She ignored him and crossed the lobby to the front door. Through the marbled glass, Sam recognized the blurred shape of a second police cruiser parked three doors down, on the opposite side of the street. The panic that was building in her chest started to bubble over.
Duval peered over her shoulder at the cruiser and said, “What now?”
The lobby door had a simple push bar and a deadbolt. Sam turned back to the night clerk. “You have the keys?”
He nodded.
“Give them to me.”
When he didn’t respond, Sam pulled the gun from her waistband. She kept the muzzle pointed at the floor and held out her other hand. “Give me the keys.”
The night clerk shoved a hand in his pocket and came out with a large keyring. In his haste, he fumbled them and the keys hit the ground with a jingle.
“Come on!” Sam urged. “Hurry.”
He stooped down, grabbed the keys and passed them over the counter. “Don’t hurt me, okay?”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Sam told him.
He put his hands on top of his head and laced his fingers together like this was a robbery.
Sam slotted keys in the deadbolt until she found the right one and turned the lock. The deadbolt shot into place with an audible click.
“Great,” Duval said in a deadpan voice. “That will stop them.”
Sam pocketed the keys, grabbed Duval’s sleeve and dragged him toward the back of the hotel. To the desk clerk she said, “Back door?”
He pointed.
They passed through an employee breakroom with lockers and a Formica table. Beyond that was a small laundry facility. Four grime-encrusted washers stood against the wall and the smell of industrial cleaner hung in the air. One of the machines made a continuous loud clunking noise. Soiled linens were heaped on a table. One the far side of the laundry room was a stout metal door with a sign from management reminding employees to keep the door closed at all times.
Sam grabbed one of the sheets, stuffed it into an unused machine and then dug in her pocket for a lighter.
Duval grabbed at her sleeve. “I’m not going to let you burn the building down.”
She shrugged him off, flicked the lighter and ran it along the edge of the sheet. “Relax. I’m not going to burn the building down.” After a moment she added, “I hope.”
Fire needs fuel. The aluminum washing machine and exposed brick walls of the laundry room should help contain the fire and still put off enough smoke to set off the fire detector. At least, that was Sam’s plan. The cheap linen blackened and caught. Orange flame flickered along the edge of the sheet and started to spread.
Sam threw open the rear exit and stepped into a small courtyard formed by four buildings with their backs facing each other. One of the buildings had an arched passageway for delivery trucks, but the double doors were secured with a heavy padlock.
Duval let out a breath. “We’re trapped.”
“We’re a long way from trapped,” Sam said. Her words came out a lot more confident than she felt. Her heart was ping-ponging around inside her chest and her knees were rubber. She handed the keyring to Duval. “Start trying keys. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“What are you going to do?” Duval asked.
She removed a green paracord bracelet from around her wrist and went to work unravelling it.
“What are you planning to do with that?” Duval wanted to know.
“Never mind that,” Sam told him. “Get busy on that door.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“Turn right,” Preston barked. He had his smartphone out, giving directions. Vesoul was a little college town less than two hundred kilometers from the border of Switzerland.
Grey spun the wheel and the silver Audi slewed around a corner. Tires growled on the blacktop. He barely missed the back end of a police cruiser parked at the corner. A second blue and white compact Renault was parked at the other end of the block. Little wonder no one takes French police seriously, thought Grey. They drive clown cars.
“Fifty feet on your right,” Preston said.
Grey braked in the middle of the road and shifted into park. Preston put his phone away and pulled out a Sig Sauer SP2022, the weapon of choice for French law enforcement. Grey drew an identical pistol. Say what you will about their choice of automobiles, the French taste in guns was second to none. Grey cranked open the driver’s door and said, “LeBeau, deal with the cops.”
“Oui.” He climbed out, produced a detective’s badge, and hustled back to the patrol car. With his native command of the language and a shield that was indistinguishable from the real thing, LeBeau easily passed as a plainclothes officer.
Grey mounted the steps to the hotel, with Preston one step behind, and reached for the handle. He yanked but door rattled in the frame. Grey lost his grip, staggered back a step and would have gone down the stairs but he ran into Preston.
“Locked,” he said.
Shielding his eyes from the morning sun, Grey squinted through the marbled glass. A young Frenchman was behind the counter with a phone to his ear. He saw them. Grey took a fake police badge from his pocket and put it against the glass. The Frenchman hung up the phone and hurried over.
“Police,” Grey told him in French. “Open the door,”
“It’s locked.” His voice was muffled by the glass.
“Unlock it!” Grey shouted.
“I can’t.” He coughed and waved a hand in front of his face. “She has the key and the building is on fire!”
Grey turned to Preston. “Get a tire iron.”
He nodded and ran back to the car. Grey used the fob to open the trunk as LeBeau jogged up, a little winded.
“She set the building on fire,” Grey told him.
LeBeau cursed.
Preston came back with the tire iron.
“Stand back,” Grey ordered.
The night clerk retreated to the stairs.
Preston swung. The marbled glass spider-webbed and sagged in the frame. A second blow rained the glass down on the cheap linoleum with a musical jingle. A cloud of smoke wafted out. The night clerk started toward the opening.
“Wait,” Grey ordered and held up a hand.
Preston used the tire iron to knock shards from the frame.
When it was safe, Grey said, “Alright. Come on.”
The night clerk turned sideways and slipped out, holding his hands across his chest to avoid getting sliced. “I called the fire department.”
Grey scowled. Of course he did. That’s what responsible citizens do. They call the fire department. Sam was a slippery one. She knew the night clerk would pick up the phone the second he smelled smoke. In a few minutes, people would be running in every direction to escape the fire, a truck would pull up with sirens blaring, and everything would be utter chaos. Grey said, “Which way did she go?”
“Out the back.”
Grey turned to Lebeau. “Watch the front.”
He nodded, took the night clerk by the arm, and steered him across the street.
Grey and Preston slipped inside. The smell of smoke was stronger in the lobby. They hurried past the front desk, through a door into an employee lounge with a folding table and a microwave oven. Preston touched the back of his hand to the laundry door and hissed. “Hot.”
Grey raised his pistol. His heart was drumming inside his chest. Preston used his jacket to take hold of the knob. Grey nodded.
Preston yanked the door open. A cloud of greasy black smoke washed over them, stinging their eyes and burning their lungs. Bright orange flames leapt and flickered beyond the thick wall of smoke. Grey coughed and waved a hand in front of his face. Tears welled up and blurred his vision. He pulled his shirt collar up around his nose and entered with his weapon leading the way.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
By the time Sam finished unbraiding the paracord bracelet, thick fingers of oily black smoke were creeping beneath the exit door. Grey would be here soon, if he wasn’t alre
ady. The night clerk had probably smelled the smoke by now and called the fire department. Sam had two lengths of cord which she looped back on each other and tied with a double hitch. Her fingers were trembling, making tying the knots difficult. She had to try twice and the whole time her brain was screaming at her to hurry.
“I got it!” Duval’s voice echoed in the small courtyard. He turned the key and the hasp popped open. “I got it.”
“Great,” Sam told him. “Open the door and come over here.”
Duval swung the door wide and hesitated. He wanted to sprint. Sam could see his body edging toward the opening, like metal shavings drawn to a magnet. Panic etched itself on the lines of his face. He was fighting the urge run. Fear triggers the fight or flight response and that doesn’t leave any room for rational thought.
At the Farm—the CIA’s top-secret training installation in Tidewater, Virginia—instructors teach counterintelligence operatives to overcome the fight or flight response by locking them in a room and then flooding it with tear gas. To escape, the recruits have to figure out a complicated series of puzzles. Forcing your brain to do puzzles when you can’t breathe is like trying to do math with fire ants crawling all over your body. But the Escape Room was just for starters. Instructors at the Farm had plenty of other devious methods for training recruits to stay cool under pressure. People who can’t keep it together wash out quick.
Sam fixed Duval with a hard look. She had to overcome his fight or flight response. In a stern voice she said, “The police will have the neighborhood blocked off. Come here. Now.”
After a reluctant glance through the open door, Duval hurried back across the courtyard. Sam handed him one of the lengths of paracord.
His words came out in breathless little gasps. “What are you planning to do with this?”
She motioned to the water pipe running up the back of the building. The architecture in this part of France featured a lot of brick and exposed pipe. The buildings bristled with sewage and gas lines. And because these pipes carried waste water, they were made of sturdy lead.
Duval looked up and the color drained from his face. He shook his head. “Oh no. No way. Are you insane?”
Sam put her hands on his shoulders and forced him to look in her eyes. “Take a breath and stay calm. We only have to make it to the first balcony.”
Duval pointed at the smoke leaking from the rear exit. “You want to go back into a burning building?”
“Sacha, you need to trust me.” Sam fed one of the lengths of paracord through the pipe and looped it twice. “This is child’s play. Didn’t you ever do this as a kid?”
Using the cord as a hand hold, Sam braced her feet against the wall and slid the cord up, then walked her feet up. Her weight on the double hitch kept the cord taut against the metal pipe. She went up a few feet and then dropped back to the ground and let the paracord slide down. “See how easy it is?”
Duval shook his head. “I can’t do it, Sam. I’m not…” He motioned to her and groped for words. “Jason Bourne with boobs.”
Sam arched an eyebrow.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
She motioned to the pipe.
He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Sam told him. “You aren’t going to fall. But we have to go, now. Grey is going to come through that door any second. You know what’s going to happen if they put you in a black site? Death would be a mercy.”
“You’re trying to scare me.”
“You should be scared,” Sam said. “Last year I was involved in an operation that ended with a man I know, Clark Foster, shipped off to a black site. He’s a hollow shell now. Spends his days sitting in a wheelchair staring out the window of a nut house. You want that?”
“Alright,” Duval said. He took out his inhaler and shook it.
“You can do this,” Sam assured him as he reached for the paracord. “Lean your weight back against it.”
Duval took hold of the hitched length of green rope. Sweat sprang out on his forehead. He gave it a few tentative yanks to be sure it was secure. Precious seconds were slipping by. How long had they been standing here? Two minutes? Five? It was impossible to say. Inside Sam’s brain a warning siren whooped. She wanted to shout at Duval to hurry it up, but that would only fluster him. Instead she fought to control her voice and said, “Nothing to it. Lean your weight back. That’s right. Just like that. Now put one foot up on the wall. Now the other. See? You’re doing it.”
Duval was breathing hard, but he managed to get both feet up on the wall. A nervous smile flashed across his face when he didn’t tumble back to the earth.
“Now push off with your feet and slide the rope up,” Sam instructed.
He started to shake his head.
“You can do it,” Sam told him. “You have to.”
He slipped the rope up a scant two inches. A nervous burst of air escaped his lips. His whole body shook like a newborn colt trying to stand for the first time. He slid the rope up again and then slowly, carefully, moved one foot, then the other.
“You’re doing it,” Sam told him. “That’s perfect. Now just go a little faster. You’re almost to the balcony.”
Chapter Forty
Grey crouched outside the laundry room. Sweat beaded on his face and chest, soaking through his sweater. He felt like he was suffocating in his winter coat. He had delved into the inferno but couldn’t see two feet in front of his face and was forced to retreat. Flames leapt and danced in the thick wall of smoke and oily black clouds belched from the open door.
Preston coughed and waved a hand in front of his face, then pulled his collar up over his nose. With both of their shirts hiding their faces, Grey was reminded of playing ninja as a boy. He remembered slinking around his neighborhood at night, along with his two best friends, trying to disappear into the darkness. But this was no game and he was no ninja. If Sam managed to escape with Duval, however, Grey would disappear permanently.
Using hand signals, he motioned for Preston to check the smoke-filled laundry room. Preston nodded, took a deep breath in through his shirt and then ducked around the door frame. He reemerged seconds later and shook his head.
“Empty.” He coughed and dashed tears from his eyes. “No place to hide either. Another door though. Leads outside.”
Grey cursed. Sam had gone out the back and set the blaze to stop them from following. In the distance, Grey heard the wail of a fire engine and tramping feet from the floor overhead. The hotel guests had smelled smoke and were raising the alarm.
“She’ll probably have another little trick on the other side of the door,” Grey said. “Be ready.”
Preston nodded.
“Moving,” Grey announced.
With his shirt covering his nose, and his gun up looking for targets, he dodged around the doorframe into thick clouds of smoke. Preston was so close they kept bumping shoulders. Tears filled Grey’s vision and forced him to blink. His lungs burned. He moved directly across the laundry room. Heat had partially melted the plastic shell of the washing machine. Grey motioned to the door and Preston kicked the push bar.
They both spilled outside into a tiny courtyard blocked in by surrounding buildings. The only exit was an arched passageway, designed for delivery trucks. The double doors stood open and a heavy-duty padlock lay on the cobblestones along with the key ring.
Grey let his shirt collar fall and sucked in a lungful of fresh air.
“That way!” Preston managed through a fit of coughs.
They jogged across the courtyard. Grey thrust his gun through the narrow gap, then pushed the door wide with his toe. Faded posters for a punk rock band papered the walls, ripped and peeling in places. The low arched passage beyond emptied onto the street. They sprinted the short tunnel and peered around, but Sam and Duval were nowhere in sight.
Grey leaned a shoulder against the chipped brick wall and took out his phone. Seconds ticked by while he waited.
“This i
s Coughlin. What’s going on?”
“Gunn is in the wind,” Grey said without preamble. “Have you got eyes on the area?”
“We’re looking at the target building now,” Coughlin assured him. “I see smoke.”
“She lit the building on fire. I need to know which way she went.”
“We haven’t seen anyone leave.”
“She went out the back.” Grey peered up into a leaden sky like he might be able to spot the drones circling. He stepped away from the wall and waved an arm overhead. “Did you see anyone go this way?”
“No.” Coughlin spoke in clipped tones. “No one left that way.”
Grey turned in a circle, looking for any sign of his prey. “Did you see anyone in the rear courtyard behind the hotel?”
“We don’t have an angle on the courtyard, but I’m telling you, no one left. She has to be inside somewhere.”
Grey motioned to Preston and they jogged back through the tunnel. All the buildings had exits that let onto the space, but they were closed and locked. Grey tugged on all the handles to be sure.
“Look!” Preston pointed to a water pipe scaling the back of the hotel. A tangle of parachute cord lay pooled around the base and shoe marks walked up the wall to the first-floor balcony.
Grey spit a curse. He hung up on Coughlin and dialed LeBeau. The scream of the fire engine drowned out the dial tone.
Preston reached for the back door. His hand closed on the latch and his eyes opened wide. He drew back with a shriek of pain. The flesh of his palm was bright pink. He bent over, cradling his injured hand. “My hand,” Preston moaned. “Oh, God, my hand!”
“Come on,” Grey barked. He led the way out of the courtyard, with the phone to his ear. Preston jogged after him, his blistered palm cradled protectively against his chest.
Chapter Forty-One
Sam suspected the door on the second-floor balcony would be unlocked and she wasn’t disappointed. Balcony doors are frequently left unlatched in the mistaken assumption they can’t be reached from the outside. It’s a mistake that covert operatives often leverage to their advantage. She was easing the door shut as Grey and Preston pounded across the courtyard to the open delivery door. A hint of smoke was rising up through the floorboards and Sam wrinkled her nose. Panic crept around the edges of her brain like the shadows pooling around an old house in the evening when the last of the light is fading from the sky but it’s still too early to turn on the lights.
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