Eternal
London Mob Book Three
Michelle St. James
Blackthorn Press
Contents
Eternal
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Eternal
London Mob Book Three
Michelle St. James
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2016 by Michelle St. James aka Michelle Zink
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Isabel Robalo
ISBN 978-0-9975464-2-2
One
Farrell Black hated stakeouts. Sitting in a car, staring through the fucking binoculars for hours on end. He had legions of men to do this work for him so he could take care of the things that mattered most. Namely, the intelligence work and violence that were the cornerstones of his business.
Unfortunately, he was now a fugitive. He couldn’t afford to compromise the fake identities he and Jenna had been using since they left Germany six weeks ago, and that meant they were on their own, stuck in Paris while Leo kept things in hand back in London.
He scanned the building in the distance through the high-powered binoculars. It looked like any other generic office building: six floors of steel and glass set in a flat, nondescript and unimaginatively landscaped lot in Nanterre, ten kilometers outside the center of Paris. He’d been casing the place for the last two weeks, ever since he and Jenna had settled into the little flat in the 11th arrondissement they’d secured with the help of Christophe Marchand, head of the Paris mob. They’d spent the month prior moving between an assortment of small hotels in and around the city, keeping a low profile, contacting Leo through the digital channels Farrell had long ago put in place for this kind of eventuality.
He had never expected to use them. Had never expected to run from anybody. He feared no man. No thing except losing Jenna and their daughter, Lily. Losing his brother, Ethan, who was living his life in Huntington Hills by the rigid set of routines that were a requirement for his autism. But now that was exactly what was at stake, and he knew he would do anything to protect them.
Right now that meant keeping their distance from Lily, safely ensconced in Tuscany with Jenna’s sister, Kate, and from Ethan, too. He knew it was killing Jenna to be without their daughter. Could see it in the sadness that lingered in her eyes, even when she was smiling. In the slope of her shoulders when she thought no one was looking.
It only made him more enraged at the people responsible. At the people behind the development of the Marburg virus that had started the whole thing, and even at Jenna’s father for forcing her into the whole fucking mess by leaving her the key to his safe deposit box after he was killed.
She’d been alone for five years in New York, raising the daughter he didn’t know they had on her own. Supporting them and taking care of them without an ounce of help. Now she was back, and while he knew she didn’t exactly approve of his lifestyle, she’d had no choice but to accept it. She should be in Tuscany — or one of his other lavish estates — being treated like a queen, laying in the sun on the stone terrace, listening to the sounds of Lily’s laughter as she chased the goats through the golden hills.
Instead she was in Paris, her beautiful auburn hair chopped to the shoulders and died jet black, walking the streets in sunglasses, trying to stay under the radar of the people who hunted them. It had gotten more dangerous since Germany. Now they were prey to more than the people behind the bioweapon — they were wanted by MI6, Germany’s Federal Criminal Police Office, and even Homeland Security thanks to the shootout at Erik Karlsen’s cabin.
He felt a rare pang of regret when he thought about Karlsen. The old man had been a scientist, and while he’d been party to the research that led to an aerosolized version of the Ebola-like virus called Marburg, he’d eventually rebelled against the research, trading his freedom and academic credentials for the tiny cabin in the woods of Denmark. He’d done what he could by giving Farrell and Jenna a list of wire transfers into the Stafford Institute and was gunned down like a dog for his trouble.
Farrell hated that it had happened the way it had, but he’d been true to his word. Would remain true to his word. Karlsen’s daughter Lieve was under 24/7 watch by one of Farrell’s men, even if she didn’t know it, and an anonymous fund set up in her name had covered her expenses since her father’s death. If Farrell had anything to say about it, that would continue as long as Lieve was alive. It wouldn’t make up for the loss of her father, but maybe it would make the loneliness of day to day life less overwhelming.
He saw movement at the gates in front of CBT Financial and refocused the binocs as another unmarked truck pulled up to the gate. Farrell watched as the guard at the gate said something to the driver in the truck. A few seconds later, the truck pulled forward, rumbling toward the office building. Farrell watched its progress, then cursed as it rounded a corner to the other side of the building.
It had been happening all week: trucks pulling up to the gate, turning the corner to the side of the building Farrell couldn’t see. He was contemplating renting space in the adjoining building to get a better vantage point on that side, but that would mean face to face contact with a realtor, the transfer of money (cash would be too suspicious). All of it less than ideal for two people on the run from intelligence agencies from three countries and men dangerous enough to unleash a bioweapon that would wipe out half the world’s population.
Something was off about CBT, something that went beyond the fact that they were one of the only companies on Karlsen’s list with any kind of public record. Their website billed them as a full service financial services company specializing in tech and pharma stocks and funds aimed at maximum growth.
And if Farrell believed that, he might as well buy some ocean front property in Northampton.
Companies that specialized in building wealth for clients liked to show that they could do it. And they usually demonstrated that skill with lavish offices overlooking the Champs-Elysees, not in the generic, low-rent district of Nanterre with the up-and-coming peasants.
And the gate? Total bullshit. What kind of financial services company needs a fence, a guard?
The answer was obvious: the kind that wired money to shady research institutes doing off the books research on hemorrhagic viruses funded by men in black cloaks and masks. It's not like there was any paper money at CBT headquarters.
He lowered the binoculars in disgust. He wasn’t going to get anything out of the unmarked truck. He opened the newspaper in his lap and thought about Alain Bouchard. The guy was strictly low level at CBT. A garden variety computer nerd who had landed an entry level gig at the supposed financial services company straight out of university. Unemployment was almost seven percent in Paris, and nearing ten percent in the rest of the country.
Odds were Alain was a low level risk for the powers that be. A twenty-something so happy to have the job he would have no desire to poke around in CBT’s files.
That's what they were hoping for, at least.
Jenna had been having coffee dates with the guy for nearly two weeks, keeping him close in case they needed him. She had been imaginative at keeping him at bay, thanks in no small part to his unaggressive nature, but Farrell knew it was only a matter of time before Alain expected a proper date.
And maybe more.
He stifled his rage at the thought of Alain Bouchard — at the thought of anybody — trying to touch Jenna. She was his. Had been since the moment he’d laid eyes on her in that pub only weeks after she’d graduated from uni. They’d been separated by time and space and secrets, but in the end, she’d come back to him. He didn’t know what the future held, but he knew she had finally given herself to him body and soul. Whatever happened, they were in it together, and Farrell would gladly plead guilty to any offense to see that Jenna went free. There was plenty of money stashed in offshore accounts around the world. She and Lily would have a good life, even if he wasn’t there to see it.
Until then, she was his.
He was willing to let the charade with Alain go on for a bit longer in the interest of figuring out who was behind the Marburg research, but if the guy liked his fingers, he would keep his hands off Jenna.
More movement caught his eye at the gate, and he raised the binoculars, honing in on the FedEx truck that had stopped at the guard’s shack. He watched as the delivery driver exchanged a few words with the guard. He was waiting for the truck to pull through, to disappear around the corner like the other ones, when the driver stepped from the cab.
Farrell watched as he walked around the truck, then opened the sliding door at the back. A moment later, he pulled a large pallet from the truck’s recesses. He set it down near the guard’s gate, then reached inside for an identical pallet.
Why was he leaving his delivery at the gate?
Leaving the question for another time, Farrell focused on the pallets, trying to get a read on what was stacked there by fine-tuning the focus on the binocs. A moment later, he realized what he was looking at.
“Son of a bitch,” he murmured. The pallets were loaded down with flattened boxes.
A lot of boxes. And there was only one reason for a company with an invisible product to order that many boxes.
CBT was moving.
Two
Jenna sat at one of the tables outside Starbucks. It was a kind of travesty to have coffee at the global chain when she was in Paris, but the smaller cafes were too intimate, the regulars too tuned into newcomers and strangers. Here she could count on a steady stream of tourists, most of them too focused on the sights and sounds of Paris to pay attention to a dark haired woman in sunglasses.
She and Farrell had become regulars at Cafe Margot, but that was near the flat, and they only ever went there together. Over the course of the two weeks they’d been renting the apartment, they’d developed a bland history for themselves. They delivered it to Jean-Paul, the cafe’s owner, without a hitch and proceeded to act like they'd been in the neighborhood forever.
Like they would remain there forever.
Cafe Margot, with its dark wood counter and 1920s lighting, had become a place of comfort. A place like home. Jean-Paul and the customers who regularly congregated there were no substitute for Kate. For Lily. For Jenna’s mum.
But it was nice to have one place where they were recognized, even under false pretenses. One place where they weren’t constantly on guard, where they were welcomed with warm eyes and sincere smiles.
Her meetings with Alain were different. Business. She’d been playing the part of flighty digital nomad for nearly two weeks, flirting with him just enough to keep him hooked without taking it too far.
Now it was time to call in their bets.
She took a sip of her coffee, let her eyes casually scan the Boulevard de Sebastopol. She’d gotten good at spotting potential problems. Now it was a kind of game. See if you could spot undercover law enforcement. Someone from one of the intelligence communities chasing them. Or someone else. Someone hired by the people — whomever they were — behind the Marburg virus. The signs were the same: someone lingering too long with no apparent reason. Someone hiding behind a newspaper or a book. Someone whose lips were moving when they thought no one was looking, as if talking into a headset. Someone who crossed the line from nonchalant to almost too casual. Someone playing a part.
It was all too easy to imagine someone finding them. They still hadn’t unraveled the conspiracy behind the bioweapon created by the Stafford Institute, but they knew without a doubt that powerful people were in play. Clive Hewitt had officially taken control of the Labour Party and had promptly appointed Bernard Morse as his Director of Communications and Strategy, just as Farrell predicted. And since Morse had been connected to Farrell’s best friend, Adam, it only stood to reason that he was involved — and maybe Clive Hewitt, too. Alex Petrov had played some kind of role as well — the head of Stafford had been directly involved in her father’s murder — but he’d gone deep underground after Cornwall.
It was like a giant upended puzzle, the pieces scattered about until they were nothing more than smudges of color. She knew they would make sense when they were put together, could almost see what the picture would become, but right now none of it made sense.
She smoothed her hair, still getting used to the shorter length. She knew all about playing a part. She’d been playing them her whole life. First as the good girl who was too pure to entertain the idea of living in Farrell’s world. Then as the woman who didn’t need him. Didn’t want him.
She knew better now.
She would always need him. Always want him. Kate had been right all along.
It’s a shitty world. A dangerous world… Maybe it’s better to stand behind someone like Farrell.
She knew who she was now, and she would gladly stand behind Farrell — or next to him when the occasion arose.
She looked up as Alain Bouchard approached the table, slightly breathless as he always seemed to be at their meetings.
“Jenna,” he said, leaning over the table to kiss her cheek. “You look beautiful as always.”
She smiled. “Thank you. And thank you as always for speaking English. I really must find time to work on my French.”
He waved away the suggestion. “I enjoy practicing my English.”
The waiter came to the table, and Alain ordered coffee and a croissant in rapid French. When the waiter departed, Alain reached across the table and took her hand.
“When will you let me take you to dinner? I would like to see you after dark. We could take a walk along the river.”
She tried for a coy smile. “Soon. But isn’t this nice? Taking it slow?”
She was hoping her country’s reputation for turning out frigid women would lend credence to her aloofness with Alain. It wasn’t true of course. She’d more than proven that with Farrell, who seemed to bring out every dark, dirty impulse hidden in her mind.
In her body.
But Alain didn’t know that.
He rushed to reassure her. “Of course, of course. But I am dying to kiss you.”
He blushed a little as she said it, and guilt washed through her body. Alain Bouchard was a nice man — although barely a man by her standards. In fact, the dossier they’d received on him — courtesy of Christophe Marchand, head of the Paris mob and semi-willing participant in keeping their presence in Paris from law enforcement — said he was twenty-three years old, an only child who helped support his father, sick with Parkinson’s. Jenna felt sorry for him, wished she could do something to help him. It was almost enough to make her wish she were a different Jenna, in Paris simply trying to avoid adulthood and all its trappings as she claimed. That Jenna would be carefree and spontaneous. Would wander the city alone, never looking over her shoulder, would make love
to passionate French boys like Alain.
But then she wouldn’t have Lily. Wouldn’t have Farrell. And she wasn’t interested in that Jenna.
She didn’t have to fake the kindness in her smile. “I understand. Let’s enjoy our coffee, shall we? I promise to consider a more… romantic arrangement for next time.”
He sat back, momentarily appeased. “I cannot wait.”
Jenna smiled. “Me, too.”
She was already dreading the moment she would have to tell him the truth. She didn’t know when it was coming, but it was most certainly soon, if only because she wouldn’t be able to put him off much longer. And Farrell had been casing CBT for weeks, hoping to spot Alex Petrov or Bernard Morse or anyone connected to them. Then at least, they would be able to make the connection.
But he hadn’t seen any sign of them, and if they hoped to use Alain, they would have to reveal themselves soon. Maybe the young computer specialist could tell them something that would move them forward.
And they needed to move forward. They had no idea if the virus had been weaponized, but according to Erik Karlsen, the people behind it had been close to accomplishing their goal when he left the Stafford Institute a year before. That meant it could be distributed at any moment. They needed to find out who was behind it, where it was being kept, and if they had succeeded in aerosolizing the normally difficult to spread hemorrhagic virus.
And they needed to do it before millions of people were exposed.
Three
“Are you sure?” Jenna asked, prying the cork out of a new bottle of wine.
“As sure as I can be.” Farrell stripped off his leather jacket. “It makes sense — the trucks, the boxes.”
She handed him a glass of wine. “I could look online. See if there’s any mention of it in the papers.”
Eternal (London Mob Book 3) Page 1