Galen flicked his head toward him. “Pierre—”
“The bodies, where are they?”
“Who in the hell—”
Victor grabbed him by his shirt collar. “The bodies!”
Galen nodded to the two guards, and they lowered their weapons. “They’re in the morgue.”
Victor released him. “Show me.”
Galen led him to the back of the building, getting him past a few checkpoints. In a white room were several stainless-steel cabinets and two gurneys. Surgical tools lay in metal boxes next to them.
Galen moved to a shiny metal wall with several large drawers. The air reeked of antiseptic and the smell of decaying bodies. He pulled open a drawer and unzipped a clear plastic body bag. The cleaned body clearly showed each bullet hole.
Victor took out a pen and put the end in the throat wound. It stood up, nearly vertical. He tried another one just above the center of the left lung. It sat at an angle along with all the others he tried.
“Show me the other body.”
Galen reached to the side and pulled open another drawer. Victor stuck his pen in the same area. It was almost identical.
One shot in the same place might be a coincidence. Two shots in the same place meant precision and training. The random shots must have been done after they died in an attempt to cover it up.
Damn it!
The answer had been staring him in the face the entire time.
Victor turned and marched out.
“Monsieur Archambault.” Galen said. He ran up behind, but Victor ignored him. The meeting with Delilah had to be called off.
“Monsieur Archambault!” A distinctive clack of pistol slide chambering a round echoed.
Victor jerked to a stop. “You sure you want to do that?”
“I warned you about pissing in my pool, American. Now you are going to tell me who killed my men.”
Several people poked their heads inside the hall. Victor grimaced. He didn’t have time for twenty questions. Plus, with all the ears listening in, the potential for leaks was too great. “If you shoot me, a lot more of your people are going to die.”
“I’m not going to play your silly game anymore. I want answers.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to shoot.”
Victor took a step, then another, and another before picking up his pace. He smiled.
Blood calculus.
When he exited the building, his phone beeped. He had four messages from Mitch and two from Karen in the last ten minutes.
Damn it to hell!
The building must have been shielded. He dialed Karen and Mitch on a three-way call while running to his car.
“This is Victor, talk to me.”
“Victor?” Mitch replied. “Where have you been?”
“Doesn’t matter. What’s going on?”
“We were ambushed,” Karen said. “David is dead and Delilah is missing.” A car horn honked and the sound of wheels screeching echoed from the phone’s speaker. “I was shot as well, but my back was turned. It burned through my hair and grazed my neck. The bastard also got me in the right shoulder. Titanium plate in my vest must have stopped it. I’m in route to intercept.”
“What about her GPS tracker?”
“It’s not transmitting,” Mitch said. “They either destroyed or disabled it.”
With Luther that was a real possibility.
Both them and the SAS used GPS trackers implanted in the back molar of the mouth. If they knew where to look, they could pull the tooth and smash it.
“Karen, get off the freeway,” Mitch said. “I’ve almost got a clean shot on the van with the drone.”
Shot? Delilah!
Victor’s hair stood on the back on his neck. “Who gave you authorization to shoot?”
“When I couldn’t get a hold of you I contacted ‘BF’.”
“Well, I’m countermanding those orders. I want you to stand down.” He started his car and floored the accelerator.
“I don’t—”
“Listen to me. I know who we’re dealing with.” A drop of sweat trickled down his face. “If you shoot, you’ll kill Delilah.”
“Victor—”
“Mitch, please,” Victor said. “Trust me on this. We may be able to track these guys to the missing hens.”
“We don’t know for sure if they have them?”
“I do and I can prove it, but you have got to trust me.”
“I’ve got a clean shot on the van,” Mitch said. “Activating missile…”
“Damn it Mitch, you’re making a mistake! The hens are the priority.”
Victor waited, his heart pounding in his chest.
“Negative Karen,” Mitch said. “No clear shot. Continue pursuit on the L’Arverne Highway.”
Victor heaved a sigh of relief. “Where are they headed?”
“They’re northbound. Just passed the Loiret river. I hope you’re right about this.”
“Ok, I’ll try to intercept them after they exit the tunnel near Route d’Orleans. Karen, continue following them from the other side.”
“Understood.” Her voice softened in the phone’s speaker.
“Mitch, I want you to lower the drone to a thousand feet and try to take a high resolution shot of the front of the van.”
“Copy that.”
It was a risk. They might spot the drone, but he had to know if she was alive.
He waited breathlessly, clutching at the phone and rolling it in his hand. A few minutes later, Victor received a text with a picture on his phone. He could identify three men inside the van’s windshield. One was Luther, the British terrorist he supposedly killed in the air strike over Afghanistan. The other two were also white Caucasian men. Maybe French maybe British. Someone, possibly a woman with raven colored hair, was in a seat behind the driver with their back turned.
Delilah.
“Do you think it’s her?” Mitch asked.
“Maybe.”
“They’re about to enter the tunnel.”
“K.” Victor checked his GPS. “I’m two minutes away.”
He hit the accelerator and drove up onto the median.
“What the hell…” Mitch said. “They’re gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean by gone?”
“They never exited.”
“Karen, ETA?”
“Thirty seconds. I’m almost there.”
Victor drove his car up the freeway ramp and then turned into oncoming traffic. A half dozen cars swerved and collided. He managed to navigate through the mass of twisted metal and rolling black smoke. Inside the tunnel, he spotted Karen’s car. She was outside next to the front of the white van, her sidearm at the ready. The back doors were wide open. Victor sped up, did a U-turn, and skidded to a stop behind her car. His heart sank. Inside the van, it was empty.
7
Victor turned his head, searching for something that might explain where they went. “Karen, anything?”
She shook her head. “The van was vacant when I got here.”
For the next ten minutes, they searched the tunnel while Mitch reviewed the video from the drone.
This was Victor’s fault. He shouldn’t have ordered the drone lower. They could’ve continued to track them back to their hideout, but he had to know. He slammed his fist on the side of the van. He let their relationship get much closer than he should have, and now she was in even more danger. Luther had to know they’re following him.
What are they going to do to her?
A few minutes later, the police and Galen arrived in separate cars blocking either side of the tunnel. They drew their side-arms while Galen smiled. “We just keep running into each other. Don’t we, American.” He swaggered over and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “But… I could make this go away, if you tell me who killed my men.”
Galen had the upper hand and he knew it. Victor could either come clean or spend the next few hours in police holding cell. He didn’t have time for that, so he told him about the virus,
Luther, and Delilah.
Galen frowned. “You know, you could have saved me a lot of trouble if you mentioned this earlier.”
“Maybe, but I had my orders.”
“Somehow you don’t strike me as the kind of man who follows orders.”
“Got it,” Mitch’s voice blared from Victor’s phone. “A tan sedan stopped for five seconds longer than it should have. That’s just enough time to change cars and take off.”
Galen’s eyes snapped toward the cell phone while Victor snatched it off the van’s hood and turned off the speaker. “Where is it now?”
“I don’t know. I kept the drone’s camera focused on the tunnel. I’m sorry.”
Victor hung his head. “It’s not your fault. Canvas the area. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
He checked the time. 4:17 PM. Ten hours left and their only lead was long gone. He had just one card left to play. Victor swallowed hard and his shoulders slumped. This was one call he did not want to make. He pulled out his phone and dialed Sergeant Hank Bearden. It was time to collect on that favor.
It took three calls before anyone responded.
“Alright, alright, who is this?” Hank barked.
“Hello, Hank.”
“Victor?”
“Yeah.”
“You got a hell of a lota nerve callin’ me at this hour.”
“I need a favor.”
“Well you can stuff that favor up your ass. I told you, I’m done doin’ your dirty work.”
Victor cupped the phone. “I need you to contact Paul and get something translated for me.”
“Well, how about I give you his number and you can contact him yourself?”
“We both know he won’t talk to me.”
“Gee, I wonder why—”
“Damn it Hank, a woman’s life is at stake!” Victor winced.
That was a mistake.
You never give someone something they can use against you. He took a deep breath and got ahold of his emotions.
“Well…” Hank said. “It almost sounds like you actually care for this girl. Remind you of anyone?”
“Look, I know what you must think of me, but I also know that you’re a good and honorable man. So now our roles are reversed. This time you get to decide if a woman lives or dies. What say you?”
Victor could feel his heart counting the seconds. Seconds he didn’t have.
“If I do this, my debt to you is paid in full. You understand? No more calls, no more cat and mouse games with Paul.”
Victor stopped and thought about it. Hank was useful at keeping Paul’s nosy ass busy chasing shadows. Without him, Paul might actually succeed. Was there another way?
“I’m waiting!”
“Sure. I’m texting the symbols now. I need the translation right away.”
“I kinda figured that.”
The line went dead. All he could do now was wait.
Twenty six minutes later, Hank called him back.
“The symbols are local slang meaning ‘route 23 red station.’”
“That’s everything?”
“That’s all of it. If this helps save that girl, I want you to remember it was Paul who did it for you.”
Basheera.
The female informant he inadvertently killed.
“I can’t bring her back Sergeant. Nothing can.”
“I know. I just want you feel how Paul felt and understand that he gave you a chance to save your girl.”
Victor had Mitch run a check on the translation. It was a subway station entrance in Orleans, but the subways had been shut down and this one was under construction. It didn’t make any sense.
“I just traced the line.” Mitch said. “It exits a tunnel outside the city and connects to a major train line that runs to Paris. It’s possible the police have no presence at the station because it’s undergoing repairs.”
My God, they’re going to walk out of Orleans and take a train to Paris.
“Mitch, playback some high-altitude footage of the area for the last six hours. Check for a white van exiting on to a street near the station.”
“Copy that.”
Karen nudged his shoulder. “You really think this is going to work?”
“It has to. Come on. Let’s head to the station.”
They took his car and by the time they got there, Mitch had located a white van leaving the underground garage of an apartment complex just a block away. The time index was thirty-eight minutes before the meeting with Delilah. Mitch also ran a shape analysis on the two vans. The match was ninety-seven percent.
“Sounds like the place,” Karen said.
Victor nodded, and he started the car.
“I want to come too,” Mitch said.
“No, I need you to contact Beta Team and have them assemble in full combat gear at the opposite end of the subway tunnel. Nothing gets out alive. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. Good luck.”
Several minutes later, Victor pulled up to the back alley of the four story apartment complex. They exited the car and donned latex gloves and gas masks. Each mask had a special clear faceplate with a built-in heads up display and a communications suite.
He got five nerve agent canisters from the trunk of his car disguised as one liter soda bottles and gave three to Karen. They affectionately called them bug bombs. Each contained a heat degradable nerve agent and compressed flammable gas. A radio detonator switch automatically set off the gas once the air mixture was correct. Just one was perfect for killing everyone in an entire floor of a large building and making it appear that they all died from smoke inhalation.
“Proceed to the top three floors,” Victor said, “and look for any signs of the hens or diseased renters. I’ll head to the rear garage. If either of us finds one, signal the other and start setting the bombs. We’ll meet by the first floor entrance.”
He tossed both of their .45 caliber handguns into the trunk. Too dangerous and it might set off the gas. Instead, he handed her a special compressed air sidearm used for covert infiltrations. It contained a unique gun clip with two stacks of bullets. On the left side were carbon based rounds that broke down once inside the body and released a fast-acting poison. On the right side were titanium armor-piercing slugs. A simple switch on the gun selected which bullet to use.
Karen stood there staring at the pavement. Her eyes flicked from one side to the other.
“Is there a problem?” Victor asked.
“Just tell me this is going to save millions.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “It will.”
She nodded and jogged to the front of the building.
Victor ran to the back of the apartment complex, pulled out his compressed air sidearm, and flicked the switch up selecting the carbon bullets. A plus sign activated on his HUD along false color infrared sensor.
He opened the back door and slipped inside. After verifying the coast was clear, Victor superglued the back door, car garage door, and duct taped the doorways.
“I have positive confirmation of the disease,” Karen’s voice echoed in the tiny speaker. “Setting up the bombs now.”
Victor’s shoulders slumped. He could still rescue Delilah. The nerve agent didn’t kill its victims immediately, just paralyzed them. He’d have to act fast as he had about ten minutes to get to her and administer the antidote. His hand fingered the thumb sized injector in his front pocket.
He set his bomb in a half filed trashcan and flipped a switch. It should only take about a minute for the colorless, odorless nerve gas to fill an open space like the garage. When a dot in his HUD turned yellow, the deadly concentration was correct. All he had to do now was type in a code on his cell phone to activate the bomb and cause it to start releasing its flammable twin.
He creeped through the concrete gray garage, hiding within the shadows of the flickering florescent lights and made a sweep of the interior.
In the second row of parking spaces, near the elevator, he spotted a man by a tan sed
an lying face down on the ground. Victor turned him over. The man wheezed and took a limp, open handed swing at him, the nerve agent still worming through his system. A set of plane tickets fell out of his shirt pocket. Victor recognized him as one of the three European terrorists.
He was dressed in a tacky yellow T-shirt with the Eiffel Tower stamped on it. Around his neck hung a DSLR camera and various tourist passes. Along the back of his neck snaked the dotted red rash indicating he was infected. Victor checked the plane tickets. The infected terrorist was bound for New York. His heart raced and he licked his dry lips.
He opened the driver-side car door to see another of the three terrorists. He too was made out to be a tourist and infected as well. His ticket was for London. In the back seat were two women and a man. All of them dressed as vacationers and every one of them infected with the disease.
They’re using themselves as incubators. Living biological bombs.
He shot each of them in the head to make sure they didn’t escape and searched every other car.
At the back of the garage, he cracked open the metal basement doors and felt a positive pressure of air flowing out from inside. This complicated things as it stopped the nerve gas from entering. He drew his sidearm and stepped into the whitewashed concrete hallway.
After searching several rooms, a faint slap echoed off the hallway walls. He followed the sounds to a metal door with a small rectangular window. He peeked up and inside sat Delilah. A tingling sensation of euphoria swept over Victor, spreading from his chest to his extremities. It rose to a sugar high of the sweetest chocolate, floating his consciousness into ecstasy.
She’s alive.
But she wasn’t alone and only years of training stifled his raw urge to rush inside.
Her back was turned to him and her wrists were cuffed behind her with two more handcuffs binding her arms to sides of a metal chair. A bald spot screamed out from her head and flecks of blood dotted her pale white scalp. On the floor lay a twisted clump of her hair.
Luther, the last of the terrorists, shouted at her and smashed his bare knuckled fist into her temple while the other hand held a gun pointed at her head.
“… Tell me what they know and this will stop!”
12 Days of Christmas: A Christmas Collection Page 11