Jigsaw (Black Raven Book 2)

by Stella Barcelona

  With a steady, coolly unbothered and very professional look, he pushed the bathroom door open for her. “There are two male judges from the U.K. One female. The male judge who is the furthest to your right. Allen Normand. You know him?”

  “Not personally.”

  “Make eye contact with him,” Zeus said, walking down the hall with her, in step with her security team. “As much as you can.”

  Samantha thought through everything she knew about Judge Normand. Nothing told her he’d be more amenable to her arguments than the other two U.K. judges. “Why?”

  “Ragno’s intel tells me he is quite a ladies man.” He glanced at her when they reached the wide double-doorway of the courtroom. “And my eyes tell me he thinks you’re hot. Play up the beautiful-and-smart woman card.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  He arched his left eyebrow as he glanced down at her. Lowering his voice slightly, he said, “Why aren’t you wearing a dark, navy-blue, boxy suit, instead of that form-fitting, attention-grabbing ivory with black leather piping get up? And some neutral-colored lipstick, instead of Sex-and-Blowjobs-Red?”

  On her immediate right, she saw Jenkins shoot his boss a surprised look, then recover quickly and stare straight ahead. “Because I’m confident enough in my capabilities to look like a female who appreciates nice clothes, and I believe the judges don’t focus on gender or appearance when they’re assessing the merits of an argument.” She lowered her voice to almost a hiss. “And the name of the lipstick is Remember the Classics. Not Sex-and-Blowjobs-Red.”

  He nodded as they reentered the courtroom. Conversations hummed as the lawyers and attendees stood, taking advantage of the break by conversing with each other. “Cosmetic companies are making a fortune off of bullshitting you women, cause the only classic that shade has to do with is sex, in all its glorious forms.” He lowered his voice, leaning in, and whispering, “I’m in the gallery, watching each judge as they watch you. Underneath that black robe, Judge Normand is just a man, and he damn well is noticing that you’re a super-intelligent woman, who happens to look damn good while she argues. He might be your swing vote.”

  He bent to her ear as she sat at counsel table for a quick discussion with Abe and Charles before arguments would resume. “You’ve got it, Sam,” he whispered, in that low, gravelly voice he used that sliced straight through to her heart and made her insides quiver. “Whether it’s the merits of your argument or your looks, you’re catching his attention. Just like you steal my breath every single goddamn time I look at you, no matter what shade of lipstick you’re wearing.” She couldn’t help but shift closer to him, feeling his warm breath in her ear with each of his words. “Even when you tell me you’d prefer sleep over sex. If you want to win this argument, use the tools God gave you. All of them.”

  At 6:45 p.m., after three more hours of argument, the proceedings ended with a firm bang of the gavel. Samantha held her breath for rulings, but Judge Ducaisse announced that all matters would be taken under advisement.

  Although she’d have preferred an immediate ruling, relief coursed through her as the judges exited the courtroom. She felt good about the points and counterpoints she’d been able to make, but she didn’t dare predict the outcome. Predicting a ruling so soon after an argument was bad luck.

  Fatigue came on the heels of the relief. Feeling the effects of the night with little sleep and the strain that came with six hours of extreme focus and on-her-feet argument, she had the presence of mind to walk to where Brier was sitting, place a hand on his arm, and give him a nod of sympathy before exiting the courtroom. Mindlessly following Zeus’s instructions as he directed their exit from the building, she melted into the middle of the rear seat of the car. He slid in next to her, thigh to her thigh, shoulder to her shoulder.

  She resisted the urge to rest her head on his shoulder and drift off to sleep. Irritated that she was too damned tired for rational thought, she snuggled deeper into her overcoat. She stared blankly ahead into the dark night as the driver exited the Ile de la Cite via the Pont Neuf, a different bridge than the one they had used that morning. Her mind registered they were taking an alternate route to the safe house. Her mind also registered Zeus’s low voice as he communicated short commands with the members of the security teams.

  The details weren’t her concern. She just needed to get to the safe house, ease her shoes off her feet, take a hot shower, and fall into bed.

  Traffic caused the car to stop. Staring blankly ahead, the brake lights of the cars in front of her flashed red at the same time a harsh pop-pop-pop rattled through the night. Cars screeched to a halt, their tires skidding on wet pavement. Next to her, Zeus stiffened.

  Jenkins, on the right side of her, said, “Shooter. Two o’clock.”

  Adrenaline charged nerves jangled the fatigue from her brain. Samantha gasped, sat up, and looked out of the front window. She saw only a misty night. Streetlights. Cars, with red brake lights. Ahead, about four cars up, a car turned onto the pedestrian walkway that lined the Pont Neuf—and stopped, as more gunfire filled the air.

  ***

  “See him.” Zeus pushed her shoulders down as he pulled his Glock up. “Sam. To the floor. Now!”

  A staccato pop, pop, pop blasted through the air. The gunfire was more persuasive than his order or his push. Sam turned sideways and slid to her knees on the floor, hands over her head.

  As if her hands could fucking deflect a bullet. “Stay down.” Zeus shrugged out of his overcoat and spread it over her head and shoulders. “Your hair will be the first thing he’ll see if he passes the car.”

  “No need to point that out Hernandez.” Her voice was acerbic and muffled. “I get it.”

  He was too fucking scared on her behalf to smile. He considered removing his own flak vest and putting it over her head. But it was his only defense when he went out there. “Jenkins. Cover her.”

  Her vest, coupled with Jenkins’s vest and body mass, would work to protect her. It had to work, until he figured out a way to stop the shooter.

  “The car is armored,” he reminded Sam. “Windows bulletproof. You’ll be ok, just keep your head down and stay out of sight.”

  “Not arguing, Hernandez.”

  His heart filled with emotion. She was damn brave. Sam was a lot of things, all of which he admired, even though stubbornness wasn’t exactly a positive character trait. He’d never fucking forgive himself if she died on his watch. There were things that had to be said, things he wanted to do. And none of them included both of them being dead.

  The shooter was weighed down with explosives. Take him out prematurely, and the whole bridge, along with everyone on it, would blow.

  When Zeus wanted to go in like a bull in a china shop, he had to bide his time. Tackle this with kid gloves and a plan. A damn good plan.

  “Ragno, you have a visual?” The Black Raven cars had telematics, with cams. Because there were three Black Raven cars on the bridge, Ragno had multiple views.

  “Yes.”

  “I want your best guesstimate on what he’s carrying, and what the kill zone will be if it blows.”

  “Working on it.”

  “He’s shooting tires.” Jenkins adjusted his position on top of Sam. Zeus heard her groan as the agent settled his weight over her. But that was her only response. She neither complained of suffocation, nor the uncomfortable position. Not that Zeus gave a damn about her discomfort, only that she had something—someone—between her and a potential explosion.

  But the reality was, bulletproof glass or not, an explosion would take out the whole car and everyone in it.

  “Amicus team is on the Pont Neuf. Facing a shooter. Potential suicide bomber. Manage traffic, if you can,” he instructed his men as he crouched low. “No vehicles are moving. Agents. Go live with Ragno. Ragno, Small is at the safe house. Alert him.”

  The bulky silhouette of the man walked toward the vehicle carrying Sam, holding a flashlight in one hand, his assault rifle in another. He wen
t from silhouette to spotlight as he moved between the cars.

  “Five-eight, five-ten. Explosives secured to his body. Chest, shoulders, legs… Anything, Ragno?” She’d be able to tell them what they were dealing with faster than just their eyesight.

  “Working.”

  “Eighty yards, and closing.” With no room for his legs, he crouched on the back seat waiting for the moment to spring into action. His entire body felt coiled. Ready.

  Bullets went wild while the gunman fired as he zig-zagged between the cars. His powerful flashlight strafed the occupants of the cars as he wove between them.

  Seventy yards.

  Screams and shouts mingled with honking horns and shattering glass.

  Misty rain on the windows made visibility crappy. Headlights turned night to day, red brake lights gleamed in the darkness. Interior lights went on as drivers opened their doors. Shit. Everyone wanted to see what was happening and the people Zeus could see seemed to have no real clue. In normal lives, gunshots sounded like backfires. Too many movies and television shows depicted violence as entertainment, leaving the viewers untouched physically. They were in for a rude awakening if this clusterfuck progressed, as Zeus knew it would.

  Pop. Pop. Pop. Glass shattered, metal screeched. More screams. Doors slammed as some people scurried back to the relative safety of their vehicles. Others scattered, presumably abandoning their cars and running off the bridge.

  Great. Fucking cars weren’t moving anytime soon.

  The gunman was sixty-five yards away. Reloading and moving with purpose, but in no hurry, Zeus considered exiting the vehicle and dodging between the cars up ahead to circle behind him. But the lights, coupled with milling public, guaranteed a high percentage of collateral damage, and the very real probability that the perp would detonate sooner than later.

  He waited.

  Agent Mike Prantz—the driver of Sam’s car—had the windshield wipers going. Swish, swish, swish. Momentarily clear field of vision, then sparkling diamonds of raindrops obscuring the scene.

  “Gridlock ahead,” Zeus told those without a ringside seat. “Pedestrian walkway on our right not an option. Blocked with vehicles and pedestrians. Perp on approach. Now sixty yards from my position. Weaving. Doing a slow zigzag through traffic, going over to the pedestrian walkway, and stepping back into traffic. Looking inside cars.”

  For what? For who?

  There were at least ten cars boxed in on the bridge from the ITT proceeding. Marshals, and other security.

  Zeus’s blood went cold.

  Sam?

  Pop. Pop. Pop. Hisssssss.

  Their car shifted slightly, to the right.

  “There go our tires,” Agent Prantz said.

  Through the front window, Zeus observed the shooter’s progress. The closer he came, the more detail Zeus was able to see. Head to toe black garb. Car headlights and the lights of the Pont Neuf illuminated enough of the dark, misty night for him to observe the man’s head was covered by a bulky ski mask. He wore a belt of rectangular, plastic-wrapped explosives. He also wore a flak vest, with plastic-wrapped squares. Packets of explosives were also strapped to his legs.

  “Don’t shoot until I give the signal! Shooting will risk detonation. Axel. Lambert. I need your eyes on him. Tell me, from your vantage point, every place you see explosives positioned on his body.”

  “Sir. Everywhere. Even on his head, strapped to his ski mask. Belt. Vest. Packets of explosives are also strapped to his thighs and calves.”

  Zeus knew the likely explosives. TNT. Plastics. Triacetone triperoxide. All were in current use by anarchists worldwide. All were damn effective.

  “Axel?” Zeus turned to look out the rear window. “You’re three behind us. Between us is Judge O’Connor. A damn likely target.”

  Which meant that the minute the shooter saw the judge, immediately recognizable as his face was plastered on every news show, every night, the shooter would detonate.

  Which meant they had about two more minutes, at the rate the shooter was edging along the traffic. It felt as though hours had passed since they’d stopped, but a quick glance at his watch showed Zeus that it had been mere minutes. His rapid heartbeat counted off the seconds as the man approached.

  “Zeus, best guess is TATP,” Ragno said.

  The current favorite explosive of anarchists. TATP—aka Mother of Satan, due to ease of detonation. Typically enhanced with bolts and nails, the bombs were lethal for anyone within reach of the shrapnel, and even the bones of the bomber became shrapnel in an attack.

  “Understood.”

  “With the quantity I see on him, I’m estimating kill zone is fifty yards. Easily. More depending on the quantity of hardware he’s packed for shrapnel.”

  Car windows were no match for shrapnel and there were a hell of a lot of innocent people on the bridge, both from the ITT and innocent John Q. Public. He glanced down, saw Sam looking up at him, her eyes wide with fear. For good fucking reason. “Head down. On the goddamn floor. Jenkins. Cover every inch of her.”

  “With traffic stopped like this,” the driver said, “God knows how many people he’ll kill when he blows himself up.

  Zeus eyed the pedestrian sidewalk to their right. The bridge’s railing stood about hip-high to him. Below, in the distance, the Seine looked choppy and dark.

  An idea formed. Fuck. It was a long shot, but it was the only idea that made sense. The idea became a plan.

  “Why hasn’t he blown himself up yet?” Axel asked.

  “Great question,” Zeus muttered. “Nerves? Having too much fun with his gun? Looking for a specific target.”

  Yeah. The latter.

  Another staccato pop, pop, pop blasted through the night. Too close to them. “Axel. Lambert. He’s about twenty paces away from my car. Anyone see a handler?”

  “Negative,” Axel said.

  “Negative. Looks like a one-man op,” Lambert said.

  That was good news. Handlers often remotely used a cell phone or other wireless device to trigger the explosion. Given Zeus’s plan, the handler would trigger the explosion the minute Zeus acted. The problem was, Zeus’s action involved his hands on the shooter, which could very well trigger the explosion. Even prior to detonation, explosives were sensitive to heat, shock, and friction. TATP, the likely explosive strapped to the shooter, was especially sensitive.

  I’ve faced worse fucking odds.

  “Agents, secure your charges. Hunker down. I’m stepping out. My plan is to get my arms around him and throw him over the fucking side of this bridge.”

  “Sir.” Jenkins glanced up. “I’m good for this.”

  “No.” Zeus’s curt, one-word answer ended the discussion.

  “Prantz, disable the interior lights. Going to do this as quietly as possible. Don’t want to surprise him with lights when the door opens.”

  Sam was gripping his calf as he crawled across the back seat. He glanced down at her, hesitating before he pushed the door open.

  “Don’t.” Her voice, strong and pleading, was infused with panic. “Don’t go out there.”

  Removing her hand from his leg with a solid grasp of his larger, stronger hand, he said, “Stay down.”

  Glancing at Jenkins, he said, “Cover her, dammit.”

  Zeus eased the car door open as the shooter stepped, one more time, onto the pedestrian walkway. The man didn’t see him. Zeus hunched low, and quickly ran, closing the fifteen-foot gap between them.

  When Zeus was ten feet away, the gunman saw him. Weapon in hand Zeus lunged to the side, but continued moving forward.

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  A bullet hit his vest, throwing him backwards. As he went down another bullet grazed his left arm, slicing through his suit jacket, shirt, and skin. Neither hurt in the moment. But later…

  Gunfire will soon be the least of my problems if this suicide bomber decides to detonate. Or if my touch triggers an explosion.

  Staggering to his feet, Zeus drew a deep breath, and l
unged forward in a fast run as the shooter ejected his clip, then reached for his waist. He was either reaching for more ammunition, or—worse—a detonation cord. Given that the guy kept the weapon firmly in his hand, Zeus assumed the reach was for another clip.

  Zeus took a flying leap, landing squarely on two feet, and turned and kicked the weapon out of the shooter’s hand. As the gun hit the ground and slid along the pavement, Zeus closed his hands on the man’s forearms—the only place where he didn’t see explosives. When it came to muscles and brawn, Zeus clearly had the upper hand.

  Yanking back the shooter’s arms as hard as he could, Zeus held them steady. The man grunted in pain, but tried to work his hands free as he shouted garbled, incomprehensible French. A hand on the guy’s wrists, Zeus yanked, twisted them up and away from his body. He screamed, not with fear, but with harsh fury that he’d been stopped.

  The man swore, face contorted and used his feet as brakes. Zeus felt the snap and break of tendons and bones as he pushed the man across the sidewalk to the bridge railing. Six feet to go.

  Zeus kick-pushed him forward. Three feet.

  The shooter managed to wrench an arm free.

  Fuck!

  He was reaching across his body, presumably for a detonation cord. Twelve inches to the railing. Zeus wrapped his arms around the man, picked him up, and threw him over.

  Not waiting to hear or see the splash, Zeus turned and ran like hell towards the line of stopped cars. One step. Two step. Three. When he heard the explosion start, he dropped and rolled, covering his head as he wedged himself between the rise of the pedestrian sidewalk and the nearest car.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Pausing in mid-stride as he walked through the small corporate airport to the waiting Gulfstream, H.L. focused on the television monitor showing flashing news. The live news show had a banner on the bottom of the screen indicating breaking news from Paris. A suicide bomber had attempted an attack on traffic on the Pont Neuf. Included in the snarl of stopped cars were participants in the ITT proceeding.

  The media had secured cell-phone video footage taken by an eyewitness. The videographer’s hand had shaken, and the dark night made the footage seem grainy. Nonetheless, the camera had captured enough spectacular footage of Hernandez’s struggle with the suicide bomber.