by E H Jennings
“And that is?”
The Arab nodded at the compound. “We’re going to be attacked, Sayid. Friday night. I’ll need you to consider my offer and make a decision by then.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Paris
La Feve Brune was a tiny café bookended by office buildings and chic boutiques. A narrow strip of pavement separated the café’s front door from the street and two round wooden tables, painted black, filled the space.
Carson and Sampson entered the café and took in the scent of fresh coffee and pastries. The store had only been open for ten minutes and there was already someone in line ahead of them. It was a man with heavily-gelled hair, a tweed sport coat, and round tortoise-shell spectacles. As he strode past them, a to-go tray full of coffees in hand, Carson wondered if he worked at one of the many law firms along the street.
When they reached the counter, Margo Baudin, the storeowner, was chopping something up on a cutting board near the back. She knew they were there and smiled over her shoulder. “Be right with you,” she said. “First timers?”
“Yes ma’am,” said Carson.
Miss Baudin smiled again. “Best vanilla scones in Paris.”
“That’s what we’ve heard,” said Sampson.
When Miss Baudin turned and came to the counter, her smile slowly disappeared. “How can I help you?”
Carson extended his hand. “My name is Carson King and this is my friend, Rachel Sampson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
She shook his hand but said nothing. Her jovial spirit had vanished.
Carson glanced sidelong at Sampson, who looked as confused as he felt. Miss Baudin was staring at them in a very strange way.
“Ma’am, as I’m sure you can tell from our novice French, Rachel and I are Americans. We came here to ask you about a patron that was in your store three days ago.” He took out a picture of Colton and showed it to her. “This is my little brother. He went missing shortly after eating here. Do you remember seeing him come in?”
Miss Baudin picked up the picture very cautiously, as if she were handling an explosive. She sat it back down, but kept staring at it. “I’d like for you to leave.”
Carson looked at Sampson, who shrugged.
“My brother is missing, ma’am. He could be dead—”
“I want you both to leave. Right now.” She pointed to the door. “Please go and don’t come back. You’re not welcome in my place of business.”
“But ma’am,” tried Sampson.
“Go!” Miss Baudin screamed. There were tears in her eyes.
The café was quiet as Carson and Sampson tried to make sense of the bizarre interaction. They started toward the door when Carson thought better of it.
“Four coffees and two scones,” he said. “Then we’ll leave you alone.”
• • •
“What the hell was that all about?”
Carson and Sampson had found a bench a block from Le Feve Brune.
“She’s scared,” said Carson.
Sampson took a bite of her scone and chewed it. “Of what? There’s no way she knows who we are or why we’re here.”
“Unless the Agency really did send in operatives and they spooked the hell out of her. Sounds exactly like something that asshole Bradford would do.”
The two sat in silence and drank their coffee. As the morning sun slowly heated up the pavement around them, Carson felt his eyelids growing heavy. His head snapped up when a crackle came through his earpiece.
“Connor, are you there?” he asked, his finger pressed against his ear.
“We’ve got something. Where are you?”
Ten minutes later, they all met at the bench. Sampson passed out coffees.
Connor took the lead and explained what he and Mendez had found. “Paris is riddled with cameras. But there’s only one on this entire street with a view of La Feve Brune.” He turned and pointed to an aged stone building adjacent to where they were sitting. “Jacques, Joubert, and Labelle. It’s a small law firm but it’s the only establishment on this street with a camera out front. We spoke to one of the secretaries and they told us to leave, but then one of the lawyers showed up and agreed to let us sort through their archived footage.”
“Was he carrying a tray of coffees?” Carson asked.
“What?”
“The lawyer you spoke to, was he carrying coffee when he came in?”
“Actually yeah,” said Mendez. “I think he was.”
“Why does that matter?” Connor asked.
Carson shrugged. “It might not.”
“Anyway, the footage yielded some rather interesting information.”
“Did you get a look at Colton’s attackers?” asked Sampson.
Connor shook his head. “No, but we were able to deduce a few things.” He turned and pointed at the law office again. “You can tell from the angle that the camera would only capture images in front of La Feve Brune. There was no sighting of his attackers, so that means they must have parked on the street behind the café and jumped Colton in the alley, just beyond where the camera would have seen them.”
“What would Colton be doing in the alley?” Carson asked.
Mendez stepped forward. “That’s where things get interesting. At oh-nine sixteen on Sunday morning you can see Colton leisurely walk across the street, go into La Feve Brune, then come back out with his food and sit at one of those tables. The one on the right.” Mendez pointed to the wooden tables outside the café. “He eats, smokes, and reads the paper for a little over an hour before something on his phone catches his attention. Whatever it is, it spooks him.”
“Colton spent the next few minutes bent over the table, frantically writing something down,” added Connor. “He then picked up the newspaper and sprinted across the street out of sight. He was gone for three minutes and forty seconds before he reappeared at ten fifty-one. In the last image we saw of him, he was running into the alleyway next to the café. After that, nothing.”
“Until the next day,” said Mendez. “Two guys in black suits walk up the street and enter the café.”
They all looked at Sampson.
“Look,” she said. “I told you Bradford sent in operatives. I wasn’t lying. The official report was that the area was wiped clean. They didn’t find anything.”
“Well, they sure as hell scared Miss Baudin to death,” said Carson.
Connor’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“The owner of the café, she wouldn’t talk to us. As soon as she saw my face, she asked us to leave. Something has her scared for her damn life.”
“Is that her?” asked Mendez, looking beyond them.
They all turned to see Miss Baudin standing outside her café, staring in their direction. She stood stone still and her face was expressionless. Then she turned and went back inside.
“You guys wait here,” said Carson.
He jogged down the sidewalk, crossed the street, and entered the building.
There were no other customers this time and Miss Baudin was back at the cutting board. Only this time she wasn’t moving. She was simply standing there, facing the wall.
Carson slowly approached the counter. Miss Baudin had beckoned him back here; there was something she wanted to tell him.
After staring out at the street for several moments, Miss Baudin turned and came to the counter. She sat something down between them.
“I found this on your brother’s table that day. I watched him use it to write something on a napkin. He must have dropped it when he ran across the street. Something had him in a terrible hurry.”
The object was an ink pen. It was white with blue block letters spelling out Livre Grotte.
“Your brother spent a lot of time at that bookstore. He and Angie were close.” She shoved the pen across the counter. “Take it.”
Carson took the pen and studied Miss Baudin. She nodded toward the door. “I genuinely hope you find your brother, Mr. King. But please leave my ca
fé. I’ve done all I can to help you.”
When Carson reached the street, he noted the address written in fine print on the pen. Livre Grotte was only a few blocks away. He motioned for Sampson, Connor, and Mendez to follow him as he ran across the street and through a series of alleyways.
As he navigated through the buildings, picking up the pace, Carson couldn’t ignore the feeling that they were retracing Colton’s footsteps.
Nor could he ignore the fact that they may have been Colton’s last.
CHAPTER FORTY
Considering the price of real estate in Paris, Carson wasn’t surprised to find the bookstore, much like the café, was very small.
Composed mainly of weathered gray brick, Livre Grotte had only one window—a narrow rectangle of glass above the doorway. The door itself was wooden and had been painted green, while the paneling on either side was deep red.
As the foursome approached, they realized Livre Grotte was closed. There were no patrons on the walkway out front nor was there any light escaping from the lone window. The bookstore was dark and quiet.
A sign taped to the door confirmed their suspicions. Connor read it aloud: “Livre will be closed until further notice. For more information, check our website.”
The web address was listed at the bottom, along with the name Samuel LeFleur. No contact information was given.
“Well, now what?” asked Mendez.
Carson stared at the sign and tried to make sense of things. Why would Miss Baudin send them here if she knew it was a dead end? The only logical answer was simple: It wasn’t a dead end.
Sampson was a step ahead and reached for the door. It was unlocked and slowly slid inward, revealing a few tables and a wall full of books. She looked back at Carson and he nodded for her to enter. All three men grasped their weapons as they followed her inside.
The store’s interior reminded Carson of a hobbit hole. It was tiny and warm and surprisingly well kept. The floors had been recently swept, every chair was scooted under its table, and not a single book appeared out of place.
As they had noticed from outside, none of the overhead lights were on, but a faint yellow glow came from behind the service counter. When they heard movement, Mendez silently drew his weapon.
“Hello,” called out a heavily slurred voice. “Who goes there?”
Carson was the first to reach the counter. Beyond it were two desks, each with a curved brass lamp, a Rolodex, and a row of books held up by iron bookends.
Seated at one of the desks was the man whose voice they had heard. Carson remained cautious, his hand resting near his sidearm, but he was confident the man posed no threat. The man was short, but had a belly that rolled over his belt and a beard that nearly reached his chest.
If the store were indeed a hobbit hole, it seemed they had found the hobbit.
The man made no move to get up at the sight of the strangers standing at his counter. Instead, he took another huge swig from the bottle of scotch sitting in front of him. He smiled awkwardly and swayed in his seat. He pointed in the direction of the door. “Are you illiterate?”
Sampson smiled. “No sir, we actually read the sign. We know you’re closed.”
The man started to take another drink then hesitated. “Then, uh, may I inquire as to why the bloody hell you’re here?” He lifted the bottle in her direction. “Scotch?”
“A tempting offer,” said Mendez.
“We were sent here,” said Carson. “Miss Margo Baudin from La Feve Brune. You know her?”
The man took a drink but didn’t answer.
Carson scanned the room, committing the details to memory. As he did, he saw the nameplates. There was one on each desk, previously hidden by the shadows. One said Angie, the other Sammy. The drunk sitting before them was Samuel LeFleur, the name listed on the sign outside.
They didn’t have any more time to waste, so Carson made his way around the counter and sat Colton’s picture on the desk.
“This is my brother. His name is Colton King. Do you know him?”
Samuel LeFleur blinked slowly as his glazed eyes studied the photo. He was incredibly drunk, but Carson noticed something else hidden in his features—sadness.
Samuel grinned placidly and his eyes closed as he nodded. “Angie…”
Carson waited for the man to continue but he had seemingly fallen asleep. Carson started to shake him when he suddenly continued. “…she loved him. She, uh, she told me. She told me so. I know because she told me.”
Carson locked eyes with Connor for a moment, then looked back at LeFleur. “Angie loved my brother? She loved Colton?”
For the second time in five minutes, Samuel smiled and asked, “Are you illiterate?” He laughed but quickly refocused, nodding fervently to himself as though affirming some unseen suggestion. “Yes,” he said. “She did love him. She loved him very much. I know because she told me.”
A cold was settling in Carson’s chest. He didn’t like the past tense verbs Samuel LeFleur was using. Drunk or not, the man knew something.
“Samuel, do you know what happened to my brother?”
If the man was surprised that a stranger knew his first name, he didn’t show it. “I do not. I most assuredly do not.”
Carson fought the urge to strangle the man and changed tact instead. “If you don’t know, maybe we can ask Angie. Will she be coming in today?”
That was it.
Samuel didn’t have to say a word. It was written all over his face.
Angie LeFleur was dead.
Samuel turned up the bottle and drained it to the last drop. He then leaned back and let his chin rest on his chest. His eyes were closed but the tears seeped out from beneath the lids, sliding down his cheeks and gathering in his beard.
When he spoke again, it was with surprising lucidity. “When she left work I could tell something was bothering her. But no matter how deeply I pleaded, she wouldn’t tell me what it was.” He shrugged. “Someone came to her flat that night and murdered her. She and I were supposed to meet our parents for brunch the next morning. When she didn’t show, I went to her flat and found her, two bullet holes in her head.”
He used his fingers to touch his face, idly retracing the images of the wound he would never forget. “I’ve been drinking ever since.”
As Carson offered his condolences, he nodded to Sampson and she left the store. Four minutes later she came back inside. They had an address.
Samuel had fallen asleep on his desk and Carson decided not to wake him. Mendez drew a flask from inside his jacket and left it on the counter for whenever LeFleur regained consciousness.
As sad as the situation was, they had to stay focused on the mission. If they didn’t, Samuel LeFleur wouldn’t be the only one to lose a family member by way of violent murder.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Angie LeFleur’s flat was a fifteen minute drive from the bookstore. After retrieving their rental vehicles from Avenue Montaigne, the group headed south, crossing over the Seine and passing by the Eiffel Tower.
The apartment complex was buzzing with law enforcement officials. At least half a dozen patrol cars were parked out front and the sidewalk surrounding the building had been roped off with security tape. After a cursory glance at the property, Carson led their convoy around the block and parallel parked a street over.
They had discussed the situation during the drive. It hadn’t taken long to agree Sampson was their best bet of getting inside. Not only did she have legitimate CIA credentials, but she also claimed to have a handful of solid contacts in the French National Police and the General Directorate for Internal Security, or DGSI.
She promised to update them as soon as she knew something and headed toward Angie’s apartment.
Carson instructed Mendez and Connor to stay in their vehicle while the three former soldiers chatted using the earpieces.
“The men in the video,” said Carson. “CIA or some of Div’s guys?”
“Depends,” said Mendez
. “How much do you trust Sampson?”
“What if they’re both?” asked Connor.
Carson leaned his head back as his brain went into overdrive. The puzzle was intricate, but like any puzzle, there was only one way to solve it—one piece at a time.
He thought back to the mercenaries in Virginia. They had been hired to kill Lee and his family. It was reasonable to assume the same employer had hired the hit on Rosario. Had they also targeted Carson and Connor? Was their sole purpose to take out the remaining members of The Unit?
Several factors supported that theory. One, they had definitely tried to kill Carson in Wytheville and would have succeeded if it weren’t for Sampson’s timely intervention. Two, Sampson had caught them staking out Connor’s home in Lexington. And three, they had sent a very clear message by burning down Carson and Connor’s childhood home.
There was also the matter of the letter left on Lee’s kitchen table.
We will never forget.
Still, they were missing something. Something obvious. Carson could almost see it, lingering there just beyond his grasp. The Syrians were exacting their revenge and had hired a group of mercenaries to do it. They had kidnapped Colton and were using him as bait. But if Crna Kuga was so good, why were Carson, Connor, and Mendez all still alive? Or even Colton for that matter? Why would the Divljak be playing games instead of just finishing the job and taking the money?
And if the Syrians’ only focus was revenge, why did someone kill Angie LeFleur? What did she know? It was the single piece that might help them solve the puzzle.
Carson jolted when his cell phone rang. It was McManus.
“France still as shitty as I remember it?” asked the old General.
“Shittier,” said Carson.
“Figured as much. Damn French. Anyway, I have two very important pieces of news, one bad and one good. Which do you want first?”
“Bad news first.”
“A group of fishermen found a body this morning, washed up on the banks of the Seine. French authorities have a positive ID on the corpse.”