Dead Run (Dangerous Ground 4)

by Josh Lanyon

  The next instant the vision was gone. Taylor was talking about what he’d learned about this Yann Helloco who might or might not be Yannick Hinault.

  “I think he’s got a death wish. All he painted were graveyards and graves. Tell me that’s not seriously disturbed.”

  “I won’t argue that with you. This is a guy who thinks planting car bombs and blowing up museums is part of the dialogue for change.”

  “At least no one was crippled or killed when they blew up the museum.”

  Will narrowed his eyes. There it was again. That glimmer of memory. He’d been on the phone talking to Taylor about the destruction of the museum and its collection of paintings by Jacques-Louis David, and David — his David — had been on the sofa listening. And there was some reason he didn’t want Taylor to know David was there.

  Or was it David who couldn’t know that he and Taylor were…

  Wait.

  He and Taylor were what?

  A picture flooded his mind of himself licking Taylor’s nipples, of Taylor whimpering his name, pleading for more. Christ. It was so real he could taste Taylor’s skin, feel the flushed heat radiating off him, the touching dampness of his underarms and groin —

  “Man, you have a funny expression on your face,” Taylor remarked.

  Will jerked back to reality. Taylor’s expression was curious. Will felt hot and uncomfortable as though his astonishing thoughts were running above him like a CNN Chyron. Brandt wants to fuck MacAllister.

  He must have hit his head harder than he thought.

  Okay. Focus on the job. That always helped in the past when he got to thinking undisciplined thoughts about his partner.

  “So you think Helloco returned for this ex-girlfriend of his?”

  “Do Ithink that? No. That was Tara.”

  “Tara?” Will put a hand to his head. It was starting to throb again. “Right. Tara.”

  Focus.

  “So why do you think Helloco came back after all these years?”

  Taylor said, “I’m not sure he is back.”

  “You know what,” Will said as kindly as he could. “My head’s pounding like a son of a bitch. I don’t think I’m going to be a lot of help tonight.”

  Taylor was already on his feet. “Right. I should have left ten minutes ago anyway.” He hesitated. “You’re supposed to be getting out of here tomorrow. Do you want me to pick you up?”

  “David will —”

  Taylor flinched. What was going on there? “Sure. Of course. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  He was at the door before Will could say good night, and now that the moment came, Will was dismayed at how much he didn’t want Taylor to go. Especially not looking like that.

  Will called his name. Taylor turned in inquiry.

  “You didn’t say where your next posting is.”

  Voice and face were expressionless as Taylor answered, “Didn’t I? Iraq.”

  “Iraq?” Will was surprised the monitors didn’t sound the alarm, because he was pretty sure his heart stopped.

  It made sense, of course. They needed good people in Iraq. Taylor was one of the best. And he was overdue an overseas position. And this would be a promotion for him, and he’d earned it.

  Yeah, it made perfect sense.

  But Will had lost some close friends in Iraq. He didn’t want to risk losing another. Particularly not Taylor, the best friend he’d ever had. He loved Taylor like another brother. Like…

  His head was pounding so badly he wondered if he should ring for help. He spoke over the thump. “Did you accept?”

  “Not officially.”

  “But you’re going to?”

  Taylor hesitated. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I’m going to go.”

  There was nothing left to say after that. Will listened to the soft, steady footfall of Taylor’s steps disappearing down the corridor.

  Chapter Nine

  For the nth time, Taylor was reading over the brief and inglorious history of Yann Helloco. Portrait of a Terrorist. There weren’t a lot of details on Helloco’s history, but what there were didn’t seem to hint at the course his life would take.

  His family was small and poor but not so poor that they did without the essentials. Père Helloco was a schoolteacher. There was no mention of what Mère Helloco did. It didn’t sound like political activism had been a strong force in their family life.

  Helloco’s siblings did not appear to be famous for anything other than being Helloco’s siblings. The sister had married and was still living in Ireland. The brother had been living in the States but had died in 2010.

  Taylor made a note to follow up on the brother. It was a stretch, but there wasn’t much else to go on.

  Helloco had shown artistic promise early on and had earned a scholarship to the prestigious École nationale supérieure des beaux arts. It seemed to be in art school that Helloco had become involved in Breton nationalism. He hung around with a couple of other art students from Brittany — Gabriel Besson and Paul Jacquard — who eventually provided introduction to the FLB. Through the FLB he had met the sex-kitten radical Marie Laroche. Again there were not a lot of details on their relationship, but rumors persisted that they had married.

  Taylor made another note.

  Eventually Helloco became impatient with the FLB’s methods and broke with the larger organization to form Finistère. Besson, Jacquard, and, of course, Laroche went with him. Finistère. As anarchist organizations went, Finistère achieved so-so results. There were two failed attempts at robbing banks and the successful but mostly pointless destruction of the museum in Bagnols-sur-Cèze. They were mostly known — and hated — for a car bombing that had killed an elderly couple and a young mother pregnant with her second child.

  A few months after blowing up the museum and its millions of dollars’ worth of paintings by Jacques-Louis David — who had been one step from a terrorist himself, in Taylor’s opinion — Finistère leadership had retreated to the country home of wealthy, politically sympathetic friends in Sarthe. As far as anyone could determine, Helloco had been concocting more bombs when something had gone wrong and he’d blown up himself, the house, and the gardener.

  Considering how often Helloco’s experiments with explosives went wrong, Taylor wondered if the destruction of the museum in Bagnols-sur-Cèze had been an accident. The organization had needed financing and had failed at robbing banks. Maybe they had turned their attention to robbing museums, only to fail there as well. It made more sense than blowing up a small, obscure museum off the beaten track.

  Following the death of Helloco, the rest of Finistère had escaped mostly unscathed but hadn’t survived long without their mastermind. Didier died in a shootout with police. Jacquard had driven his car into a brick wall while attempting to evade capture. Laroche, Besson, and Roland had eventually been tracked down and arrested.

  And that was pretty much that. Taylor scratched his nose, considering his notes. Not many leads to pursue. As cold cases went, this one was giving him frostbite.

  Outside Will’s cubicle in the embassy DSS office, Taylor could hear the quiet murmur of voices on the phone and the ordinary office equipment sounds. It could have been any DSS office in the world. But then that was the point.

  His gaze moved to the framed photo of him and Will on Will’s desk. It had been taken right after they’d won the West Coast Regional competitive shooting championship. An unobjectionable picture of a couple of buddies sharing a moment of triumph.

  Maybe deep down Will secretly wished that was what they had remained.

  Because Taylor really had trouble believing Will could have forgotten everything between them without some considerable effort. If he didn’t remember, then he didn’t want to remember. That was the conclusion Taylor kept coming back to.

  Will hadn’t been forced to take this Paris gig. That had been his choice. Knowing it meant the end of their working partnership, he’d still opted for promotion and Paris.

  Slow down
.

  Now he was letting his insecurity and frustration get the better of him. Will loved him. Taylor believed that. He knew that.

  That didn’t change the fact that they hadn’t stopped arguing from the moment Taylor had landed. And what were they fighting about all the time? Taylor wasn’t sure. Will probably wasn’t any clearer.

  Regardless, it didn’t bode well for the future. A future that Will apparently preferred to pretend didn’t exist —

  There was a knock on the cubicle doorframe. Taylor glanced up from his dark thoughts.

  RSO Stone looked as tired as Taylor felt. “We finally heard back from LAPD. They searched Hinault’s home. They’ve discovered a safe box with five passports in five different names.”

  “Passport fraud. Right up our alley.”

  “It is. There’s more. Hinault may actually be Yves Helloco.”

  “Yves Helloco?” Taylor was already scanning his notes, verifying.

  Stone said, “You heard right. Yves Helloco. Yann’s brother.”

  Taylor sat back in his chair. “I thought the brother was deceased?”

  “He is. Or let me put it this way. One of the Helloco brothers is deceased. We’re not exactly sure which one yet. The Hinault passport photo matches up to the brother. A couple of the other passport photos appear to be Yann Helloco appropriately aged.”

  “There’s no indication that the brother had any criminal background — or showed any sign of political activism.”

  “It remains unclear whether Yves willfully participated in passport fraud. It’s possible he was the victim of identity theft perpetrated by his brother.”

  “Or…” A crazy thought took hold of Taylor. “Are they sure they know who was living in Burbank?”

  Stone’s smile was a shadow of her old one. “Good call, MacAllister. Neighbors identified both Helloco brothers as being Yannick Hinault.”

  All at once Taylor’s mood improved considerably. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “Yes, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The only thing we really know for certain is one of these Helloco brothers is deceased and one of them is in Paris.”

  “Fingerprints will settle it one way or the other.”

  “True, but this isn’t TV. We’re not going to get lab results on the forensic evidence within twenty-four hours, and unfortunately there’s a time element here. The French police just notified us that they received another communiqué from Finistère this morning. Finistère is claiming the explosion in the catacombs was just the beginning and that within forty-eight hours they will make a political statement that the world will never forget — and punctuate it in blood.”

  Taylor started to speak, but the phone on Will’s desk rang.

  Stone nodded dismissingly. “Go ahead and take that. Find me what you can on the brother. And I mean I need that information yesterday.”

  Taylor picked up the phone as she departed. “MacAllister.”

  “Does that offer to give me a lift home from the hospital still stand?” Will asked, and Taylor’s heart gave a start of pleasure. Stupid, but there it was.

  He answered automatically, “Of course.” Then couldn’t help asking, “What happened to Bradley?”

  “It turns out he’s tied up in meetings all day for this anniversary celebration on the sixth.”

  “That’s tomorrow.”

  “Is it? I guess I lost a day.”

  He’d nearly lost a lot more than a day. “Okay. When are you being released?”

  “Actually…I’ve just been sprung.”

  “Now?”

  Will said immediately, “I can always grab a taxi if you can’t get away.”

  “No way.” Taylor clicked out of the program he was using and turned off the computer. “I’m on my way.”

  * * * * *

  “You must already be driving like a native if you made it this fast,” Will said a short while later as Taylor unlocked the passenger door and ushered him inside. Taylor threw Will’s carryall into the back and jumped in behind the wheel.

  Will grunted as he eased himself down in the seat. Taylor spared him a quick look.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine.”

  Taylor’s mouth twitched at the staunchness of that. Will looked pale, and he was moving slowly, but he seemed pretty much like his normal self. “Yeah? How’s the memory?”

  “Still spotty.” Will sounded uncharacteristically grouchy. Amnesia, even partial amnesia, had to be hell for a control freak.

  “Maybe being home will help.”

  “Maybe.” Will gazed moodily out the window as Taylor maneuvered away from the curbside. “You seem to be keeping busy. I thought I’d s —”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. What’s the latest?”

  Taylor filled him in on Arthur’s progress, which didn’t cheer Will up any, and then he brought up the news that Helloco’s brother had possibly aided him in passport fraud. “Either that or he was a victim of identity theft. I’m leaning toward willing accomplice myself.”

  “That’s because you’re naturally devious.”

  Taylor curled his lip. Deep down was that really what Will thought?

  “It’s a joke.” Will was watching him.

  “Sure.”

  “It’s a joke.”

  Taylor obligingly grinned. “Now I took it as a compliment.”

  Will made a politely disbelieving noise.

  “Anyway, Finistère seems to have phoned the national police this morning to warn them that within forty-eight hours they’ll leave the world a political message no one will ever forget.”

  “They’re going to close Euro Disney during the peak of tourist season?”

  Taylor snorted. “Maybe. The part I don’t follow is Helloco’s brother didn’t display any political awareness according to anything I’ve read so far. I’m not sure why he’d be part of this.”

  “People change.”

  Taylor had no response to that.

  “Maybe he doesn’t realize he’s a party to it.” Will shrugged and then winced.

  “I guess that’s possible. Anyway, I’m supposed to focus on investigating Yves Helloco. Stone thinks he’s the key. I think she might be right.”

  “What about the girlfriend? Laroche?”

  “She was hanging tough last I heard from Bonnet.”

  They reached rue du Colisée, and Taylor parked outside the front of the apartment building.

  Will went slowly into the house. Taylor grabbed Will’s carryall and then paused to take a look at one of the tires that seemed low. Deciding the tire was fine, he continued inside.

  As he entered the living room, he heard one of the floorboards on the stairs to the bedroom squeak.

  A vision of the bedroom as he’d left it that morning flashed into his brain.

  Shit.

  He’d been in a hurry and had intended on straightening up that afternoon before Will got home.

  He flew up the stairs two at a time. Will stood in the doorway surveying the room. He glanced over his shoulder as Taylor reached the landing.

  “Make yourself at home, MacAllister.” His voice was teasing, but Taylor could see a trace of unease in his eyes.

  “Sorry. I meant to tidy up.” He scooted past Will, snatching up the still-damp bath towel lying over the foot of the bed. “I was running late this morning.”

  “I see that.” Will took in the coffee cup on the nightstand, the unmade bed, the open suitcase with Taylor’s belongings spilling out. Taylor was fairly neat. There was nothing out of line in any of this for a house guest — unless the guest was using his host’s room as his own. Then it might look like someone was taking a few liberties.

  “No problem,” Will said slowly, his gaze returning, as though magnetized, to the rumpled bed.

  Despite all the resolutions Taylor had made over the past twelve hours, that was the breaking point. He tossed the towel aside. “Jesus, Will. How the hell can you not remember?”
r />   Will watched him warily. “Remember what?”

  “This.” Taylor crossed the room, locked hands on Will’s shoulders, and pressed his mouth to Will’s.

  For a couple of fraught heartbeats, Will did nothing. In fact, he was so still he might not have been breathing.

  Then a ripple went through him like someone had thrown a lever. He heaved Taylor off. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  It had been a risk. Even so, Will’s furious rejection stunned him. Taylor cried, “What do you think I’m doing?”

  “Are you crazy?”

  Will’s obvious shock, shock verging on horror, sobered Taylor fast. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. But Will…” His voice trailed with all that he wanted to, needed to — and didn’t dare — say.

  Will’s colorless face worked. “What are you telling me? You’re telling me that we’re…that we’ve…that you and I…?” Will stared at Taylor’s suitcase, and Taylor followed his gaze to the perfectly blameless tumble of boxers and socks that in this context somehow managed to look sordid.

  “You have to remember!” Taylor protested, and despite his very best effort, he was getting angry. Will wasn’t hurting him on purpose, but he was hurting him. Again and again, and Taylor was getting good and goddamned sick of it. “If you don’t remember, it’s because you don’t want to remember.”

  “I don’t remember because it wouldn’t happen. I wouldn’t let it happen.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because it would be the worst fucking idea ever. Because we’re partners. Because you’re not someone who —” Will stopped.

  Taylor’s face must have given away the things he’d have killed to hide from Will at that second.

  “I don’t mean that.” Will spoke quickly. “I mean, you’re not interested in settling down. You’ve never been interested in a relationship that lasted longer than a month or so.”

  “I’m not the one who —” Taylor swallowed the rest of it. No, he wasn’t going to do that. This was bad enough without recriminations.

  Will wasn’t listening. “We agreed a long time ago we’d never risk… We’d never…because of…of this.” He waved roughly at the bedroom window looking out over the rooftops of Paris. “Because of me being stationed here and you heading out for Iraq. It’s a fucking disaster of an idea.”