by Tim Tigner
As the others followed suit, Achilles said, “Excuse me. Where’s the restroom?”
Mickey motioned off to the right. “It’s around the corner on the left.”
Achilles wanted to be sure no witnesses were around for what was to come. It only took about thirty seconds to verify that the other three offices and the bathroom were vacant.
When he returned, Mickey was speaking in Russian. “Yes, it’s really Mikhail. I was born in Saint Petersburg. My family immigrated to San Jose when I was eleven.”
Achilles gave Victor a nod and remained standing by the door.
Victor said, “It’s nice to meet someone who has made such good use of the opportunities his parents provided.”
“Thank you.”
“I’d like to provide you with an opportunity that may prove even more advantageous to your future.”
Mickey scooted to the edge of his chair.
“I’d like you to give us a tour of the lower lab.”
Again, Mickey’s body language indicated that he wouldn’t be skilled at poker. “Lower lab? I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
102
Black and White
French Riviera
MICKEY HAD FACED a few tough decisions in his life, but nothing compared to the one confronting him now. The big boss’s oligarch of a father and his three enormous bodyguards were asking him to betray a confidence he’d sworn at gunpoint never to reveal. For pure fear factor, the black eye of Michael’s Sig was hard to trump, even by these big-knuckled Neanderthals.
The battle waged within him, while the four watched with steely stares. On the one hand, they already knew about the lab. On the other hand, if he allowed them to enter, they would no longer need him. The weird thing was, project Raven had been completed. The lab was likely empty. He was back at his old job, as were the other Raven engineers. But the triple-pay was still coming. Hush money.
He had every intention of hushing.
As awkward as it would be to turn these four down, they would be gone by Monday. Meanwhile, Mickey hoped to work for Michael for many years to come. He had half a mind to run, but he was seated in soft furniture and the bodyguards blocked the door. “I really don’t know anything about a lower lab. I’m sure Chantal could arrange a tour of the East and West Wing Labs for you, sir. Shall I call her?”
Victor nodded at the bodyguard who had gone to the bathroom. That couldn’t be a good sign. Then Victor stood and said, “Have it your way.”
Mickey didn’t know what to do. Could this all be a test? A loyalty test? “It was a pleasure to meet you.” He stood and headed for the door like the room was on fire.
He never saw the punch coming. Didn’t even feel it, really. He just found himself doubled over grasping his stomach while struggling to breathe.
The bellicose bodyguard scooped him up in a fireman’s carry and walked him out of the room. When they turned right, he knew what was happening. It was a type of manual override. By the time Mickey caught his breath, he was back on his feet in the secret elevator.
“This jog your memory?” Victor asked.
Mickey kept quiet. He was pleased to have the traitorous decision taken from him, but far from relieved. He was disappearing underground with violent thugs. Malicious men who weren’t happy with him.
As they descended, Mickey recalled his first morning on the job in the secret lab. He hadn’t slept a wink the night before. His mind kept churning the exciting revelations and fantasies about what he’d do with all the extra pay. He’d finally given up on trying to sleep and had gone in early. Then he’d passed out in that very elevator. Mickey never told a soul about his embarrassing incident, and it hadn’t happened again. He wished he would faint now, but his pulse was pumping way too fast.
The elevator door opened and Mickey turned on the lights. He’d expected to find the laboratory emptied, but everything looked exactly as it had the last day he worked there.
“Recognize it?” The bodyguard said to Victor as they walked side by side toward the one remaining Raven and its command console.
“The drone from the U.S. kidnappings. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t this.”
The bodyguard said nothing while Victor walked around Raven, shaking his head. “You’re telling me my son knows nothing about this?”
The bodyguard held up his hand in a stop sign.
Mickey hadn’t thought about it, but now he realized that he hadn’t ever seen Vlad Vazov in the lab.
“The other engineers who worked in this lab, are they all still employed here?” the bodyguard asked.
“There were only a few of us. Everyone’s still here.”
“Working in the regular labs?”
“Yes.”
“What about the executives, are they in the labs too?”
“Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen them there since they returned from the States.”
“Where have you seen them?”
Mickey thought about it. “Just around. In the cafeteria. At the gym. This morning, I saw them heading down to the beach.”
“What’s at the beach?”
“Beach stuff. Chairs. Umbrellas. There’s a fully stocked bar. Oh, and the company yacht.”
The bodyguard nodded to himself, then gestured toward the Drone Command Module. “Show us how to use this.”
“My pleasure. It’s not that difficult. Have you ever flown a hobby drone?”
For the next two hours, they went over and over the controls, even hovering Raven in the lab. When Victor and his bodyguard were satisfied, Mickey stood and said, “I hope you don’t hold it against me. My earlier reticence. Secrecy is a really big deal around here.”
“No worries,” Victor said. “We’re big believers in that too.”
Mickey didn’t see the blow coming that time either. He just felt his jaw catch fire and saw a flash of light.
103
One Step Ahead
French Riviera
THIRTY-FOUR HOURS after landing in Paris, Rip bubbled to the surface behind Vazov’s yacht. He studied the starlit sky as his new partner surfaced beside him. What a beautiful place to commit a crime.
Quietly, they laid their diver propulsion devices on the swim deck, followed by their gun bags. Then the two rolled out of the ocean and onto the Bright Horizon.
Jo brought a finger to her lips as they crouched over their weapons. Her precaution was unnecessary. He knew the plan. But he approved of the redundancy. When working with a new partner, he was doubly careful as well.
Her choice of meeting point had been the first sign that she took security seriously. The Arc de Triomphe was in the middle of the busiest roundabout in France, a monster with twelve feeder roads and more traffic lanes than you could easily count.
Yesterday, beneath the blazing sun, he had walked around that Paris landmark in his boots and cowboy hat, waiting for her to arrive. After an hour of pulling his roller bag back and forth amidst throngs of tourists, he began to wonder if Jo’s summons was a bad joke. Then she appeared in a small white Peugeot and yelled for him to get in.
From the Arc de Triomphe, she drove wildly around the city until at last she pulled into an underground parking garage. There, she scanned him and his bag before changing cars and driving away, leaving his boots, hat and empty suitcase behind. She had lightened up after that, but still hadn’t taken him to Achilles.
Achilles had reportedly scouted Vazov’s yacht for them. He had also formulated their game plan. But everything had been relayed through Jo.
Rip looked forward to finally meeting the Olympian later tonight.
While the stars twinkled brightly in the sky and the waves sloshed playfully against the yacht, Jo pulled two cell phones from her gun bag. She switched both on and handed him one. They’d be using them to talk and text each other during the operation. Next, she doled out their armaments, H&K MP7A1s and tranquilizer guns. Rip approved of the combination. It gave them options.
After an equipment check, Jo held both her barrels side by side, then spread them apart. One pointing left, the other right. Time to split up and search the yacht, confirming that it was indeed empty.
They’d agreed earlier that he would search deck two where the lounge and galley were located, and deck four, which had the secondary captain’s chair and a dining area. She would clear the staterooms on deck one and deck three, which held primary navigation and a soft seating area.
He found nothing.
She joined him up top five minutes after they rolled out of the water. “All clear.”
“So now we wait?”
“Now we wait.” She pointed to three large backpacks resting under the dining table that ran down the middle of the deck. “Those are the Drone Command Modules. And those,” she pointed toward the bow of the yacht, where white tarpaulins covered three mattress-sized objects, “those are the drones.”
They couldn’t risk going out on the bow for fear of being spotted by a partygoer looking down. “You said they’re the same model used in the States, but two have centrifugal guns rather than winches?”
Jo nodded. “According to Achilles.”
“How was he able to confirm that without being caught?”
“He was undercover.”
“Is that where he is now, undercover?”
“No comment.”
Rip gestured toward the terrace high overhead. “He’s up there on the cliff, isn’t he? Preparing to hop over the railing when the moment is right?”
“He’s where he needs to be to get one step ahead of Ivan.”
“And how does he know where that is? Nobody has ever gotten one step ahead of Ivan.”
“It’s just his best guess. But I think he’s a good guesser.”
“Seems to me, we’re one step ahead of Ivan. It’s pretty clear, right? The drones are here, so they have to be coming. The party is up there, so we know where they’re going.”
“I agree. But it’s Ivan, so I know we’re missing something.”
A light flashed on shore. A rectangular light. The elevator. Three men were briefly visible before the door closed behind them.
Jo mumbled, “Michael.”
“Who?”
“Ivan’s right-hand man. I tangled with him once before. It didn’t end well for me.”
“Well, tonight’s your chance to even the score.”
“Yes, it is.”
Jo pulled out her cell phone as they retreated to the hiding places Achilles had selected and prepared for them, storage compartments beneath the bench seats on the party deck. Rip noted that her screen was already active. He hadn’t seen her dial. Then again, Jo was known to be exceptionally quick with her hands. She spoke into her phone. “Achilles, they’re coming.”
“Roger that.”
“He’s been listening all this time?” Rip asked.
Jo winked. “One step ahead.”
104
Words Unspoken
French Riviera
BORIS ASSUMED a reporter’s eye as he studied the scene before him. He did so because it struck him that before-and-after photos would be on the cover of every newspaper in Europe tomorrow morning—if cameras or cell phones had been allowed at Vazov’s fortieth birthday party. The contrast would be breathtaking. Mind numbing. Heartbreaking.
One couldn’t imagine a more opulent party. White ties and evening gowns, champagne and caviar, candlelight and crystal. Black tuxedoed waiters, gold linen tablecloths, silver place settings, vibrant bouquets of flowers. All set on the clifftop terrace of a billionaire’s mansion overlooking the French Riviera. It was utterly spectacular. And it was about to become the most shocking murder scene of the century.
“It’s time for cake and fireworks. Everybody outside!” Boris said with a swipe of his arm. He, Pavel and Michael were charged with getting people out of the building and onto the terrace. That included guests and caterers. Michael was busy emptying the kitchen under the pretext that the boss wanted all hands either pouring drinks or serving dessert. Pavel had locked the building’s front doors and was now clearing the restrooms and lobby. Boris was manning the terrace doors. He was the one-way valve at the end of the funnel.
His was the least pleasant position. But he understood why Ivan had assigned it to him. Boris wasn’t a people person.
Giselle from reception was walking his way. She wore a teal gown with slit sides that made her eyes pop and exposed lots of leg.
Boris held up a hand. “I’m sorry, we need everyone on the terrace please.”
“I need to use the restroom.”
“Vazov wants everyone seated for the show.”
“I’ll just be a minute.”
Boris used the line Ivan had fed him. “I’ll lose my job if you miss the show or walk in after it starts. He has something special planned.”
She backed off. “Okay. I’ll hold it.”
Pavel showed up with a handsome couple Boris didn’t recognize. Both were a bit red in the face and disheveled. Pavel mouthed “closet” as he ushered them outside. “That’s it. Let’s lock the doors.”
Boris took a last look around. He’d spent years here, but would never return.
They headed for the beach elevator. It was accessed via a dedicated stairway at the far right end of the lobby, near the kitchen entrance. Michael appeared as they approached the stairhead. The three descended together.
Nobody spoke.
Boris was certain he’d never experience a more somber moment, and undoubtedly the others felt the same. The elevator ride was a transition from their old lives to their new. From their old selves to their new. It wasn’t an easy transition to process.
Before he met Ivan, Boris had been innocent. After he met Ivan, he lost that innocence bit by bit until all his compassion was gone. He hadn’t really noticed while it happened. The moral descent had been so gradual. Meanwhile, the violence had slowly escalated to the point where he became an accessory to murder.
Initially, the lifestyle had stolen his focus, then the money took center stage. It had gone from good to great to a $6 million payout.
Now, over the course of the next few minutes, the transition would become complete. From comfortable to extremely wealthy. And from criminal to mass murderer. It was a leap he’d never have made from where he started. Had he seen it coming, he would have turned and run in the other direction. But now it was just the bottom of a slippery slope. Jumping was not required. Running was not an option.
The elevator pinged open, exposing the walkway that transitioned into the dock. The three stepped beneath the stars and eyed their getaway vehicle. The Bright Horizon was a beautiful yacht, 66-feet of luxury designed to be owner-operated.
They jogged to the gate that kept out the unauthorized. As Michael reached for his key, Boris remembered he had forgotten a job. “Crap. I have to go back to disable the elevator.”
Without further word, they reversed course, stopping along the way to pull a sledgehammer and two steel wedges from beneath a mound of sand.
Pavel gave him a leg up onto the elevator roof, then Michael handed him the tools. Ivan had instructed him to cut the cable, but the cable wasn’t exposed. Boris had agreed, then selected the simpler method of driving steel wedges between the lift and the rail it ran on. They would function like door stops. Plenty effective for preventing the elevator from operating this evening.
Three good whacks were enough to embed each. He tossed the hammer, slid to the ground, and returned to the gate double-time. Michael already had it unlocked and held open.
Time was tight.
They ran the rest of the way to the boat and out onto the bow, where each grabbed a tarp and pulled, exposing his assigned drone. With the Ravens free to fly, Ivan’s three lieutenants climbed quickly to the top deck, where they removed the Drone Command Modules from their carrying cases.
Once the DCMs were set up on the table they’d been stored beneath, Michael typed a one word text for Ivan. He
hit send and held out both fists. Boris and Pavel bumped them and nodded, but no words were spoken.
They launched all three drones at once. From the top deck of the Bright Horizon the sound was like a swarm of hornets. The gun drones flew to the left and right, with The Claw drone between them. All three flew toward the base of the cliff, then spread apart and began to rise.
105
Toast
French Riviera
IVAN WATCHED Victor Vazov stand and take the mike, with vodka glass in hand. He was center stage, so to speak, with dozens of tables fanning out before him and his back to the guard wall. Stars above, sea below, ocean behind, and his birthday boy beside him.
As Victor Vazov toasted his son—the visionary businessman, the accomplished athlete, the most-eligible bachelor—Ivan studied the scene with a critical eye. Everyone was out on the terrace. By his count, not a soul was missing. As planned.
Ivan had seen his guys doing the jobs assigned—mopping up strays, herding guests, locking doors. Six minutes had passed since they closed the last latch. He should get the Go text any second.
Funny how whole lives hinged on a few select seconds. Catching the right girl’s glance or getting hit by a car. Shaking the right hand or suffering a stroke. Dodging a bullet or catching one. Nobody on the terrace would be dodging bullets tonight. Not at 100 rounds per second.
His watch vibrated. He checked his wrist and read the text. Just two tiny letters, but a world of meaning: Go.
Ivan stood and turned to the stone wall a few feet behind his chair, the waist-high barrier that stood between terrace-goers and a 400-foot drop. He hopped up on it, stood with arms extended at shoulder height, and began walking toward Victor. He could sense the guests’ attention shifting, but didn’t dare to look in their direction. The ledge atop the wall was only a foot wide.
