by Jack Mars
Reid squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his forehead against the mirror. There was no way he would be able to get Riker to understand that the perceived threat to his daughters was more than just a disease.
After a moment of silence she said, “Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Thank you. Report back with your findings.” She abruptly ended the call.
For a brief moment, Reid felt the intense need to shout, to hit something, to find some quick and violent outlet for his anger. Kent Steele did not like being talked down to, and it seemed to be Riker’s specialty. But he forced himself to take a breath. That’s not who you are. You’ve learned patience. You screwed up. Accept it. He nodded, as if affirming it to himself.
When he pulled open the bathroom door he was surprised to see Maria standing directly on the other side of it.
“Oh,” he said. “Sorry, I was just, uh…”
She put a hand on his shoulder. “They’re going to be okay,” she told him, her gray eyes fixed on his.
“You heard that.”
Maria nodded. “Rais has no way into the country. Travel is shut down. Intel suggests he’s heading east. The virus is what’s important right now, Kent. That’s the threat to their safety. So let’s stop one international risk before we move on to the next. Okay?”
He nodded. “Okay.”
The plane bounced as the wheels touched down at Marseille Provence Airport. Reid gripped the headrest of the seat next to him to keep from falling over. The sudden jolt took him out of his own head for long enough to snap out of his feelings of anger and helplessness. Maria was right, as usual; the virus took precedence. Rais was two continents away, and Thompson was capable. It was time for him to focus.
“All right,” he said to his team. “There are five of us and two locations. Dr. Barnard, if the virus is here in Marseille—and we can’t assume that it’s not—I think the virologist would be the most likely to have possession of it. Agree?”
Barnard nodded. “He would be my candidate of the two, yes.”
“Then Barnard and I will go after the virologist. The three of you take the flat. Like Cartwright said, quickly and quietly. No one fires a shot unless absolutely necessary. If the virus isn’t here, we’ll need someone who can still talk.” Reid turned to Watson and added, “And yes, that’s me telling you that. I’ll be sure to take my own advice this time around.”
A corner of Watson’s mouth twitched. Reid could hardly believe it—it almost looked like Agent Watson was going to smirk.
Much like El Prat in Barcelona, the French airport of Marseille Provence was utterly empty and quiet. This time there was no Interpol agent to greet them, no car waiting for them. They were alone in this.
The five of them hastily crossed the tarmac to a car rental agency opposite the main terminal. Watson pried open the lockbox that held the keys and grabbed the first two rings he found.
Dr. Barnard glanced up nervously at a security camera directly over them. “Is this legal?” he asked.
“Matter of international security, Doctor.” Carver grinned. “Don’t worry. We’ll bring them back.”
Watson passed off a set of keys to Reid. The electronic key fob led him to a dark blue sedan that looked reliable and swift. Not that it mattered; Reid did not plan on getting in another car chase in Marseille. Maria, Carver, and Watson were in a white mid-sized SUV.
“Be careful,” she called to him before they parted ways.
“We will. Keep your radios on.” Reid and Dr. Barnard climbed into the car and sped off in the direction of the coast. They were both silent until they were clear of the airport. “Switch your GPS on,” Reid told him.
Barnard scrutinized his phone screen. “The virologist hasn’t moved.”
“Do you think that bodes well for us?” Reid asked.
“Hard to say. It could mean he lives there, or he works there. Or… or he’s working on something else.” Barnard didn’t have to say more, because Reid was thinking the same thing. The virologist could be making more of the deadly virus. He could be working with active, mutated smallpox in the heart of a highly populated area.
“Why did you choose me?” Barnard asked suddenly. “To accompany you, that is.”
Reid shrugged, taken aback by the question. “You’re a virologist and a bioterrorism expert. If we’re going to apprehend a virologist, I figured you would be the best person to have with me.”
“I’ve seen and heard a lot of strange things in the last twenty-four hours,” Barnard noted. “But you, Agent Steele, you are the strangest of them all. You’re like a…” He thought for a moment, searching for the right word. “A polarity, existing inside a single person.”
Reid almost laughed. “You have no idea,” he muttered.
“Despite that, I think I might have grown some sort of admiration for you.” The doctor stuck a finger in the air to punctuate his point and added, “Maybe. It’s still too soon to say.”
“Let’s get through this alive and find the virus and we can talk again about if we like each other or not.” Reid smirked. It was probably the closest he was going to get to a compliment from Barnard anyway. “Here.” With some difficulty and driving one-handed, he reached down for his ankle and pulled free his sidearm, the Ruger LC9. “I don’t know what to expect here, and you said you were trained.”
Barnard took it reverently with both hands and turned it over, as if examining a specimen. “Thank you, Agent. I’ll act responsibly.”
“All I ask is that you don’t accidentally shoot me.”
“Turn here,” Barnard said suddenly. He did so, and suddenly the road opened enough for them both to have a view of the sea.
Reid let out a low whistle. Marseille was an utterly beautiful city, its buildings almost entirely white and beige with orange roofs along the coastline, none of them more than six or seven stories high, as if not to overshadow any other. It was the type of uniformity that was rarely seen in modern times.
Barnard stared out the window. “It would be quite a shame if this was no longer,” he said quietly.
“Then… let’s make sure it still will be.”
The doctor directed him toward the GPS signal, several tight turns as they headed slightly away from the coast and inland, heading uphill. The signal led them to a particularly narrow street in a business district, surrounded on all sides by little shops, mom-and-pop stores, small cafes, and restaurants that had stood there for decades.
Reid parked in the first available spot and they both got out. The air smelled like the sea and the passersby seemed generally pleasant. He desperately wished he was not there on business—and “business” was putting it lightly.
Barnard frowned. “It’s a tailor’s shop.”
“Well, this is where the virologist’s phone traced back to,” Reid said, “so it’s here, even if he’s not. Come on, let’s check it out.” He led the way inside. The door creaked and a bell rang as they entered.
The tailor’s narrow shop looked ancient and smelled somewhat musty, the walls lined with rack upon rack of classic clothing in browns and blacks and beige, suede and wool and cotton. They were the type of clothes that Professor Reid Lawson would have loved, but that felt like another life in the moment.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” An old Frenchman hobbled toward them from the rear, wearing a starched white shirt and a gray vest with a measuring tape around his wrinkled neck.
“I hope so,” Reid replied in French. “We are looking for someone named Adrian Cheval.”
“Oh, Adrian.” The old tailor smiled. “A pleasant young man. He lives only a few blocks from here, down that way…”
“We know,” Reid said. “But he’s not at home. We were told he might be here.”
“Ah.” The old man leaned back onto a stool with a grunt. “Excuse me, my knees are not what they used to be. Yes, Adrian uses my basement for his research… something to do with genetics and DNA. It’s all far beyond me.” He chuckl
ed. “The entrance is in the alley around back. I can show you…” The tailor grunted again, attempting to rise.
“No, that’s all right.” Reid smiled and put out a hand. “Please, sit. We’ll find it just fine.”
He nodded. “All right then. Have a nice day.”
Back out on the street, Reid surreptitiously checked the clip on his Glock 19. He had only fired two shots in Athens; he was still nearly full.
“I thought you said no shots fired unless necessary,” Barnard noted.
“I did,” Reid said. “But it might become necessary.” He replaced the gun in his jacket, and then touched the earpiece in his left ear. “Our location is a tailor’s shop on Rue de Concorde. The proprietor told us the virologist uses his basement for ‘research.’ We’re about to check it out.”
“Ten-four,” Watson responded quietly through the radio. “We’re at the apartment, getting into position to infiltrate.”
“Should we hold?” Maria asked.
“No,” Reid replied. “The sooner this is done, the better. We’ll be fine.” He put a finger to his lips to gesture to Barnard for silence, and then waved him to follow down the adjacent alley. As they crept closer to the rear of the building, Reid’s heart again started racing with the thrill of the hunt. Restraint , he reminded himself. If the virus isn’t here, we need this man alive. And though he fully realized it was an insane thought for anyone to have, he very much hoped they did find the virus there, because it would mean an end to all of this.
They had nearly reached the mouth of the alley when Reid heard a car door slam, just around the corner from them, followed by the bark of a husky male voice.
“Leave the body. We’ll take it last.”
The voice spoke in Arabic.
Reid shoved Barnard backward against the brick façade of the tailor’s shop. The doctor’s eyes widened in surprise and his breath caught in his throat.
“Shh. Stay right here,” Reid said as quietly as possible. He slowly pulled his Glock from its holster and rested his thumb against the biometric lock. The internal trigger guard sprang open with a small click.
He took a breath, his heart pounding, and then swung around the corner into view.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Reid leveled his pistol as he stepped around the corner and caught sight of the two men in the alley. Neither of them, however, took any notice of him—not at first. They were seemingly Middle Eastern, wearing street clothes. The larger of the two carried a wide white cylinder, what Reid could only guess was a centrifuge. The other hefted a microscope in both hands as they carried the equipment toward a waiting van parked diagonally across the alley, effectively blocking it off to cars, and blocking them from a westerly view.
They’re emptying the basement lab. And they mentioned a body. Neither of those things boded well at all for him.
“Stop!” Reid said sharply in Arabic. The two men turned slowly, seeming to be more confused at the sudden appearance of an Arabic-speaking Anglo than frightened of the gun. “Put down the equipment,” he said carefully, “and put your hands on your head.”
Neither of them spoke. Instead they exchanged a brief glance with one another, and then did as he asked—they dropped the equipment. The microscope’s lenses shattered as it struck the pavement, and the centrifuge sent a jarring boom in the air.
The larger of the Syrians immediately reached for the small of his back. Reid didn’t wait to see if it was a gun or not. He aimed and fired a single shot into the man’s hip, high enough to avoid his femoral artery. It did the trick; the man yelped as his body spun and collapsed to the alley. The second Syrian scurried away and leapt behind the van for cover.
Reid surged forward; the downed man was holding his bloody hip with one hand, but still struggling to free his pistol. He managed to yank it loose, but Reid was upon him. He kicked the gun from the Syrian’s hand and sent it skittering across the alley and under a dumpster.
He heard feet pounding against stairs and turned to his right just in time to see a thin, wiry Syrian charging up the stairs from the basement, flicking open a switchblade.
“Kent?” Maria hissed in his earpiece. “Was that a gunshot?”
It just became necessary , he thought, but he had to ignore her for the moment. Instead of running from the charging Syrian, Reid met him halfway; he leapt down the first few stairs toward him.
“Allahu —” The man’s cry choked in his throat as Reid planted a flat boot into his chest, kicking him back down the way he came. The Syrian tumbled down the stairs, landing with a sickening crash on the concrete below.
He quickly turned his attention back to the two in the alley. “Stay down,” he ordered the one lying on his back, grunting in pain from his shot hip.
“To hell with you, American,” he hissed through gritted teeth.
Reid kept low as he approached the white cargo van. All the doors were closed and the windows were tinted; he couldn’t see the man on the other side. Instead, he lowered himself to the alley and peered beneath the van. He could see a pair of brown shoes and the hem of the Syrian’s khaki pants, hiding on the other side of the van just behind the passenger-side tire.
Reid took careful aim and fired. The bullet tore through the man’s right ankle and he dropped immediately, letting loose a high-pitched scream that set Reid’s teeth on edge.
Then he stood at the top of the stairs and waited. One Syrian was down behind the van. Another, only a few feet from the basement entrance. The third, at the bottom of the stairs. All three still alive, but he had no idea if there were more. He waited for a full ten seconds, but heard nothing except the anguished cries of the ankle-shot Syrian and the groans of pain from the other two.
He pressed a finger to his earpiece. “Shots fired,” he confirmed. “Three down, all Arabic-speaking. We’re both fine. No sign of the virologist yet—”
“Mon Dieu! ” Reid glanced up to see the kindly old tailor, now wide-eyed in horror as he hobbled around the corner from his shop. He no doubt heard the shots and came to investigate. “Wh-what is happening here?” he asked in French.
“Monsieur,” Reid replied, “please go back inside. It might not be safe to—”
The back window of the van exploded outward as a fusillade of bullets tore through the air, buzzing dangerously close like angry bees. Reid threw himself forward onto his stomach and covered his head with his hands. A fourth, inside the van, with an automatic. You didn’t clear the van , he screamed at himself internally.
He dared to glance up, and in that moment time felt as if it stood still. The old tailor faced him, the same shocked expression on his weathered face. Blood slowly blossomed from several places on the old man’s chest.
Then time resumed, and the tailor crumpled into a heap.
That was your fault. You didn’t clear the van. His death is your fault.
Reid pressed his palms against the asphalt to push himself up, but a voice barked from the van behind him. “Your gun. Push it away.” The surprise attacker in the van spoke rough, accented English. “Do this, or you die slowly.”
Reid huffed a frustrated breath. He was on the ground and facing the wrong direction; the Syrian had the drop on him, and presumably a gun aimed at his back. After a moment of hesitation, Reid shoved the Glock several feet away.
“On your back,” the attacker barked. “Do not rise.” Reid did as he was told, turning over slowly so that he was lying on his back. The assailant had been in the rear of the van; the back driver’s side window was blown out, and the bearded Syrian leaned partially out of it with the stock of an AK-47 against his shoulder. “Who are you?”
Reid shook his head slowly and said nothing. We don’t talk, ever.
“How did you find this place?” The angry Syrian shook his rifle, as if it might prompt a response. “Answer me!”
Again Reid did not answer. Instead his mind raced. They’re not finished yet , he realized. The Syrian would not be so concerned with who he was and how he foun
d them unless he thought there was a chance their plot might fail. They haven’t finished enacting their plan.
“Have it your way,” the Syrian growled. “Death to the infid—”
Three roaring shots split the air suddenly, but they were not automatic gunfire. The Syrian’s body jerked wildly backward and thudded against the opposite wall of the van. Dr. Barnard stood only a few feet from the unfortunate tailor’s body. His hand trembled as he lowered the smoking LC9.
Reid leapt to his feet, retrieved his Glock, and stuck the pistol into the shot-out window to clear the rest of the van. Satisfied there were no others, he hurried over to Barnard.
“You okay?”
The doctor stared at the ground. “I-I’ve never shot anyone before,” he murmured.
“Hey. You just saved my life, you understand?” Reid gripped the doctor’s shoulder. The man was clearly shaken. “We probably don’t have more than a few minutes until police arrive, so I need your head clear. Come on.” He tugged gently on Barnard’s shoulder and the doctor followed him to the entrance of the basement. “I’ll go first. Stay alert.”
Each man kept a firm grip on his pistol as they slowly descended into the makeshift laboratory. The wiry Syrian at the bottom of the stairs spat curses at them in Arabic, but Reid ignored him. The man had badly broken his leg in the fall; the bone jutted at a nauseating angle and blood soaked his denim jeans just below the knee.
Reid carefully cleared the area first—a simple task, since it was a single open room with a concrete floor—and found no one else. At least no one else alive.
He hurried over to the yellow-suited man lying prostrate on his back on the concrete. The respirator’s facemask was cracked, and when Reid tugged it off, he saw the smooth features of a young Frenchman, and the bullet wound in his forehead.
“I think it would be safe to assume this is Adrian Cheval,” he noted grimly. “The Syrians were done with him. They must have the virus. We should double-check the van… Barnard?”
