Storm Season ~ One Storm

by J. T. Ellison , Alex Karva , Erica Spindler

  “Gone rogue?” Taylor couldn’t help the skepticism that slipped into her tone.

  “That’s right. You must understand, Lieutenant, Angelie is marked by tragedy. Her parents were killed, in an ambush, outside Annecy, France, twenty-five years ago. She was the only survivor, and she spent her whole life searching for the killers.”

  Taylor heard the past tense. “Spent her whole life? She’s found her parents’ murderers?”

  He cut his eyes at Cherry, who nodded imperceptibly. “She found him at last. Gregoire Campion, her latest victim, the body from two days ago. She found a letter with the details. He sold out her parents, my own brother, and for what? Money? Security? Who can know the true heart of a man like that, Lieutenant? I am sure his death assuaged many of Angelie’s troubles.”

  Taylor processed that for a moment. “If she found the man who did it, then why would she come here and kill Ellis Stamper? Why kidnap Thierry Florian?”

  “Stamper was most likely collateral damage. Florian worked with Campion back then. He was the DGSE equivalent of a station chief in Geneva, Switzerland, just north of Annecy. She must think he was a part of the plot.”

  “Was he?” Taylor asked, trying to reconcile this information against her brief meeting with Florian and Cherry’s praise-filled backgrounder. He didn’t seem capable of that level of treachery. Taylor prided herself on being able to read people; she hadn’t caught a whiff of evil from Florian.

  “I don’t know. He denied it, said he was there trying to protect them, but I never got the whole story. My brother’s death was a terrible time for us all. I took Angelie in, raised her as my own daughter. She had a massive block on what happened that day, after the head injury, it was all gone. She took a hard blow, probably pistol-whipped. It was a miracle that she survived. Florian always had his eyes on her, from the very beginning. You know what they say, keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer.”

  Taylor didn’t like Pierre Matthews. He was slick, the answers were too pat, too prepared, and something in her gut told her he was lying. Granted, a situation like this, about family, so personal, there was no reason to tell her the whole truth. But he was lying, she’d bet her life on it. About what, she didn’t know, and that made him very dangerous to her in this situation. And she realized Cherry knew more than she was letting on, too

  “Are you armed, Pierre?”

  “My weapon is in my room. Why?”

  Thank God for small favors.

  “Well, your friend, or your enemy, is missing, and Cherry believes it’s likely your niece is prowling this hotel with her own loaded weapon. We need to figure out where Thierry Florian is, and take your niece into custody while we assess what happened last night.”

  Cherry came back to life, finally. “Without lights for those dark hallways, or the ability to open multiple doors without tearing this place apart, how do we search?”

  Taylor shrugged. “We need to find a way to get the lights turned on.”

  0650 hours

  I UNBIND FLORIAN’S TIES, my fingers working quickly. It would have been so easy to simply kick his chair, let him fall into the pool. He would have been gone, his storied life a sudden footnote, the weight of the chair keeping him under.

  There will be no more deaths, save one.

  Florian stands cautiously, rubbing his wrists.

  “Clothes?”

  I gesture to the right, by the hot tub, where his clothes are folded in a neat pile. He says nothing, simply turns his back on me and dresses. I walk slowly, carefully, around the edges of the pool. It would be so easy to fling myself into the dark water. It is salt water, I can smell the brine. Like floating in an ocean, sinking deep beneath the waves. My parents used to take us to the sea, to Le Lavendou, and we’d stay at the Beau Rivage and prune ourselves in the azure water from sunup to sundown.

  I did not know these holidays were paid for by secrets. Blueprints and plans for rapidly-developed forms of kinetic energy, stolen by my father from his employer, and sold to the Iraqis. Or the Russians. Syrians and Pakistanis. Whoever was paying at that particular moment.

  My father was a mole. An asset. Turned for the DGSE’s use, a puppet on a string, only useful while he could help in the race to nuclear proliferation supremacy.

  And I, I became the very person my father hated. The nameless, faceless people he put his trust in, the mechanics of his dead drops and microfiche holders and tradecraft.

  I could not help it. My Oncle, he showed me how valuable this work was. How I could change the world, one turned asset at a time.

  If my father lived, would that have changed? Would I have been so heavily recruited? So well-trained? Honed into a weapon of immeasurable worth?

  I think not.

  Florian is watching me. “Angelie. You must leave.”

  My toe yanks back from the water. I stare into Florian’s eyes, unable to see clearly for the lack of light.

  “Go. I will handle this situation. Get away from this place.”

  “Why would you have me save myself, Thierry Florian? Why should I not turn myself in? Suffer the consequences of my actions? I have killed this night. Taken your friend from you. You should want my head.”

  He smiles, the tiniest lift of the corners of his mouth. And I know what he will say next.

  “What a curious turn of phrase. Oui, cherie, I very much want your head. And I shall have it. You work for me now, Angelie. Again. Again and forever. Now, go.”

  I am defeated. For a moment I think to kill him anyway. Then I can be free. But I listen.

  I stash the gun in my waistband, gather my tools, and without a word, head for the door. There is a storm, I know this, I see the piles of snow against the door. How I will get away isn’t clear – I had no plans for escape. This was intended to be my last hurrah. A suicide mission. But now that I know the truth, as they say, the show must go on.

  The hallways are still dark and quiet. The blueprint of the hotel plays through my head. I need to turn left at the gym, it will lead me to the basement, which has an exit onto a back expanse of land. There is a shelter 100 yards from the hotel, a place I can regroup until I can reach my exit.

  “Hey. Hey, stop!”

  The weapon is pointed at the voice before I can form a coherent thought.

  0700 hours

  A FUEL TRUCK, RIDING slowly behind a snowplow, arrived at seven in the morning to the cheers of everyone. The fuel was pumped into the basement generators, the lights flickered to life, and a semblance of normality restored, people scattered back to their rooms to get some sleep and check in with loved ones.

  Taylor was glad of it; now they could do a proper search, run a crime scene unit through Stamper and Florian’s rooms.

  Cherry and Pierre had been huddled together in a corner of the bar for the past fifteen minutes, backs to the wall, eyes darting to the entrance every few moments, and Taylor wondered just what story they were concocting. Self-preservation, preparation, cover-up, she didn’t know, only that they were both acting like Angelie Delacroix was going to burst through the wall yelling yippie ki-yay and shoot up the place.

  Taylor left them alone, paced the bar. Florian’s disappearance was gnawing at her. She wanted to strike off and look for him, but knew how foolish that was, especially if the uber-assassin was still on site. They needed manpower, backup, K9 units, the works. Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, the Calvert County Sheriff, a decent-looking man named Evans, arrived, summoned by the report of a murder.

  Taylor and Cherry explained the situation. To his credit, he took down their stories with a raised eyebrow and only a few head shakes. He went upstairs, came down with a grim expression, asked Taylor several probing questions, then said, “Lieutenant, glad you were here. Situation might have gotten further out of control. There are more people coming, State Police, FBI, K-9. Storm's holding everyone up. We’re going to need you to give your official statement, so get comfy.”

  “Can’t I help? I don’t want to s
it around doing nothing.”

  “It’s going to take more than two of us to search this place.” He smiled, kindly enough. “You’ve done your part. Why don’t you head to your room and get some rest? I’d lock my door, though my guess is Florian and this Delacroix woman are long gone. Timing wise, the streets were still passable until after midnight. The hotel videotape wasn’t recording, so that’s useless. Just need to bring in the troops and get this place searched and processed. You know how it goes.”

  Taylor did, and knew her role in the situation was finished. With the jurisdictional cops on scene, she was relegated back to conference attendee, and witness. Which was weird.

  But Evans had a point. A little sleep wouldn’t go amiss.

  She interrupted another confab between Pierre and Cherry.

  “Cherry, I’m going to go up to my room. Call me if they find Florian, okay?”

  0730 hours

  TAYLOR HAD TO DETOUR TO her room – though the power was back on, the elevators were still off-limits. She pulled a site map off the concierge desk and glanced at it. The back staircase would be closer to her room. She took the hallway toward the gym, the scent leading her toward the pool and the hot tub. Ah, a hot bath in that giant tub upstairs would be lovely, though she doubted the water heaters were going to get suitable power from the generators to pump water hot enough for her taste.

  She pushed through the pool doors and immediately knew something was wrong. Instinct, coupled with the chair at the edge of the pool, ropes coiled neatly by its legs. She drew her weapon and went into a defensive stance. The glass windows in the place were wavy, which gave weak light that shimmered against the pool water. She went slowly, searching, until she saw the open door to the lifeguard office. And inside was Thierry Florian, eyes closed, leaning back on a longue chair. Blood soaked his shirt and he was pale as a ghost. Asleep, or dead?

  She rushed to him, put her fingers against his carotid. A steady beat, and her breath whooshed out. He started, eyes opening. “Angelie, I told you—”

  He cut himself off when he saw Taylor.

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Mr. Florian, please. Ellis Stamper is dead. You’ve obviously been tortured. I know all about Angelie Delacroix. Cherry and Pierre Matthews filled me in. Where is she?”

  He licked his lips, which were cracked and bloody. “Gone,” he whispered.

  She helped him sit up.

  “Why aren’t you dead? It looks like she gave you quite a working over.”

  He smiled, though the action obviously caused him pain. “You are blunt, aren’t you, Lieutenant? Angelie didn’t want me dead. She just wanted information.”

  “Somehow, I don’t believe that is the whole story. The Sheriff is here, and there’s about to be a whole wad of law enforcement on his tail. Is she still here, Thierry? Tell me the truth.”

  “She left ten minutes ago. You won’t catch her.”

  Taylor met his eyes. “Watch me.”

  0735 hours

  TAYLOR CALLED CHERRY, told her to share what was happening with the Sheriff, and to send backup immediately. She shoved her cell phone in her pocket and press checked her Glock. It was habit, a cop’s unconscious movement.

  Florian tried to stop her. “You’re wasting your time.”

  He tried to rise, but the blood loss had taken its toll.

  “You stay here and guard the pool. When the Sheriff’s people come, show them the way.”

  “On your head be it,” Florian said.

  She gave him a smile and started off.

  One thing Taylor had gathered about Angelie Delacroix, there would be signs of her passage. Morbid signs. Since Taylor hadn’t seen any on her way in, she exited opposite the door she'd originally come through, toward the north end of the pool, right out into the hallway that led to the back entrance of the hotel. The light was startling here, she had to blink to adjust.

  She took in the whiteness outside, knew there was no way anyone could get out of there without leaving a mess.

  It didn’t take long to find the trail. Footprints led toward a small outbuilding about 100 yards away. Backup was moments behind, so Taylor stepped out into the freezing cold.

  Her hands went numb almost immediately, but she kept the weapon up and ready. The going was slow, the snow drifting to her waist in places. The chill wind was rising again, Taylor recognized the feeling. This was a temporary reprieve, there was more snow on the way.

  Her feet were snug in her boots but snow was sliding down the calf and into the leather. A fine shiver started, and with it, her common sense.

  You’re an idiot, Taylor. Go back inside and let the locals freeze their asses off.

  She could hear them now, they were close. She started edging backwards. As she turned, there was a woman, standing in her path.

  Taylor froze. The woman was small, Taylor had a good six inches on her, but her weapon was pointed right at Taylor’s head.

  “What are you doing out here?” the woman asked, her accent clearly French.

  “Police. Put the gun down, Angelie. You can’t rack up any more bodies today, you’re already going away for a very long time. Put the gun down,” she shouted.

  The woman cocked her head to the side. The gun didn’t waver.

  “I think you are the one who needs to disarm yourself, Lieutenant Jackson. Yes, I know your name. It’s next to that smiling photograph on the program in Thierry’s room. A profiler, are you?”

  “Homicide. You’re under arrest. Put that damn gun down, now.”

  “I think not,” Angelie said, then before Taylor could blink, she took off, through the snow, toward a stone wall that barely peeked out under its white blanket.

  “Shit!”

  Taylor took off after her, amazed at Angelie’s prowess in the snow. Taylor was too tall, too ungainly, to make quick progress. There was only one thing to do.

  Taylor stopped and fired, and the bullet found its target. Angelie spun to the side, and Taylor heard her cry out.

  “Drop the weapon, Angelie, and I won’t do that again.”

  Shouts rang out from the building to her left, the Sheriff’s deputies were coming. Angelie heard them as well, didn’t hesitate. She fired off several rounds, spraying them wildly behind her, forcing Taylor face down in the snow. She rolled to her right, flipped over and up onto her knees and aimed again.

  Angelie's left arm was dragging by her side, but she kept running, a dead sprint through the snow. She reached the stone wall before Taylor could get off a second round, and disappeared behind it.

  It took Taylor a full minute to scramble to her feet and reach the spot.

  “She’s here,” she called to the deputies, who were wading through the snow one hundred yards behind her.

  Carefully, slowly, weapon first, Taylor looked over the edge of the wall. Beyond it was a steep slope. It was terraced, a vineyard in the summertime, staggered levels that ran down the hill, demarcated by stone barriers. One section dropped off into the beach below, Taylor figured it must be a forty-foot drop.

  Angelie Delacroix was crouched against the stone barrier above the beach, back to the ocean, watching Taylor. She was trapped, and bleeding. Their eyes met.

  Taylor edged closer. Take the shot, Taylor, take the shot. You can end this, right here.

  She took a breath to steady her hands, shaking in the cold. Her finger rested on the trigger. Just a fraction of movement, and the bullet would take Angelie Delacroix in the forehead.

  And in that moment, Angelie raised her weapon toward Taylor in a sort of salute and smiled, crooked, knowing, then jumped off the ledge. Into the sea.

  Taylor gritted her teeth and scrambled over the wall. Damn it. Damn it all. She’d had a clear shot. She shouldn’t have hesitated. But she recognized something in the woman’s eyes. Something dark, and unimaginable to those who hadn’t been faced with taking a life. And Taylor had chosen that route, too many times. />
  The first bullet had hit Angelie in the shoulder. Taylor had shot to maim, not kill. She made a choice, right or wrong, and now her prey was gone.

  She pointed the weapon at the barrier, just where the woman had disappeared. Listened, but heard nothing.

  “Police!” she shouted. “Show me your hands.”

  Silence. The waves crashed below, a seagull cried. Silence amplified by the dizzying expanse of white before her, her voice echoed slightly. To her right, disturbed by the deputies making their way closer, a bird took wing, startled by the noise, sent her heart right to her throat.

  Taylor ducked her head, took a deep breath in through her nose, and leading with her Glock, looked over the edge. She was prepared for what she found.

  Nothing.

  There was no sign of Angelie Delacroix.

  All that was left of her was a spattering of blood drops on the snow, like a shower of rubies dashed onto white velvet.

  When she’d hesitated, that split second when she decided she couldn’t kill, not again, something like realization had dawned in Angelie’s eyes. She had recognized that Taylor would not fire again.

  That knowing smile would haunt Taylor’s dreams.

  A choice. Right or wrong, Taylor had let her get away.

  She slumped against the stone as the deputies reached her, Sheriff Evans at their head.

  “Where is she, where is she?”

  “She jumped.”

  Evans looked slightly relieved, holstered his weapon.

  “Then she’s dead. That’s a fifty-foot fall. We’ll find her body on the beach.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, and he looked at her queerly.

  “Of course we will. What the hell were you doing, out here chasing her down alone? I thought I told you to stand down.”

  Taylor turned to face him, the wind whipping her hair around her face.