Hunting Daylight (9781101619032)

by Maitland, Piper

  “Stop.” I put my fingers over his mouth. “I can’t think about becoming immortal until Vivi is older.”

  He lowered my hand. “I will help you take care of Vivi. I don’t want to lose either of you.”

  “Let’s don’t think about sad things,” I said.

  He kissed me hard, until something began to build around us, like musical instruments in an orchestra pit, tuning and tweaking. I gripped him tighter, and the music broke loose inside me.

  CHAPTER 29

  Tatiana

  PLACE DES VICTOIRES

  PARIS, FRANCE

  Smoke curled from Tatiana Kaskov’s cigar as she sat in the passenger seat of the Hummer.

  “Drive around the Place des Victoires once more, Maury,” she said.

  “Sure thing,” Maury Sullivan said in a Boston-cream-pie-accent. He was Al-Dîn’s chief security officer, a human from Massachusetts, a disgrace to all New Englanders, in Tatiana’s opinion.

  The night sky stretched above the limestone buildings that lined the square. She squinted at the luminous storefronts, then glanced along the sidewalks. A few tourists milled around.

  “Make sure you don’t leave any witnesses,” Tatiana said.

  “That will be a problem.” He lifted one hand from the wheel and rearranged the thin, reddish hairs on top of his head.

  “Take care of it.”

  “Are you kidding?” Maury said. “This is Paris. Your plan stinks. There’s an easier way to do a takedown.”

  “Just do it.” Tatiana kept her face still, trying to hide her distaste for this man.

  “It’s going to cost more. You only gave me twenty-four hours to assemble my team,” he said. His lips looked as if they’d been flattened by a rolling pin, and the tips of his ears were fluted like pie dough. He smoothed his hand down the front of a two-thousand-dollar gray silk suit, his fingers splayed over a striped lavender tie. His sleeve pulled back, and Tatiana saw his Rolex.

  Pretentious asshole.

  Maury guided the Hummer around the square again, the dark sky racing over the buildings. “This location blows,” he said. “See how the roads fan away from the square, cars moving in all directions? This means people. Potential witnesses.”

  Tatiana ignored him and studied Della Rocca’s house—four stories, balconies, blue mansard roof. The windows on the third floor glowed like honeyed lozenges. Scattered lights were visible on the other floors. The manse nearly took up one block, wedged between two narrow roads, where businesses and apartment buildings were lined up. Her gaze moved away from Della Rocca’s house to the six-story apartment building across the street. She glanced up at the blue-tiled roof. “I don’t see your team,” she told Maury.

  “They’re in place,” he said. “They’ll use gas-propelled grappling hooks and rappel down to Della Rocca’s balconies. They’ll shoot out the glass and—”

  “I know what they’ll do,” she snapped.

  “But we’ll only be rappelling to the south-side balconies. If I’d had more time, I could have put a team on the roof of the other apartment building. Then we could’ve hit the north end of the house and sandwiched Della Rocca.” Maury lifted both hands from the steering wheel, smashed them together, then dropped one wrist over the wheel. “It would have been fast. Over in minutes.”

  Tatiana shook her head. “You’ve had plenty of time. You’re not taking down an embassy. You’re going after a thirteen-year-old girl.”

  “Give me another day, and I can put those teams in place.”

  “This is going down tonight.”

  “Sheesh.” He angled the Hummer down a side street, turned into a shadowy parking lot, did a U-turn, and headed back toward Della Rocca’s mansion. A black Rolls-Royce pulled up to the curb. A blue wooden gate opened, showing a glimpse of Della Rocca’s courtyard. Two bald-headed guys stepped out and walked toward the Rolls.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling,” Maury said. He lifted a hand from the steering wheel again and smoothed his tie, adjusting the gold clip that held it in place. “Even with suppressors, it’s going to be loud. We’re gonna attract a crowd.”

  “Then create a distraction,” she said.

  “That’s been covered. We’ve got a bomb threat at the Ritz.”

  She snorted. “That’s the best you came up with?”

  “What, you want a car bomb outside the Louvre? A sniper at the tower?”

  “Why not?” She shrugged.

  “I want my men to get in and out of Della Rocca’s before the police arrive.”

  “Like I care about that.”

  Maury’s eyes hardened. “Me and the guys, we’ve worked together a long time. They’re ex-Blackwater. Tough. Smart. Loyal.”

  Tatiana crossed her legs, and her green dress slithered up her thigh. She stared down at the diamond horseshoe ring on her pinkie finger. Light from the dashboard hit the platinum band, showing a tiny streak of blood. She licked it off, then turned to Maury.

  “Your guys are human,” she said. “Replace them.”

  “I can’t find another crew like this one.”

  She glanced at her watch. “What about Della Rocca’s security team? They’re all over the damn place. Will they be a problem?”

  “My ground crew will take care of them. Once we’re inside, we’ll disable the alarm. But it’s a huge house—it’s got, what? Fifteen bedrooms? Two kitchens? A cellar?” Maury shook his head. “Places like this always have hidey-holes. I can’t guarantee that we’ll even find Della Rocca.”

  “Just get the girl,” Tatiana said.

  “If she’s there. Surveillance hasn’t seen her.”

  “She better be. Because I know where you live. You just bought a house on Beacon Hill. Your wife drives a green Mercedes convertible. Her name is Sharon, right? She dyed your fucking poodles to match the car. She likes to shop.”

  Maury gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles jutting up. “Leave Sharon out of it. You got a problem, deal with me.”

  “So now you’re giving the orders?” Tatiana folded her arms, feeling the hard outline of the Glock beneath her jacket. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself lifting the gun, squeezing the trigger, watching Maury’s head sling back, his brain pan emptying onto the windshield. The smell of cordite rushing into her nose. But she had to keep this bastard alive until she’d delivered the girl to Mustafa. And until she, Tatiana, had worked out a deal with the old Turk.

  “Look, you gave me twenty-four hours,” Maury said.

  “Say that one more time, and I’ll shoot off your balls.”

  “I don’t have to take your abuse. This isn’t how Al-Dîn operates.”

  “I’ve been running the corporation for years. Mustafa is too ill.” Tatiana paused. “I am Al-Dîn.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Caro

  PLACE DES VICTOIRES

  PARIS, FRANCE

  It was midnight. All of the clocks in Raphael’s manse chimed twelve times as I walked to the third-story library. I wished I could make those clocks run backward. I’d fallen headlong into an emotional and physical affair with my best friend, and I had only one regret: that we’d lost so much time. But I had only myself to blame.

  When I stepped into the room, Arrapato ran over to greet me. Raphael sat on the desk, shuffling through papers. Monsieur La Rochenoire stood off to the side, talking on his cell phone, his eyebrows moving like caterpillars. Behind him, the balcony door panels stood open. Through the glass, a bruised sky stretched over Place des Victoires.

  “Caro.” Raphael walked over to me and kissed my hand. “We’ll leave as soon as the limo arrives.” He gave me the new passports. “We’re traveling as Jean-Aubry Gaultier and Louise Gaultier.”

  “Merci.” So we were posing as husband and wife? I unzipped my plaid bag, removed the false bottom, and stashed the passports.

  He squeezed my shoulder. “I don’t want to frighten you, but Gillian is missing.”

  Missing. The word cut through me like a blade. I looked up into Raphael’s
eyes.

  “She never checked into her hotel. She wasn’t at the quay this morning. Maybe she got on the wrong train.” He hugged me closer. “I’ve got a team working on it.”

  La Rochenoire lowered his cell phone. “The driver won’t answer his phone. And the guards won’t pick up, either.”

  Arrapato darted away from me and began pacing in front of the balcony doors, as if he knew we were leaving him with La Rochenoire. I moved out of Raphael’s arms, bent over, and lifted the dog into my arms.

  A thump hit the outside wall. From the ceiling, prisms on the chandelier tinkled. Arrapato let out a honking, gooselike bark.

  “Something hit the house,” I said.

  Arrapato stared at the east windows. I looked, too. Just beyond the glass, I saw ropes. It looked as if empty clotheslines had been strung between Raphael’s balcony and the building across the street.

  I pointed. “Raphael, why are ropes tied to your balcony railing?”

  He crossed the room in two long strides. A muscle flexed in his smooth jaw. “Caro, take Arrapato to the cellar. Hide in the tunnel.”

  I lifted my bag with my free hand and hooked the strap over my shoulder. A shattering noise came from downstairs, as if all the windows had been knocked out.

  Raphael ran to the other end of the library and pushed against a wooden panel. It swung open. He handed a pump shotgun to La Rochenoire. Then he lifted a sawed-off shotgun and filled his pockets with ammo. He took out a box of tear gas canisters.

  “Caro, please go.”

  I looked past him. A man in black tactical gear was flying through the night air, attached to the rope, moving straight toward Raphael’s balcony. In one gloved hand he held a semiautomatic that was fitted with a suppressor. He wore a helmet with a night vision scope.

  “Raphael, La Rochenoire,” I cried. “Get down!”

  I dropped behind the sofa, clutching Arrapato. I heard a pop. The glass in the French door exploded. Then I heard a thud on the balcony. I heard the sound of boots crunching over shards. A banging noise rose up, as if the man were kicking out the rest of the glass.

  Raphael and La Rochenoire opened fire. I peered around the edge of the sofa. The man had kicked the doors open, but he’d dropped to a crouch. His vest was peppered with holes. A bullet pinged off his helmet. Buckshot hit his knees and thighs, gouging the wall behind him. Red patches spread across the bottom of his uniform.

  “Shit,” he said. “Goddamn.”

  An American? I thought. Was he a vampire?

  He lifted his gun, and a red laser danced over the sofa and ran across the paneled wall.

  I squatted, my heartbeat whooshing in my ears.

  Raphael scuttled over to me. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded. His hands were steady as he reloaded the gun. He got up, fired, dropped back down. I heard the man crash into a table, and then his gun discharged. The south windows exploded. I rose up again. The man was on the floor, trying to get to his knees. La Rochenoire yanked off the man’s helmet, shot him in the eye, and kicked him to the floor.

  I looked toward the balcony. A second man was rappelling from the next-door rooftop, his body moving in an arc toward our balcony.

  Then the lights inside the house went off.

  Go to the cellar. Now. Raphael took my arm and pulled me into the hall. From downstairs, we heard shouts. He let go of me, walked to the staircase, and threw a tear gas canister. Then he rushed back.

  He briefly shut his eyes, massaging his temples, and the lights blinked on. I knew he’d done it. He pointed at the hidden elevator door. When you get there, punch the red emergency stop button. Then go to the mural. Enter the code. It’s the numerical equivalent of your name: 2276.

  How will you and La Rochenoire get to the cellar?

  The stairway.

  But it’s in the courtyard. Those soldiers are down there.

  I’ll be fine, mia cara. Send me a strong thought when you’re safe. Then wait for me.

  I nodded.

  I’ll find you. I love you. He kissed me, then hurried back toward the library.

  I ran down the hall, my bag slamming into my hip. I opened the panel and got inside the elevator. My arms shook so hard, Arrapato began to whimper. As the car passed the first floor, I heard screams and muffled claps. This was an orchestrated attack—but by whom?

  I was breathing through my mouth by the time I reached the cellar. As I punched the red emergency button, I heard gunfire echo from the shaft. Arrapato was wiggling—he despised the cellar. I looked toward the mural. It would be dark in that tunnel. I lunged to the bar, grabbed several packets of matches from the brandy snifter, and ran around the pool. When I got to the mural, I opened the panel. Noises boomed from the elevator shaft. I heard shouting. A concussive rumble sent water surging out of the pool.

  I faced the metal door. My hand hovered over the electronic lock, and my vision blurred. Raphael had chosen my name for the security code. On a numeric keypad, C and A would be 22; R would be 7. O would be 6.

  I wiped my eyes, then punched in 2276. The door dragged open, and cold air hit my face. Arrapato dug his nails into my arm, his eyes bugged. I moved to the top step, and my plaid bag brushed against the walls. I slung the bag to the ground, then reached back and shut the mural door. I shifted Arrapato to my left arm and lit a match. The flame shot up. I closed the metal door behind me and edged down the uneven steps.

  “Steady, Arrapato,” I said, my voice flying up into the dark. I held up the match. A circle of light throbbed against the stone walls. The rest of the tunnel dropped off into stygian darkness. I didn’t hear anything behind me. What if Raphael didn’t make it?

  The match burned out, singeing my fingers. I lit another one and walked to the end of the tunnel. The flame reflected on a metal door; it had an electric keypad, too. Just beyond it, I heard the distant rumble of the Metro.

  Raphael, I’m safe.

  While I waited for him to answer, my legs wobbled. I held the match above my head and knelt on the packed dirt floor. I couldn’t go through that door without Raphael. Why wasn’t he using his telepathy?

  Arrapato squirmed out of my arm and shot into the dark, racing toward the cellar door.

  “Come back,” I yelled, and the match snuffed out. I heard a snort, then the clink of tags. A cold tongue brushed against my hand. I groped for the dog’s head and felt an ear.

  “Arrapato, you knew those soldiers were there, didn’t you?”

  He licked my right hand and started on the left. I thought of Raphael and La Rochenoire, and a ripping sensation tore through my chest. It hurt to breathe. I had trusted the Fates to leave me and Raphael alone. I had said I was falling in love with him, but that wasn’t true. I was in love.

  Why hadn’t I told him the truth? I’d never cared this deeply for any man, except Jude. I was grateful for the time I’d spent with my husband, and I would do everything within my power to protect our child. But when I’d lost Jude, I’d lost myself. I hadn’t wanted to feel anything. I was like a patient who was convalescing from a near-fatal illness and could not stand to hear loud noises or see bright colors. I’d required a bland, pablumesque existence.

  Now, I wanted to wear a red dress and high heels. I wanted to listen to hip-hop music. I wanted to eat tangy food, so hot that it left a curl of smoke on my tongue. I couldn’t lose Raphael.

  Where are you?

  A tear slid down my cheek. “Please God, I won’t ask you for another thing. But let him come back to me. Don’t take him away.”

  Arrapato seemed to think I was talking to him, and he barked. Then he bit the hem of my dress and shook it. At the end of the tunnel, near the cellar door, I heard a click. The panel opened, and a wedge of light spilled down the rock steps. The smell of chlorine rushed through the darkness, mixing with the stink of gunpowder and blood. A tall shadow filled the doorway. I tried to grab Arrapato, but he was too fast.

  A flashlight zigzagged over the wall. “Mia cara?”

&nbs
p; I had never loved the sound of a voice more than this one.

  “Over here,” I said.

  I got to my feet. A light wobbled toward me. Raphael raced down the corridor and swept me into his arms. “Caro.”

  I pushed my face into his neck and hugged him as hard as I could. Thank you, God. Thank you. I will love this man as long as I’m breathing.

  “Monsieur La Rochenoire was right behind me,” Raphael said.

  Relief swept through me. I pulled back, and my hand skidded over something wet. He winced. I tugged the flashlight out of his hand and aimed the beam at his arm. His right sleeve was drenched in blood.

  “You’ve been shot.” I felt dizzy, as if I were the one who’d been hit.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “But my house is on fire.”

  La Rochenoire stepped into the corridor, panting hard. “I secured the staircase door, sir. But I heard them climbing down the elevator shaft. They’ll be in the cellar any minute.”

  He fastened the doors to the cellar and hurried over to us. He held the flashlight while Raphael punched in the code. The steel door opened, and we stepped through. The other side of the door had a clever limestone façade. Raphael closed it, and the panel blended seamlessly into the wall.

  “Let’s move,” he said, and took my elbow. I heard rushing water, and a foul smell rushed up my nose. This was the second layer of Paris, one that attracted punks and tourists.

  La Rochenoire’s flashlight swept over a curved, concrete ceiling. Metal stairs stood at one end, and sewage moved down a concrete channel. A metal sign next to the stairs read RUE DES PETITES PèRES. The tunnels were named, each one running beneath a street that bore the same name.

  Arrapato sneezed. I put my sweater around him.

  La Rochenoire started to walk toward the staircase, but Raphael pulled him back.

  “Too close. And we don’t know how many hired goons are out there,” Raphael said.