I could pass for lots of things when I put my mind to it. “Mutt mostly, but my real dad was a gypsy.”
Valentine thought I was messing with him. “Right. And for your information I’m not white. I identify as an albino Samoan.”
“I’m serious. My birth parents were Roma.”
“Whatever. Listen, don’t stress too much over Tailor. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want the distraction. I haven’t told him anything about you, and believe me, he wanted to know how it is I’m working with you. I don’t think he’d believe me if I told him the whole story anyway. He works for one of the Illuminati families, but we’ve got kind of a deal worked out with them right now. They’re helping us track down Kat. That’s where we got the lead on Georges Mertens from. They also helped steer the investigation of the aftermath so that we don’t have to worry about the cops looking for us. Tailor’s employers can pull a lot of strings when they want to. Right now we need every advantage we can get, especially if Majestic shows up again.”
“You ever wonder about the screwed up life choices we’ve made to end up where we’re talking about Majestic versus the Illuminati and it’s not a joke?”
Valentine raised his eyebrows over his sunglasses. “I wonder about my life choices every day. I had to work really hard to get this screwed up. Anyway, Tailor’s boss is Alistair Romefeller. Know him?”
“Not really.” That name sounded familiar, but when I’d worked for Big Eddie, I’d been in the dark about all this global conspiracy stuff. “Was Tailor your contact with him?”
“Actually, no, if you can believe it. I had no idea he was working for him. It just so happened.”
“I’m a professional con man. Nothing ‘just-so-happens’. Assume any coincidence is probably somebody like me trying to manipulate you. You trust this guy?”
“Tailor? I knew him from Vanguard. We were on Switchblade 4 together, and Dead Six after. He was like a brother to me.”
“My brother got me into this mess.”
“He got me into some shit, too. Like, Zubara. He recruited me. I want to trust him, but his boss? As long as what we’re doing benefits him, we’re okay, but once we stop being useful we start being a liability. Tailor doesn’t think it’s that bad, but he always was the optimist.” Valentine chuckled. “You know what’s really screwed up? I actually kind of trust you.”
“That’s not funny. It’s sad.”
“No, really. I mean, you’re probably a sociopath, but you’re a consistent sociopath. I understand your motivations. Tailor, the Illuminati, Majestic? That whole mess is so convoluted I doubt they even know what they’re fighting for. The truth is buried under layers and layers of secrets and lies. You, you’re straightforward. A guy who tries to murder you is, at least, being honest about his feelings toward you.”
That was actually a nice compliment. Our waiter came back and I asked for the spiciest thing on the menu. I’d missed flavor almost as much as I’d missed sight. Valentine surprised me by ordering some chicken tagine. I’d kind of figured the big corn-fed Midwesterner would have asked for a hamburger or something.
“What are you going to do if Underhill comes to Paris looking for you?”
An evil smile split Valentine’s face. “He’d better hope he doesn’t find me. You should know, it’s pretty likely he’ll turn up if they manage to ID me. He’s been haunting my footsteps since we left the Crossroads. It was enough that I had to lay low for a few months, let the trail go cold. He’s a persistent bastard.”
“Look, I get it. He killed Hawk and you want to kill him back. Awesome. Me too. But know going in that Underhill is a beast. Anders is one of the toughest, sharpest, meanest bastards I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet, and Underhill frightened him. Anders faked his death because he was worried they’d pull Underhill out of retirement to go after him. That old man is the best hunter-killer Majestic has ever had, and let me accentuate, old man. You realize how hard it is to live long enough to get old in this business?”
“Like Hawk?” Valentine’s demeanor changed subtly. I’d seen him get like this before. It was like flipping a switch. One second he was a normal, almost likable, guy. The next he was a killing machine. There was no emotion when he was like that, no fear, no remorse. Just action and reaction. That switch was what made Valentine so damned dangerous, and I had just managed to move it a little. It was weirdly fascinating to watch. And to think, this nutjob thought I was a sociopath!
I leaned back in my chair. “If he comes for you, he’ll probably have some sort of official credentials to hide behind and diplomatic immunity. You’re a fugitive, a wanted criminal. The French government will be backing him. You’ve got jack and shit. Local cops are going to be on the lookout. They’ll be working their CIs and it wouldn’t surprise me to see your face plastered all over the news soon. That’s the surface. I’m betting Majestic sends an army with him. They won’t risk you being picked up and talking to regular cops. They’ll kill you or disappear you into another black site like before.”
“I’m sure they’ll try.”
I had no doubt he’d stack the bodies when they did. “You think that’s what Hawk would want? This isn’t about just you anymore, Valentine. Exodus doesn’t need another bloodbath. They need a leader.”
Just like that, I was talking to normal Valentine again. It really was that quick. They’d done some weird shit to his brain in North Gap. Or had they? He was like this before that, too, if not as intense. “I told them everything Hunter told me, but Silvers wouldn’t let up. Who is Evangeline? What is the Alpha Point of Project Blue? I don’t know who Evangeline is or what Project Blue does. I told them, I fucking told them everything. What the hell more do they want from me?”
“Underhill wants you dead, or in a cage.”
“He doesn’t even care what I know, as long as he’s got the thrill of the chase,” Valentine muttered.
We didn’t know much about Underhill beyond his rep. He’d been some CIA type back in the old days, before Majestic had taken him down the rabbit hole. All the rumors since were that he was a tenacious son of a bitch, and that no matter what rock you were hiding under, he would find you.
“You need to watch your back, Valentine. A man like that searching for you is going to make it tougher to catch Kat.”
“I’m not going to run away, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“I wasn’t suggesting anything. I’m just telling you like it is.”
“I’m going to kill that son of a bitch, Lorenzo, or I will die trying. He’s going to know it was me, too. My .44? Hawk gave me that gun. Tuned it himself. The muzzle of that revolver will be the last thing Underhill ever sees. But . . .” he trailed off, looking around uncomfortably. “There’ll be plenty of time for that. They’ll never stop hunting me. In the meantime, what we’re doing here has to come first. It’s more important than my grudge.”
He said it in a way that almost sounded like he wanted my affirmation. Either way, it was a lot more level-headed than I expected from him. “You’re not wrong. I think Ling is making you soft.”
Valentine was distracted, lost in thought. “If killing Katarina isn’t enough, and Blue would launch anyway, we’ve got to derail the whole damned thing somehow. Maybe we can use Underhill?”
“What’re you getting at?”
“All we know about Project Blue for sure is that it was a Majestic scheme to wreck the Illuminati. They never thought they’d actually launch it. Now Majestic is pissing itself over their doomsday plot actually happening. If they have a team looking for me in the same city as Katarina . . .”
He might be onto something. “You want to aim Underhill at Kat.”
“If we can get them killing each other, everybody wins.” Valentine thought about it for a moment. “I don’t know how to make that happen, though. Everything we’ve learned so far makes it sound like the two sides have a truce. That’s why Gordon having me kill Rafael Montalban was such a big deal, because it broke their p
recious rules. Hmmm. I’ll need to think on this.”
He had gotten smarter since I’d first met him. Then he’d just been a kid, really good at killing people, sucked into a bad war. The man I’d freed from North Gap had been a suicidal mess. Now he seemed more squared away, like he had a purpose and a clue, or maybe I was wrong. I wasn’t that Ling had made him soft. It was that she’d actually given him something to live for.
LORENZO
Paris
Later that night . . .
It took me nearly twenty minutes to break into the truck rental company in Villepinte. Sure, I was out of shape, and I had to dodge security guards and attack dogs, but still . . . Twenty minutes. That was embarrassing.
Reaper’s digging found that one of Varga’s shell companies owned this facility a few miles south of Charles de Gaulle airport. Their call history showed that both Diego and Mertens had both called this business. I’d checked the layout on Google Earth, and then done a drive by. It was the sort of close to everything but secluded spot that was perfect for a smuggling operation.
Dressed in an innocuous dark gray hoodie, I’d come back in the middle of the night to work. This was just a little sneak and peak. I wasn’t expecting trouble. I’d packed light. If I was spotted, my plan was to run and hide. That way hopefully they’d think I was some junkie looking for an easy petty theft.
There had been a couple of security guards on duty, but they appeared to be the typical, just-over-minimum-wage, rent-a-cop types, and they were mostly interested in guarding the fenced enclosure that held the trucks, trailers, and heavy equipment. There was a regular boring office building and a modern garage in front. I skipped all that stuff. Customers and normal employees would be through there all the time, and Varga wouldn’t conduct his real business in front of potential witnesses. So I avoided the guards and went right to the interesting part.
There was a large workshop at the rear of the property. The satellite images had shown that it was secluded, fenced off from the rest of the facility, and had its own gate leading to a side road. It was only a short ride to the airport, so this was perfect for sorting and storing illicit cargo.
I made my way through the maze of broken-down heavy equipment and rusted out trucks. Weeds were growing through the tracks and over the tires. There wasn’t much light back here, but I reached the back fence without banging my head or shins too much. There were places to park around the workshop, but no new cars. The chain link fence was topped in razor wire, and the scent of dog shit warned me what was inside. A couple of big, nasty Rottweilers had smelled me and come over to bark and raise hell. I could have just shot the dogs with a suppressed pistol (which was why they’d nicknamed them hush puppies after all) but my goal was to recon the place without Varga’s men ever knowing I was here. You can’t exactly do that if you go around leaving dead dogs all over the place.
Besides, I’d come prepared for dogs: a Ziploc baggie with some tranquilizer-loaded steaks. I dumped it over the fence, and ten minutes later the slobbery Rottweilers had wandered off, stoned and drowsy. Once I was sure nothing else was going to come out and bite my nuts off, I climbed the fence and went to work. The good thing about there being dogs was that meant there weren’t any motion detectors around the garage, because otherwise they’d be setting them off nonstop.
The shop was made out of cinderblocks and rusty sheet metal, but the door was heavy duty and had multiple locks. The windows had bars on them and were probably wired, so I picked the locks with my bump keys. My out-of-practice fingers were clumsy, and it took me far too long, like almost a minute for the first lock. Once I’d gotten all the locks off, I suction-cupped a little octopus-looking device to the door. I didn’t understand the science behind it, but Reaper said it screwed with the magnetic fields for door alarms. Once the light on the octopus turned green, I opened the door.
There were a couple of lights on inside the garage, but most of the place was in shadow. For supposedly being for truck maintenance, I didn’t see much in the way of tools or machines inside, just lots of shelving for storage. There were a couple of vehicles parked inside by the roll up door, but most of the place was stacked full of boxes and crates. I didn’t go right in. There could be motion detectors inside, but probably no cameras. They wouldn’t want any recordings of what they moved through this place. I spotted one motion detector mounted high on the wall to the right of the door. The little white box was a familiar brand and about five or six years old, so I pulled out my little IR flashlight and shined it on the motion detector to blind it. Then I closed the door behind me and moved in, looking for other detectors. I didn’t spot any. Once I was out of its field of view, I turned the IR light off and checked my watch.
Twenty minutes . . . Shit. Sure, most of that was waiting for the dogs to get sleepy, but prison had still kicked my ass.
I keyed my radio. “Reaper, I’m in.”
“Sweet. I was monitoring the tower. No signal sent. You’re good to go.” If I had screwed up, Reaper had set up a rogue tower—a decoy cell phone relay—to hopefully intercept the alarm call. And trust me, in this business? The alarm company wouldn’t be calling the cops.
“What took you so long?”
“The dogs were massive. It took forever for them to doze off. You should have used more drugs.”
“Too much Ketamine makes the meat tastes funny.”
“You know this from experience?”
“Still better than your girlfriend’s cooking.”
Jill cut in. “I’m on the same the channel, dumbass. My cooking is fine.”
The banter made me smile. After so much time alone it felt good to have the company.
Jill was parked a mile down the side access road, at a truck fueling station. Reaper had dropped me off in front and was waiting on the main street. It never hurt to have multiple escape options. While the other two bickered, I went to work. Behind the parked cars—newer and nicer, so probably stolen—there was a desk with a computer on it. It was on and flicking through a screen saver loaded with porn. I stuck the evil-looking thumb drive with the bigass antenna that Reaper had gotten me into the USB port. While his malware or worms or whatever he called them molested the smugglers’ privacy rights, I started looking for a good place to hide our bug.
Contrary to what you see in the movies, you can’t just stick these anywhere. A listening device needs a power source, and unless you want to sneak back in repeatedly to change the batteries, you want it connected to a steady power supply. This one used both. I found an old phone jack on the closest wall, used my multitool to unscrew the faceplate, clipped the bug in, and then screwed the plate back on. That would provide it with its power normally. It had a battery backup just in case.
“Testing, testing.”
“Got it,” Reaper confirmed. “Loud and clear. Hopefully Varga’s guys will say something stupid into it soon.”
I doubted the smugglers knew anything, and it was unlikely they were stupid enough to leave any incriminating records on their computer either. As much material and money as the Montalbans moved, they had to keep some records, probably vague and in code, but all large successful criminal enterprises needed good accounting. Would they actually write down anything related to Kat’s pet project? Probably not. This whole snooping visit was a crapshoot.
I retrieved the drive and took pictures of every paper on the desk. It was probably useless, but Reaper had surprised me before with the connections he could make from seemingly random bits of data. “Reaper, I’m sending you some pictures.”
“Their shitty computer is already giving me everything. I’m sending it all along to our little friend as requested. They call her The Oracle.” He snorted. “What a pretentious call sign.”
“Yeah, that would be like calling you The Reaper.”
“That’s totally different.”
The bottom file drawer was locked, so I picked it. Inside were more file folders. I picked the ones that looked interesting, cargo manifests most
ly, and started taking more pictures.
Reaper’s scary computer brain read them in less time than it took me to move the papers around. That wasn’t a joke. I’d seen him read whole books over breakfast. “Wow . . . Huh . . . This could be something.”
“What?”
“It’s interesting.” He sounded distracted. “These are shopping lists. This is stuff the bosses want their thieves to be on the lookout to steal. But it’s weird stuff, not valuable movable merchandise they’d normally be taking. Hang on. I’ve got to make a call.”
I kept on taking pictures. They’d either burned the really incriminating stuff, or they were lazy and overconfident, because there was a lot of paperwork.
It took a while to get through all of it. It was the middle of the night, the roads were empty, and the dogs were still asleep. I figured I had time. I started searching the rest of the place. The shop was huge and packed, so going through every box would take all night, but I figured anything interesting would stick out. It appeared to be a fairly typical smuggler’s stop. There were some stolen prescription drugs, but most of the crates were filled with things like auto parts, electronics, bundles of clothing still wrapped in plastic, cigarettes, basically anything that might fall off the back of a truck. Petty criminal stuff, nothing special. If there was anything good staging through here right now, there would have been real live human guards posted.
There were several side rooms. They were mostly full of more stolen junk that they hadn’t found a buyer for yet. I kept taking pictures in case any of it turned out to be useful. All of them went right to Reaper and Valentine’s brainiac.
Reaper sounded kind of excited. “Why are the Montalbans collecting tons of mundane stuff they can just buy? I need to check these manifests against insurance company claims from the shippers.”
He was working off of a couple of laptops from inside a rental car. “How do you even do that?”
“By being a badass. I’m cracking and retrieving. Oracle is analyzing. She’s actually pretty cool, boss . . .” He was quiet for a second. Reaper was probably working with an earpiece in each ear. “She says hello. You worry about the breaking and entering and shooting people, chief. We’ve got this.”
Alliance of Shadows (Dead Six Series Book 3) Page 21
