Andrew Britton Bundle

by Andrew Britton

  Satisfied, he pulled down the target and began walking back to his original position. He’d crossed about 100 yards when he saw something that caused him to freeze in his tracks.

  A man had emerged from the woods. His face was contorted in confusion, or anger maybe; it was difficult to tell at that distance. Either way, the shotgun he was holding was clearly pointed toward Yasmin Raseen. Vanderveen was tempted to raise the rifle, to get a clear view through the scope, but that would only complicate matters. Instead, he quickly unscrewed the suppressor and slipped it into his pocket, then walked forward at a rapid but casual pace, an easy smile spreading over his face.

  “What are you doing here?” Besson demanded. It was something of a rhetorical question; he could see the spent brass to the right of the shooting mat, and he’d already caught sight of the man in the near distance.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” the woman babbled in fluent French. She looked frightened, her eyes repeatedly darting down to the shotgun. “We didn’t know this was private land. My boyfriend just came out to test his new hunting rifle, and, well…”

  The boyfriend was rapidly crossing the ground between them, but that was no hunting rifle. Besson had been visiting his aunt in Paris in October 2005, when riots broke out. He’d seen groups of black-clad gendarmes mobiles patrolling the streets, as well as the regular riot police. Their presence was such that he couldn’t help but notice the weapons they carried, and what this man was holding looked vaguely familiar. He was slightly relieved when the approaching figure slung the weapon over his back, but Besson refused to drop his guard. Instead, he tightened his grip on the Winchester and took a few cautious steps to the rear. It suddenly occurred to him that he had not heard any shots during his hike into the woods.

  “Hello,” the man said, stepping into the clearing. “I’m an American. Uh, parlez…parlez-vous Anglais?”

  The man’s French was atrocious, but it wasn’t a barrier. Besson had studied with a number of American exchange students in Lille, and they had been just as ignorant. “Yes,” he replied warily. “I speak English. What are you doing here?”

  “Just sighting in. Is this your land?”

  Besson straightened and looked around, as though deciding. “Yes, it is. And I don’t recall giving you…” He stumbled on the word permission. “I don’t remember letting you use it.”

  The man cracked an apologetic smile. He didn’t seem to be aware of the shotgun, the muzzle of which was now hovering over his chest. “Sorry about that. I didn’t know where to ask. I’m Scott, by the way, Scott Kessler, from Houston, and this is Marie. We’re traveling with my gun club. We had a meet set up for this afternoon, but the damned range in Vercors was shut down on account of the rain…Listen, what’s your name?”

  The American moved closer and held out a hand, the dumb smile plastered over his face. Besson’s good manners took over. Relaxing slightly, he instinctively transferred the shotgun to his weak hand and reached out with his right.

  A blur of movement followed, and Besson felt two things happen at once. His left arm was swiftly knocked away from his body as something hard drove into his upper abdomen, crushing his solar plexus with one brutal blow. His forefinger tightened on the trigger reflexively, the Winchester booming once as the air rushed out of his lungs. He collapsed to the ground and curled into a protective ball, gasping for air.

  Vanderveen took a step forward and picked up the shotgun, breaking the action. One round remained, the first having sprayed harmlessly into the woods, peppering a number of trees along the way. Satisfied, he closed the action and handed the weapon to Raseen, whose icy composure had settled back into place.

  Vanderveen kicked the man in the side. “Get up.”

  Besson rose to his feet unsteadily, using his hands to protect his bruised ribs. “What do you want?” he blurted in French. “Please, just leave. I won’t tell anyone what you were doing here—”

  “How did you get here?” Vanderveen asked. He adopted the man’s language once more, but now his French was remarkably fluent. “You have a car? Who’s with you?”

  “Nobody,” Besson sputtered, overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events. “I…I have a tractor parked on the road. Nobody else is out here. It’s just me. I followed your tracks….”

  Vanderveen stared at him for a long beat before nodding thoughtfully. “I believe you.” After another moment of feigned deliberation, he gestured toward the field and said, “Go on, get out of here. Run.”

  “You’re letting him go?” Raseen was astonished.

  Besson looked at the field in confusion, then back to his assailant. The rifle was still slung over his back.

  “Run,” Vanderveen repeated. “Right now.”

  Besson took a few uncertain steps, then turned and broke into a brisk trot. After twenty paces, he opened his stride and began to sprint for the opposite tree line, red winter wheat whipping around his flailing legs.

  “You have to stop him!” Raseen cried in Arabic, forgetting herself. “He saw the car! He saw us!” She began to lift the shotgun, but Vanderveen grabbed the barrel before she could level the weapon.

  “Relax. I’m not letting him go. Besides, you’ll never hit him at this range.” Moving calmly but quickly, Vanderveen lifted the rifle over his head and detached the sling from the rear. Fashioning the loose end into a noose, he looped it over his left arm, then tightened the sling around his bicep. When he brought the rifle up to his right shoulder, the loose material pulled taut, producing a stabilizing effect. In its entirety, the process took twelve seconds.

  Dropping into a crouch, he propped his supporting elbow forward of his left knee and peered through the scope. Once in position, he began running through a familiar mental checklist. He was virtually level with the field, negating the need for up/down compensation. From there, he moved to the target lead charts he’d memorized twelve years earlier, cutting the values in half because the Frenchman was running east at an oblique angle—he knew that based on the position of the man’s opposite arm. It was hooked up and partially visible, moving back and forth in a natural runner’s stride.

  “He’s almost there,” Raseen said urgently. “It’s his land; he knows where he’s going. Shoot him.”

  Vanderveen did not respond, still working through the formulas. Standing next to him, the Frenchman had been about an inch taller, which put him at exactly 72 inches. Through the scope, the man now measured 8 mils, which placed him at a distance of…250 yards.

  He hesitated. Movement changed everything, but at that distance, a flat-out run made a first-round hit all but impossible. Vanderveen’s right thumb hovered over the selector switch, but in the end, he left it unchanged on single shot.

  A light rain was beginning to fall, the fine drops drifting east on a 2 mph wind. Giving the Frenchman a 5 mil lead to start—five marks on the horizontal wire in his scope—Vanderveen took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, settling into his stance as the air was completely expelled from his lungs. The distant figure had just moved into the trap at 3 ½ mils when he fully depressed the trigger.

  Besson’s own lungs were burning, his legs like rubber as he stumbled into a drainage ditch on the far side of the field, feet sliding in the mud as he sought to regain his footing. He looked back, and his heart nearly stopped. The American was there on one knee, the rifle up at his shoulder. Besson knew exactly what was going to happen. Something in the back of his mind told him that he had to move faster, but his body refused to cooperate with his brain’s urgent commands, his energy sapped by a dangerous combination of fear and adrenaline.

  He somehow managed to emerge on the other side of the ditch and kept running hard, his arms clawing the air in a desperate attempt to pull his body forward. He was close now, the trees less than 15 yards in front of him.

  Relief poured into his veins. The trees were too close, and there was still plenty of foliage; at this distance, there was no way the shooter could—

  He never heard the sound of the s
hot. Nor did he feel the impact. Instead, his thoughts simply stopped with the flick of a switch, the lights going out once and for all.

  “Incredible,” Raseen breathed. Her lips parted slightly in amazement. “You hit him with one shot.”

  Vanderveen remained motionless. He’d seen a puff of red, heard the slap as the round drilled into the man’s head. The Frenchman had gone straight down, but even with two indications of a fatal wound, it was too early to tell for sure. He’d seen people defy the odds and not only survive, but walk away from similar injuries, the most memorable of which, at least in his experience, involved a shot taken eight years earlier on a Syrian hilltop. The target in that case had been his commanding officer, Ryan Kealey. It should have been a fatal wound, a clean shot straight to the chest from 437 yards, but Kealey had somehow pulled through. Given the man’s subsequent interference in his own personal agenda, Vanderveen privately ranked that shot as the worst of his life.

  He had made up for it, though, at least to some degree. While Kealey’s actions the previous year had cost him dearly, Vanderveen had exacted a fitting revenge. Even now, he could remember that night so clearly. The look of utter despair on Kealey’s face had been priceless, but as satisfying as that was, it had lacked the physical force of the woman’s reaction. That had been the best part, the way she’d trembled in his arms like a frightened rabbit, the way she’d stiffened in shock when the knife went in….

  “Why are you smiling?”

  Raseen’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. The smile faded, but the memory remained. “No reason.”

  “What are we going to do about him?” she asked, nodding toward the still form in the distance.

  Vanderveen cleared his mind and considered the question. “We don’t have a lot of options. We can’t risk moving the body. I checked the weather report before we left Paris; it’s supposed to rain fairly hard for most of the night. Hopefully, the tracks will wash away in a few hours. We’ll collect the brass and the targets. By the time the locals start their investigation, we’ll be finished and out of the country.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “We?”

  “I could use your help, but it’s up to you. After tomorrow you’ve done your part; you’re under no obligation. If you have to make some calls, or if you’d prefer not to go…”

  She considered briefly before nodding her agreement. “My instructions are to assist you in any way possible, so yes, I’ll go if you need me. I have a place in the city where I keep my passports. I’ll have to stop to collect them.” She paused. “You know, it would be better if this looked like a mistake.”

  “An accident, you mean?”

  “Yes. The authorities will learn the truth, of course, but it might buy us some time if we run into problems.”

  He nodded slowly. “I see your point. Here, hand me that shotgun.”

  “No, I’ll do it.” She showed him her hands. “You don’t have gloves.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She took the weapon out of his hands, then walked off without responding. Vanderveen watched as she marched across the field, holding the Winchester low in a two-handed grip. He waited for some sign of regret, for a hitch in her stride, but it never came.

  She reached the body and kneeled, presumably checking for signs of life. From 250 yards, it was difficult to see exactly what was happening, but Vanderveen checked off the list in his head, unaware that she was doing the same as she went through the motions: searching the man’s pockets for shells, removing the first empty cartridge, then lifting the body into a sitting position, a considerable chore for a woman of her slight stature. Once she’d elevated the body, just one task remained. She took four paces away from the half-slumped form, then turned and lifted the weapon.

  Vanderveen saw what was left of the Frenchman’s head explode through the falling rain. The sound of the shotgun followed instantly, a hollow boom spreading over the field, the noise lifting dozens of birds in a flurry of feathers. Then he watched in fascination as Raseen began to adjust the body’s position. She was clearly taking her time in getting it right, stopping occasionally to view the scene from a number of angles. When she was finally satisfied, she carefully placed the shotgun several feet from the corpse and tramped back over the field.

  Vanderveen studied her face as she approached. She’d been too close for the last part; the right side of her white nylon jacket was covered in a fine red mist, which was running down with the rain. If she’d noticed, though, it didn’t register in her even expression. When she reached him, she handed over the empty cartridge. The cold air had lent a pink glow to her cheeks, but her face was otherwise unreadable.

  They pulled down the shredded targets and collected the brass from the FAMAS, stuffing it all into the backpack, along with Raseen’s soiled jacket. On the return trip, they stopped in Castillon-la-Bataille, on the stone bridge over the Dordogne. After weighing the pack down with an armful of abandoned bricks, Vanderveen dropped it into the water and watched as it spiraled into the murky depths.

  They reached Paris just after midnight.

  CHAPTER 20

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Kealey’s eyes cracked open against their will, fighting the gray, drizzling dawn that was pushing its way through the half-closed drapes. Over a cluster of rumpled sheets, he could see through the window overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. A constant hiss was coming from somewhere, and it confused him until his brain cut through the haze and connected his eyes and ears; it was just a light rain beating against the glass.

  He rolled over and put his face in the pillow, conscious of the empty bottles strewn across the floor. He’d raided the minibar the night before. He didn’t need to see the evidence to know it; he felt his mistake in the pounding headache that was just beginning to ruin his morning as well as the foul taste in his mouth. And then, wondering what had brought this on, he was struck by the memory of what Naomi had said, and all that accompanied those misspoken words.

  Abruptly pushing the thought out of his mind, he rose and made his way unsteadily to the bathroom, his right foot banging painfully against a half-empty bottle of Jameson’s. Looking down, he briefly wondered where the full-size bottle had come from; as far as he knew, the small refrigerator in the corner contained only miniatures. He filled a plastic cup with tap water and knocked it back, then repeated the process. He was filling it up for a third time when someone began pounding on the door to his room.

  “Go away,” he yelled. The banging resumed, and he repeated the phrase, only louder.

  “Kealey, is that you?” More banging. “Open the door!”

  He paused, trying to place the voice. When it came to him, he muttered a low curse and crossed to the door.

  Samantha Crane was standing there when he pulled it open, hands on her hips, an angry expression spread over her face. She was dressed in baggy gray warm-ups, New Balance running shoes, and a navy Penn State sweatshirt, which, if she’d been born and raised in that state, might have explained the slight accent he’d noticed before. Her long blond hair was dripping wet, errant strands plastered against her cheeks. She’d clearly been caught in the rain on the way over.

  He gestured to her outfit and said, “Were you out running, or is this pretty much standard attire for FBI agents these days?”

  The question caught her off-guard, but she collected herself and snapped, “That’s none of your business. I want the…”

  She momentarily lost track of her words as her gaze moved down to his lean, muscular torso, her brown eyes widening slightly. Kealey was suddenly conscious of the prominent scar on his lower abdomen, as well as the older scar on the left side of his chest. He wished he’d thought to pull on a T-shirt.

  “I want the computer,” she hurriedly finished, snapping her steely gaze back to his face. “Mason kept a personal laptop at the warehouse. You took it, and I want it back. Right now.”

  “How did you find me? The room isn’t registered under my name—”

  �
��That’s not important!” Her voice was too loud; she was nearly shouting. “Now where is it? You gave it to Langley, didn’t you?”

  He held up his hands and said, “Back up a minute. What makes you think he had a computer?”

  She sighed in exasperation; clearly, she wasn’t buying his act. “We picked that up from the witness I told you about. The laptop was first on our list, so we sealed off the warehouse and sent in an Evidence Recovery Team. Obviously, they came up empty,” she added sarcastically. “Then we had the techs check the tower in Mason’s office. It didn’t take them long to decide that it was only used to display the feeds from the security cameras.”

  “So?”

  “So that doesn’t add up, because he would have needed some way to keep track of clients and shipments. He did that using a laptop computer, the laptop you stole from my crime scene. I want it back, Ryan, and in case you haven’t noticed, I’m running out of patience.”

  He shrugged and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sam.” He caught himself reciprocating, using her first name to draw a response. Then he wondered why he had done it, deciding it was probably the combination of his pounding hangover and her goading, elevated tone.

  Whatever the reason, it worked. Her face darkened, and she poked a finger into his chest. “Don’t fuck with me. If you don’t start cooperating, I’m going to go and talk to the assistant director at the WFO and have him call the attorney general. The oversight committee will be tearing you and your employer apart by the end of the workday. That’s how long I’m giving you to hand it over. After that, all bets are off.”

  Kealey just looked her square in the eye and said, “When were you going to get round to thanking me?”

  Her mouth dropped open as she stared at him in disbelief. “Thanking you? For what?”

  “For saving your life. Last I saw, Mason had the drop on you.”

  “Until you tackled me, you mean?” She scowled and rubbed her left arm, as though the pain accompanied the memory. “That really hurt, by the way, and it’s not like it did any good. Your little college flashback didn’t stop him from shooting me.”