my hands down my face.

  “You look tired,” he says. “Who is the boy?”

  “His son.”

  “The Priest’s son?”

  “Yes.”

  It’s Intrepid’s turn to rub his face. “Bloody hell. I just got rid of one of your problems, now you bring me the assassin’s son?”

  “I just need you to get us to London. I’ll hire a nanny and hide him at Lorenzo’s place there.”

  “I can’t do that. You can’t do that.”

  “I promised I would, but I understand if you can’t help. I’ll make other arrangements. Thanks for coming.”

  I stand up and walk away.

  “Playtime is over, Chauncey. Let’s hit the road again.”

  “Okay,” he says, slipping his little hand into mine and squeezing it. “Even though I want bangers and mash, we need go to Zurich. That’s where I’m supposed to go next when things get bad.”

  “You’re right,” I say, thinking about my own key. “Let’s go there.”

  “I know how to sign my name,” he says as we’re walking away.

  “That’s good,” I reply, finding his comment very random.

  “Daddy says you have to be able to sign your name to use a credit card,” he finishes. And I realize I might just be able to do this on my own. Zurich is only six hours by car, and if we drive, I don’t have to worry about using my passport. The kid is smart.

  Intrepid is waiting for us at the bottom of the steps. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

  I turn to the boy. “What is in Zurich?”

  “Safety net,” he answers.

  “Feel like going for a ride with us first?” I ask.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To a bank in Switzerland.”

  I get the boy loaded into the car and turn it on to get the air-conditioning going.

  “Why Switzerland?” he asks.

  “He has a safety deposit box there. He knows how to sign his name and what to do. He says it’s his safety net.”

  “It’s too dangerous to take him now. Word is getting out about his father’s death. They could be watching the account.”

  “I don’t think anyone knows about it. And the faster we move, the better. Before someone does figure it out, we’ll have the box emptied and will be gone. We can open the boy another account in London or, better yet, Montrovia. There’s a phone number on the key. We have to let them know we are coming, particularly after hours.”

  “How do you know that?” he asks.

  I blink a few times, thinking about my own key. “I’m not sure, but I know.”

  “Let’s wait until we are there to call,” he suggests. “And I’m driving. How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

  “About thirty-six hours, maybe. I think I napped a little on the fighter jet.”

  “Fighter jet?”

  “We had to get from D.C. to Paris in under four hours to be there in time for The Priest’s next hit.”

  “I don’t know who the hell this Black X group is, but they have serious military pull to make that happen.”

  “Maybe they aren’t a covert spy agency. Maybe they have ties to the military. Ari’s father was an important general.”

  “There isn’t such a thing.”

  “There could be. A form of special forces, maybe?”

  Intrepid nods his head. “Nothing would surprise me at this point.”

  I get into the backseat with the boy. We pick up dinner and eat in it the car, then the boy lays his head on my lap, curls up into a little ball, and falls to sleep. I push his hair back off his forehead, running my fingers through it, as I lean my head against the window.

  Five hours later, I wake up with a start when the car comes to a stop. A glance at the clock tells me it’s nearly midnight.

  “I tried calling the number on the key,” Gallagher says. “It’s not a working number, so I figured we’d just show up.”

  I wake Chauncey and tell him we’re in Zurich.

  “Excellent,” he says, rubbing his eyes as I discreetly slip my own key out of my handbag.

  “Are you ready to sign your name?”

  He hops out of the car and leads us to the front of the sleek marble building with only a gold sign with the words Z Investments giving any indication that we are at a bank.

  “I don’t have to sign my name here, silly,” he says, putting his index finger on a little glass circle under the placard.

  The door clicks, and a man dressed in a suit greets us. “Do you have your key?” he asks in Swiss German.

  Chauncey replies in the same language and then walks across the room. He comes to a door behind the reception desk and places his finger on another circle of glass, causing it to open.

  I start to follow him, but the banker says to me in English, “The key holder must enter alone.”

  “I have one, too,” I reply, speaking in his native tongue and causing Intrepid to narrow his eyes at me.

  “Very well,” the man says. “After the door closes, scan your fingerprint. I will take your companion to the exit lounge where he will await you.”

  I scan my fingerprint, go through the door, and find Chauncey already inserting his key into a box. I walk straight to the back wall and touch box number six twelve, then shake my head, looking at the key to determine which one is mine.

  “Six twelve,” my mom’s voice says. “Your birthday.” I close my eyes, concentrating, trying to hold onto the memory, trying to remember when I was here before, but the boy clanks his box on the table, and the memory is gone.

  I watch as Chauncey pulls out a leather pouch, puts it in hi
s backpack, and then returns the box. “Ready?” he asks.

  “Wait for me, okay?” I mimic his actions and am removing the box from the wall when we hear gunfire.

  “Shit.” I stuff the metal container into the backpack, not bothering to look at its contents.

  “Sounds like trouble out front. Do you have your gun?”

  “I don’t,” I reply. “I left it in the car.”

  He reaches in his backpack, opens the leather pouch, and pulls out a Glock. “I’m not a very good shot yet. Are you? If you are truly a knight, you should be.”

  We hear shouting then more shots fired.

  “There’s a secret exit, Huntley. Only accessible by fingerprint.” He points toward a door. “William will be waiting for us there. Go get him.”

  “You’re kind of bossy,” I say. “Definitely knight material.”

  I do as the kid says, but the door won’t budge.

  “I think some people might be after us.”

  “Then we’d better hurry.” He runs to the back corner of the room with me hot on his tail.

  There is one long blast from an automatic weapon and the shooting stops.

  We hear a voice yell out, “Clear!”

  “They’re trying to blow the door to the vault,” I yell. “Hurry, Chauncey!”

  The boy presses his finger against the wall, causing a door to slide open. We enter the next room, the door slides shut, and we find ourselves in a soundproofed tunnel.

  The tunnel is about one hundred feet long then comes to a dead end. The boy places both his palms against the wall and a screen lights up, showing us security feeds. This allows us to see the assault team, all dressed in black and carrying the same weapons as the men who came after The Priest. I want to believe that they are just robbers and we chose an unfortunate time to visit the bank, but I know better.

  The question is, which one of us caused them to come?

  Me or the boy?

  I study the monitors more closely, searching for Gallagher. But I can’t find him anywhere.

  Please, don’t let him be dead.

  “I can’t remember what to do next,” Chauncey says. “Do you know?”

  I lean my head against the wall in defeat. I have no idea how we’re going to get out of here, but I need to stay positive for the boy, so I put my hands on the wall and push myself upright. “I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out.”

  Suddenly, a series of numbers flashes by.

  Then my mother appears on the screen and speaks. “If you are seeing this message, Lee, you are in grave danger. This account includes a safe passage clause, but use your best judgment. Bankers can be bought.”

  The screen turns black and a wall to our right opens to reveal another passage.

  “Is your mommy an angel, too?” the boy whispers.

  “Stay behind me,” I tell him, not answering the question as I hide the Glock behind my back and prepare for the worst.

  Ari takes a private plane from Paris to Montrovia. Ellis is there to pick him up when he arrives.

  “Have you heard from Huntley?” he asks.

  “When she called in to report the completion of her mission, she was told to take a few days off. You probably could use some R&R as well.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have time for that. Terrance is supposed to be meeting me here.”

  “He is in the basement awaiting your arrival,” Ellis replies. “He said you may be down there for a while, so I have fully stocked it with food and caffeinated beverages.”

  “Thank you.”

  Once in the basement, Ari lays out everything he found at Clarice’s home on a table. Terrance suggests starting with the phone, so they listen to the messages from her boyfriend, Armend.

  Since she’d moved back to Paris and renounced her claim to the throne, she had been avoiding him. He was upset about it. By the last message, he had gone from desperate to mad and then back to desperate again.

  But none of what he says seems to relate to her being in danger or her knowing anything about her sister’s plan to overthrow the monarchy of Montrovia.

  The same is true of her recent call list and her contact list. All are checked and double-checked, but still lead nowhere.

  While Terrance starts sifting through the files on her computer, Ari uses her phone to check all of her social media sites. An easy task, since she was already logged on.

  Ari reads her profiles and posts, going back a year, and checks all of her messages.

  “This is useless,” he says, slamming down the phone and feeling frustrated.

  “Going through all of this requires much patience,” Terrance says, looking up from the computer. “Take a break if you need to. Go work out or something. Clear your head. Sometimes it’s not until later that you realize you passed over something of importance. When you get back, why don’t you start on the diary? At least that should make for interesting reading.”

  I move stealthily down the dark passageway, the boy following me. We come to another dead end, this one, we can’t find a way out of. I press on the walls, as does the boy, but nothing happens.

  I search my mind, but can’t recall anything, my memories seemingly walled off and surrounded by a moat.

  I try everything, putting both hands on each wall. Looking for a hidden lever. A hidden door.

  Anything.

  The good news is no one seems to be coming after us. The bad news is no one seems to be coming to help us either.

  I think about the explosives that were used on the door to the safety deposit box room. There are a couple of grenades in the backpack. I’ve thought about trying to blast our way out, but I fear they would not have the desired effect of taking out an exterior wall, but rather would explode down the tunnel, killing us both.

  “That’s it,” I say aloud. “Maybe there’s a trap door. Like at your house.”

  I drop to my hands and knees and knock on the floor, hoping there is something below the carpet.

  Suddenly, the room shakes violently. Although we couldn’t hear it, we could definitely feel another blast.

  They are blowing their way through the tunnels and vaults, trying to get to us.

  I rip up the carpet and place both my palms on the floor; which then lights up and causes a trap door to pop open.

  Feeling both relief as well as an odd sense of deja vu, the boy and I climb down the ladder and come to a steel door. Chauncey touches a visible screen to the right, causing it to unlatch and open. I jump in front of him, my gun at the ready.

  We are now in a subterranean concrete garage, subtly lit with pale purple lights, where a fleet of vehicles awaits us.

  There is a rack of keys on the wall in front of me with a number corresponding to the parking spots. I move the child behind a concrete pillar and fire the gun at a Bugatti Veyron, thrilled when the bullet ricochets and the window remains in tact.

  Apparently safe passage equals armored cars.

  I grab a set of keys, load the child in the front seat, and tell him to get strapped in. Although he’d be safer in a car with a backseat, I need something fast to get us out of here, and even fully armored it will double the top speed of anything that would have brought an assault team. It will even outrun a helicopter.

  As I slide into the lush cockpit of the beautiful and outrageous car, I feel like Huntley Von Allister. No one will suspect this car is carrying a trained killer and the son of the world’s most infamous one.

  As we emerge from the underground garage, a few blocks from the entrance to the bank, we hear sirens. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I need to know.

  There are two SUVs parked at an angle in front of the bank, their doors still open. I don’t see anyone in the trucks as I drive by, so I roll down the window and toss a grenade under each one, then stomp on the accelerator.

  We’re a block away when the vehicles explode behind us.

  “Woah,” Chauncey says, looking back. “That was awesome! Just like the movies!”
>
  “And it should keep them busy for awhile,” I agree, smiling at him.

  Once we are a safe distance away, I pull over, take a deep breath, and pray that Intrepid managed to escape.

  “Can we get hot cocoa?” Chauncey asks. “Daddy always makes it for me before bed.”

  There are no shops open, so I tell him that I will make him some with extra chocolate as soon as we get to London.

  He nods, still clutching the backpack tightly to his chest. Although he was calm and collected at the bank, he now looks rattled and scared. I unbuckle myself and take his bag.

  “Let’s put this on the floor,” I say, handing him the stuffed tiger.

  He hugs the tiger then promptly falls asleep.

  I have one throwaway phone left, but don’t want to use it yet.

  Instead, I grab the boy’s iPad, find free Wi-Fi at a nearby nightclub, and pull up a map of the area, searching for the closest airstrip. There is a military base ten kilometers southeast, a small airport—one that apparently has a good on-site restaurant—six kilometers to the east, and about ten other options within a fifty kilometer radius.

  I choose the one I would have chosen if I were in charge of the mission planning.

  Thirty minutes later, for what should have been a ten-minute trip, we arrive at the airport—the delay caused by me doubling back twice to make certain we weren’t being followed.

  As we get close, I spot a plane with the call sign G-MISX. The first letter indicating the plane’s home country of Britain, and I pray the rest stands for MI6, the British Intelligence Agency that Intrepid works for.

  I pull the car up to airport’s gated entrance. A man with an automatic weapon and wearing the uniform of the British Royal Air Force steps out of the guard stand, his gun trained on us.

  “This is a secure location. Please move away,” he threatens.

  “I’m looking for William Gallagher.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know who you’re talking about,” the soldier replies. “Please depart the premises or risk arrest.”

  “What about the MI6 agent whose code name is Intrepid. Do you know him? You’re a British soldier on foreign land. We are why you are here. We were just with Intrepid at a Swiss bank. An assault team came in. We managed to escape, but we don’t know if he did.”