The poor agent closed his eyes and shook his head. “None.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.” Parker glanced down at the red numbers. Four minutes, forty-three seconds. “And we’ll have to do it quickly.”
He bent near Dave and began to reexamine the vest. Not much of a fastening. Three large snaps held the two sides together. Should be fairly easy to loosen.
“Fayette, get his ropes.”
“Yessir.”
Fayette took his knife out again and ran around to Dave’s other side, while Parker removed his own knife from his pocket and gently eased the blade under the first snap.
“Mr. Parker, what the hell are you doing?” Dave’s voice was a high squeak.
“We’re getting you out of this thing.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Never say never, detective.”
“But what if it goes off?”
“Then we’ll have died trying.”
“No. I can’t let you. Steele would never forgive me. You’ve got to get out of here and leave me to my fate.”
“Detective?”
“Yes, Mr. Parker?”
“Shut up and lie still. That’s an order.”
With Dave’s big brown eyes fairly bugging out of their sockets, Parker steadied the material with his free hand. Then he sent up a quick prayer and flicked his blade.
First snap open. No blast.
He exhaled, but forced himself to move to the next fastener. There was no time to celebrate.
Once more, he slipped his blade under the snap, held the material in place and flicked. Second snap free.
“Really, Mr. Parker—”
He gave Dave an iron look and the man closed his mouth, though he looked as if he were about to vomit.
“Keep it together, Becker. One more to go.”
“Okay,” he whispered.
Parker felt himself shudder as he moved to the last fastener. A drop of sweat rolled down his nose and onto the vest. He held his breath. Keep going.
Blade under the snap, steady the fabric, flick.
Third snap free.
Now the trick was to get him out of the contraption.
“The ropes are cut,” Fayette reported.
“Good work,” Parker told him. “Detective Becker?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Don’t move until I tell you to.”
“Yessir.”
Get him up first. “Fayette,” Parker said.
The agent responded by taking hold of Dave’s top arm while Parker grabbed onto the one he’d been lying on. “We’re going to get you to your feet. Try not to move.”
“Okay.” His voice was ghostlike and for once he didn’t bob his head.
“One, two, three.”
Rising the two of them heaved upward and stood Dave up on wobbly feet.
“Don’t let him go.”
“I’ve got him,” Fayette said.
“I know you’re stiff. But can you stand?”
“Let me try.” Dave shuffled his feet to steady them under him.
Parker release his grip slightly. Dave wobbled to the right. Parker caught him again.
“I’m okay. I’m okay now. Try again.”
Parker let go again. This time Dave stood on his own. He nodded to Fayette. The agent let go as well.
Dave was on his feet.
“The shoulders now. Dave, stand as still as you can.”
“Yessir.”
Parker nodded to Fayette. Simultaneously they slipped fingers beneath the mesh fabric and lifted.
“Arms,” Parker said. “Raise your arms.”
Slowly Dave obeyed looking like a condor about to take flight.
From the corner of his eye, Parker caught sight of Odette standing back against the wall watching them, eyes wide, hands to her mouth. At least she was quiet. And she hadn’t run away. If she had gotten lost now, there would be nothing they could do for her.
“Two hands,” Parker commanded and he and Fayette put a hand each on the place where the first snap had been opened. “Now.”
They lifted the vest about an inch off Dave’s frame.
“Bring your arms in.”
Again Dave obeyed, folding his arms carefully, managing not to touch the fabric at all. The condor coming in for the landing.
“Now roll.”
Dave dropped down, did a somersault and rolled several feet away from the vest.
“Go!”
Parker and Fayette moved backwards to the hole as quickly as humanly possible. They raised the vest, eased it through the hole.
Just before they let go, Parker looked at the time on it. Three minutes, fifteen seconds.
“Let go.”
They opened their hands and the vest dropped down into oblivion.
Parker grabbed Fayette by the collar and began moving in the opposite direction. “Run!” he cried at the top of his voice.
But Odette and Dave were already scrambling away before him.
Chapter Fifty-One
Raising her hands, Miranda glanced at the muzzle of Yanick’s weapon and tried not to shiver. Nine millimeter SIG was her guess. A peashooter compared to the other guy’s, but it could kill you just as dead.
“You know I wasn’t alone, don’t you?” she said to Yanick, keeping an eye on the Russian in the doorway.
“Of course, I do.” Yanick’s tone was smug.
“Then you know a whole bunch of folks are going to come through that door any minute now. Police, French Intelligence. The works.”
He smirked with contempt. “We can handle them.”
She turned to face him. “I don’t think so. And when they get you, when they charge you with kidnapping and theft and the murders you’ve committed, it will go a lot easier on you if you tell me what you did with Odette and Dave Becker.”
His mouth twisted as if he was amazed she wasn’t giving in.
“I’ll tell them you cooperated,” she added.
“But you won’t be able to tell these authorities anything, Madame Steele. You will be dead.”
He was trying to rattle her, and succeeding up to a point.
But she straightened her shoulders and looked him in the eye. Even if he killed her, she still had to try to get him to tell her where Becker was.
For Fanuzzi’s sake.
“Then you can repeat the information for them,” she told him. “Think of telling me first as practice.”
He chuckled. “I will do better than that. I will show you.”
Show her?
“Come to the balcony.” Gently he put a hand on her arm and gestured toward the tall glass doors with his gun.
She tensed. What kind of a trick was this? Was he going to push her over the railing? Or maybe there was some sort of trigger out there like in the abandoned building last night.
No, he was standing right there when she’d come in. Besides, he wouldn’t blow himself up.
And if he made the wrong move, she might have a chance to go for the gun, if she could distract him. She glanced back at the doorway. The Russian giant with the slimy green tattoos hadn’t move. Neither had his gun.
There was no Calvary coming up behind him.
Taking a deep breath, she moved toward the balcony, stepping gingerly across the white marble floor. “What have you got to show me, Yanick?”
“My masterpiece. My finest work ever.”
Good Lord. No telling what this maniacal demon had in mind. She glanced at the wall, the window panes in the doors, searching for something she might be able to use as a weapon.
Just as they reached the threshold, she stopped, deciding to barter one more time. “On second thought, I’ll come with you to the balcony only if you tell me where Odette and Dave Becker are.”
He shook his head, looking irritated. “I told you. I must show you. If I simply said it, it would lose its…impact.” Now he chuckled to himself as if enjoying some sick private joke.
Impact. Had to be another booby
trap.
She scanned the door, searching for a trip wire. Were the doors rigged to go off somehow? She couldn’t tell. She glanced back at the Russian, this time hoping for a clue on his face.
Instead she saw a miracle.
Turmel was sneaking up behind the big man, weapon in hand. Blood ran from his face. One eye was swollen. He had been pummeled hard. No wonder he hadn’t gotten up here before now.
Distraction.
Miranda spun back to Yanick, grabbed onto his arm, bent one leg. “Oh, I think I turned my ankle.”
“What?”
His gun hand titled upward.
She heard Turmel’s voice over her shoulder. “Do not move, asshole.”
Yanick looked across the room.
Miranda swept down, extended her arm, shot up again and knocked the SIG out of Yanick’s hand. It flew over his head like a badminton shuttlecock and clattered against the marble floor.
Yanick’s eyes went wild and he let out a cry like a banshee. “Putain! Bitch!” He lunged at her, going for her throat.
As she stepped away out of his reach, she heard more clattering and bodies tumble to the ground on the other side of the room. She risked a glance, saw Turmel and the Russian duking it out on the floor. Weapons were all over the place. Everywhere but in someone’s hand.
If only she could get to one.
But she’d looked too long. Yanick’s fist was flying toward her face.
She ducked.
Yanick’s hand nearly caught in her hair as he missed. If she had been any slower, he would have cold cocked her.
He stumbled across the floor and spotted the Russian’s Desert Eagle a few feet away.
Time to fight dirty. Before he could regain his balance, Miranda grabbed him by the collar, the belt. Turning she spun him around and tossed him into the window.
He hit head on.
Glass shattered onto the floor, a nice garnish for the weapons. Or maybe not.
Yanick glared up at her, blood running from his forehead. With a grunt, he tore his jacket off, wrapped it around his hand, bent down and scooped up a big shard.
She lifted her fists in defense, hoping she could depend on speed to evade the knifelike glass.
Yanick came at her carefully now. He’d realized he was dealing with a trained PI. And she was dealing with a trained French Intelligence agent.
Hands raised, they skipped around, dancing back and forth to the tune of the grunts and moans and smacks of the Russian and Turmel. This time Miranda kept her eyes on her attacker.
Good thing. Just when she wasn’t expecting it, Yanick swiped toward her throat with the glass.
Would have sliced clean through the jugular if she hadn’t caught him with the back of her hand. She reared back and punched him hard in the stomach.
He stumbled back with an oof and crashed into the window a second time.
But she hadn’t quite knocked the wind out of him. In less than a second he was on his feet, coming at her again, clamoring for more.
Broken glass fell from his clothes like raindrops. Blood ran into his eye and over his cheek, dripping onto the white floor. He looked like a monster in a video game.
And he was still holding onto that shard.
Invincible, Miranda decided. That’s was he thought he was.
But she was more than that. She was fighting for her best friends.
Yanick came at her again, swinging the shard like a machete. Miranda ducked and backed away. Duck and back away. Again. Again.
Her chest heaved. She was in good shape, but she was nearly spent. If her legs gave out, if she lost her balance, she was done for.
More groans and moans came from the two men on the floor. She risked a glance and saw both of them reaching for Kosomov’s Desert Eagle on the floor.
Dear God.
She and Yanick were nearing the far wall. That was the answer.
She came up out of the duck, lingered just long enough to make him think he had her. He lunged again with the shard.
Down she went.
The glass slammed into the wall, piercing the drywall on one end, slicing into Yanick’s jacket covered hand on the other.
He cried out in pain and drew away, cradling his hand, which now matched his bleeding face.
“The manager’s going to charge you for the damage to this room,” she told him.
He glared at her, his eyes taking on an even stranger look than they’d had before. He began to growl and puff like an out-of-control freight train. This guy had gone way out into the Twilight Zone.
His strength seemed to re-double. His speed as well, he came at her swinging with his fists. Left, then right. Left then right. Over and over.
She reacted automatically. Block, strike. Block, strike. But her blows did nothing to stop him.
Peripheral vision, she told herself and realized he was backing her over toward the balcony again. Where he’d wanted to show her something. She was certain now it was how the pavement looked on the way down.
Her shoes crunched over the glass from the middle window. Yanick’s steps followed her.
She tried to steer him in another direction, but his training must have included sheep herding experience. She couldn’t go anywhere but back toward those open doors.
Grab a door, she told herself. Let him smash his fist into it. But he was too fast. She couldn’t get her bearings. Before she knew it, she was through the doors and onto the balcony.
And she was nearly winded.
“I told you I would show you my masterpiece, Madame Steele.”
“Never mind,” she gasped. “I’ve had my fill of surprises from you.”
“Only one more.” He swung.
She blocked. He swung again. She blocked again, too tired to punch back this time. She was losing it. If he swung the right way now she go over the railing.
Exactly what he had in mind.
She watched his fist draw back, as if in slow motion. It came toward her like a wrecking ball. She tried to make her muscles move but they wouldn’t obey.
And then she heard a loud crack from the other room.
Yanick spun around to look. Somehow she resisted the impulse to do the same. Her own fist came up, shot out. It was maybe the hardest punch she’d ever thrown in her life.
Landed right under his chin.
Yanick tottered toward her, then the other way.
His waistline hit the railing almost before she knew what was happening. She reached for him. He couldn’t die now.
Her fingers clutched the fabric of his slacks—then it slipped through them.
It was too late. Over he went, head first.
“No!”
She leaned over the balcony and heard him cry out a single word as he spiraled down.
“Masterpiece.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Her head swimming, Miranda turned around, hurried through the open glass doors.
Turmel was sitting atop the Russian holding his Desert Eagle. There was a gaping hole in the Russian’s forehead.
“No,” she cried. “They can’t both be gone. We’ll never find Becker now.”
She heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Instinctively she searched the floor for her Berretta, scooped it up when she found it and pointed it at the door.
Haubert appeared. His hands went up. “Put down that weapon, Madame Steele.”
She put it back in her holster. “Sure. Sorry.”
Haubert stared down at his agent straddling the dead Russian. “It looks as though I am a bit late. I lost you at the square. Excellent work, Turmel.”
“Merci, Mon Directeur,” Turmel said. And he got up from his position.
She gestured back toward the window. “Yanick just went over the side.”
Haubert’s face turned grim.
Her mind clearing, Miranda peered over the man’s shoulder. The hall was empty.
“Where is everyone? Where’s Parker?”
“He went with Fayette to the Catacombs
.”
Miranda’s stomach twisted inside her. “The what?”
“An underground tunnel system below the city,” Haubert explained. “He found Monsieur Becker and Mademoiselle St. Fleur.”
She let out a gasp of joy. “He found Becker? Parker found Becker?”
“Yes. Monsieur Parker believes they are right under the Place de la Concorde, where the president is. But—Mon Dieu.”
“But what?”
Haubert’s gaze moved to the tall windows. “That is the other reason I am late. I had to arrange the evacuation.”
Evacuation?
Suddenly from somewhere out in the street came a loud rolling boom. Not a firecracker boom, one that’s over after a minute or two. Not a cannon boom that you might expect during a military parade. Not a boom from the jets overhead.
This was a low rumble. A slow roar that grew louder and louder.
Along with the shrieks of a terrified crowd.
Heart pounding, Miranda spun around and ran back to the balcony. She peered over the railing.
Down below, the last corps of troops had reached the square. Thousands of people were gathered around. Soldiers on foot in white and blue uniforms, others in camouflage in jeeps, yellow dots that were the vests of police on motorcycles. Horses and army tanks and colorful flags were everywhere. Everyone lined up before the President’s pavilion.
Except they weren’t in formation. They were running, scattering every which way.
Some were taking cover. Some of the military were trying to herd the crowd of spectators, who were racing around panic stricken.
Their cries and screams pierced through the air.
And the pavement beneath them and around the square—it was like nothing Miranda had ever seen before. It buckled and rolled, the ground rippling like an ocean wave. Like an earthquake. A tall obelisk tilted. The columns of nearby monuments shook. The President’s tent began to collapse. Military police hurried over to help keep people from getting buried under it.
The balcony she stood on shook.
Was this it? Was this Yanick’s “masterpiece?”
“What the hell is going on, Haubert?” she cried, tears filling her eyes.
And then it hit her all at once. Parker was down there somewhere.
She rushed back into the room. “Where’s Parker, Haubert? Where’s my husband?”
Zero Dark Chocolate (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 5) Page 22
