70
“GRANT!” I scream.
He disappears in the boat’s wake, then resurfaces seconds later.
“TURN THE BOAT AROUND!” I scream at Pierre.
He looks behind us, sees that Grant isn’t there, and throttles back the boat’s speed so that we can pull another U-turn.
Meanwhile, the helicopter has stopped following us and is now hovering over Grant in the water.
One of the guys with the rappelling ropes jump into the water. Within seconds he has his arms around Grant in a headlock. Grant doesn’t appear to be fighting back.
“HURRY!” I scream at Pierre. We’re over a thousand feet away – if we don’t go faster, Grant has no chance.
Pierre shouts something in French and points at the helicopter. I’m pretty sure he’s talking about the machine gunner in the open door.
I don’t care. All I care about is Grant’s life.
“GO!” I scream angrily.
Pierre resigns himself, then yells, “Down, down!” as he motions with his hand.
I crouch in the back seat. Pierre does the same behind the wheel, making sure his head is protected, then moves forward at maybe a quarter of our former speed.
I’m about to yell at him to go faster when the machine gunner opens fire. This time it’s not a warning shot.
I scream as bullets fly around us like angry bees and blast the fiberglass hull of the boat with splintered holes.
Pierre immediately kicks the engine into reverse, and we begin moving slowly backwards instead of forwards.
As soon as we’re in retreat, the bullets stop. The gunfire must be a threat to keep Grant in line. If he behaves, no harm comes to me.
When I finally peek from my hiding place, both Grant and the mercenary are dangling midair beneath the copter. Apparently a winch is pulling them up, because they ascend faster than any human could possibly climb a rope.
Once they get to the helicopter door, two thugs roughly pull Grant inside.
“GRANT!” I scream, all hope destroyed.
Then the copter begins moving towards us, but it swings sideways so that the machine gunner is facing us.
Pierre cuts the engine and screams, “UNDER THE BOAT! UNDER THE BOAT!”
I don’t quite understand what he means – Is he saying there’s something under the boat? – until he dives into the river.
Oh SHIT.
I jump off, too, just as a thousand bullets turn the front of the speedboat into Swiss cheese.
A second after I hit the water, I feel a hand grab me and yank me backwards. I know it’s Pierre, but it still scares the hell out of me. I kick my legs and go with him under the shadow of the hull.
Above us, it sounds like tree branches cracking. It must be the bullets slamming into fiberglass.
Then that noise stops, and a new sound begins: fwip fwip fwip fwip fwip.
I have to know what’s going on. I don’t even think about whatever horrible chemicals are in the water – I open my eyes.
Everything is murky, but there’s enough light to see dozens of silver strands of bubbles shooting through the yellowish-brown water all around us.
Ever seen the beginning of Saving Private Ryan, where the soldiers fall off the boats at Normandy and the Germans keep firing? Remember how the bullets look underwater?
It’s totally like that. It would be mesmerizing if it weren’t so terrifying.
The underwater gunfire keeps up for almost ten seconds, and then the bullets stop.
My lungs ache and my brain is screaming AIR! so I start to swim out, but Pierre grabs me and hauls me back.
I immediately understand why. After the fwip fwip fwip noises stop, I notice a dull roar that carries through the water. Also, the sunlit surface of the river looks choppy – presumably from the air beating down from the helicopter blades directly overhead.
Finally the roar recedes and the water’s surface returns to normal. Not a second too soon – my lungs are on fire, and it’s impossible to hold my breath any longer. We surface and gasp and suck down as much air as possible.
As I tread water, I search the sky and finally see it: the helicopter is just a dot in the distance, a small black insect.
The mercenaries have Grant. Soon, so will Epicurus.
The only chance I have is to track Grant and somehow get him back – before Epicurus kills him.
71
We climb back into the boat, which is taking on water slowly. Pierre makes a call over his cell phone, which thankfully he has in a waterproof case. Probably standard issue for a man who works on a river. He starts the engine, I start bailing water, and we’re able to limp back to shore, where Marcel and one of his guys are waiting for us with a car.
I grab the backpack and salvage the laptop, mostly to keep it out of the hands of the cops. It’s toast – a couple of bullets have gone all the way through. Not a problem, though; I backed up the tracking program on a server before we left. That’s all I need.
The boat is halfway underwater and sinking fast when we abandon it and get into the car.
“What happened?” Marcel asks as we speed off.
“They got Grant.”
I’m surprised at how unemotional I am. I refuse to think about the implications of what I just said. All I can concentrate on is getting him back, whatever that takes.
“Mon Dieu,” Marcel says, his eyes wide.
“It’s okay, I can track him. But I’m going to need some things, and I need them fast.”
“Anything, anything,” Marcel agrees.
“A laptop – and some clothes.” I’m sopping wet, after all.
“Immediatement,” Marcel promises as he pulls out his cell phone.
“Make it jeans and tennis shoes. I need to be comfortable.”
“They will be available when we arrive.”
“We’re not going back to the restaurant,” I say. “I need to know where JP and Dominique are. I need to talk to them now.”
JP is a must if I want to get Grant back. And as much as I hate Dominique, I could use her help, too.
“Of course, of course,” Marcel agrees.
“I need the laptop right away. The clothes can wait.”
“I understand. I will have my men bring them to you.”
Pierre speaks heatedly in French to Marcel.
“What’d he say?” I ask.
Marcel looks embarrassed. “He, uh… he says he was paid to transport people, not to be shot at and lose his boat. There will be trouble with the police, he says.”
I’m slightly pissed that all this guy can think of is his boat when Grant is in the clutches of a murderous psychopath – but then I calm down and tell myself that he signed on for one thing, and got something completely different. Kind of like me at the beginning of all this – except Pierre had even less warning.
“Tell him I’ll pay him triple what he was promised, and I’ll cover the boat,” I say. “But it’ll have to wait until after I know what’s going on with Grant.”
Marcel translates, and Pierre looks happy. He turns to me and manages in halting English, “I am sorry… Grant… we did not save…”
I’m sorry too, I think.
But it’s not over yet.
72
We get to our destination in 15 minutes: a non-descript apartment building in a slightly seedy neighborhood. One of Marcel’s guys is standing outside with a laptop case slung over his shoulder.
“The clothes will be here in 30 minutes,” Marcel says as he escorts me inside the safe house.
“Fine,” I say, booting up the laptop as I walk behind him.
JP answers the door when Marcel knocks. Both he and Dominique are surprised as hell to see me. I must be a sight, all drenched and wild-eyed. Like Jonah washed up on the beach after getting spat out by the whale.
JP and Dominique immediately start peppering me with questions.
“Shut up and listen,” I order, and lay it all out – every detail, from the moment I got into
Mailin’s SUV until now.
At the same time, I set up everything I need on the laptop to start hacking. I’ve done this ten thousand times before, so I basically run on autopilot as I talk to them.
They listen to the whole story in horror. If they try to interrupt, I glare at them, which shuts them up – and then I keep talking and typing.
At the very end I say, “I’m going after Grant. I don’t care how dangerous it is, I’m going. What I need to know is, are you with me or not?”
“I am with you,” JP says, then undercuts the tension with a joke: “I want my ten million, after all.”
Dominique looks at me suspiciously. “You desire my help?”
I swallow my pride. “I need you if we’re going to have any chance of getting Grant back.”
She nods, and for once doesn’t put on airs or play any games. “I will do whatever is necessary.”
“But how can you track him?” JP asks, and gestures to the bullet-ridden laptop on a nearby table, next to the backpack. “Did it not destroy your information?”
“I backed up the program I wrote,” I say. “I just downloaded it now. I only need a few more seconds – ”
The program loads, and a Google map of France appears, just like I programmed. There is a blinking dot right beside Paris.
Grant.
“Fuck yeah,” I say, relieved.
JP, Dominique, and Marcel all crowd behind me.
I zoom in to see exactly where he is. The dot is somewhere northwest of Paris – Pierrefitte-sur-Seine, whatever the hell that is.
Dominique gasps. “That is Grant? That is where he is?”
“Yes. How fast can we get there?”
“Perhaps thirty minutes,” JP answers.
“Excellent – we’re going to need every guy you’ve got, Marcel – ”
Suddenly the dot moves to the left edge of the screen.
I frown. “What the fuck?”
A second later, it completely disappears.
Oh no –
JP leans over my shoulder. “What happened?”
Dominique voices my worst fears. “Did they find the GPS?” she asks in a terrified voice.
He swallowed it. The only way they could get it out of him that fast is to make him vomit –
Or cut it out of him.
Please God, no –
And then I wonder if maybe there’s another explanation.
I zoom out several clicks, and there it is: the dot reappears over someplace named Montmagny.
But it keeps moving. Fast. Way too fast for ground transportation.
“He’s still in the helicopter,” I say, somewhat relieved – although I begin worrying how far they’ll take him.
JP shakes his head. “No… a helicopter does not move that quickly.”
As if to corroborate his words, the dot steadily moves offscreen.
I zoom out again until I can see all of France, then do some rough calculations in my head using the map scale in the lower right of the screen.
The dot’s travelling at least 400 miles an hour.
“He’s in a plane,” I whisper. “They’ve already got him on a plane.”
73
“Where are they taking him?” Marcel asks.
“New York, probably,” I say. “Or maybe Los Angeles.”
“How do you know that?” Dominique demands.
“I don’t, not for sure. But New York’s where Epicurus attacked us, and LA is where Grant ran across him the first time.”
“Perhaps he is taking him to London,” JP suggests.
I zoom out enough so we can see England on the map.
“No – if they were taking him to London, they’d be heading north. But they’re flying due west. They’re definitely headed for the U.S., or at least North America.” I turn to look at Marcel. “Can you get us a plane?”
Marcel winces. “Perhaps.”
I don’t like the sound of that.
“How soon?” I ask.
“I do not know.”
“What’s your best guess?”
Marcel winces even more. “Twelve hours…?”
“Twelve hours?! He’ll be dead in twelve hours!” I grow frantic. “Tell them we can pay a million dollars – I can pay them more, if that’s what it takes!”
“I can call my friends, and perhaps we will have luck – but…” Marcel shrugs. His meaning is clear: don’t count on it. “By land or water, we would be fine. Even a helicopter to London. But an airplane capable of travel to the United States? My associates do not have such a thing waiting on a runway. There are preparations, plans that must be made – ”
Marcel keeps talking apologetically, but I tune him out as I try to think of alternatives.
Commercial airlines are out. I’d be arrested as soon as I tried to buy a ticket. Even if I could sneak on, what if I book a flight to New York, and Grant gets taken to LA? What then?
Dealing with billionaires and their private jets spoiled me. Connor and Lily did us the kindest favor possible, and one that’s nigh impossible to be repeated by anyone else.
I think of Mike the pilot and wish he were here. But even if he was, the plane he ditched is at the bottom of the English Channel. No one else has –
Wait.
Mailin.
I audibly groan.
The FBI is the worst possible option I can think of, but unfortunately, it’s the only option.
I just hope that Mailin’s still alive. Both because he’s my friend, and because I need him right now if I’m going to have any chance of getting Grant back alive.
“The FBI was going to fly me back to the U.S.,” I say. “Mailin might be able to get us on.”
This causes the entirely predictable reaction of everyone freaking out.
Dominique curses in French, while JP protests vehemently: “They will never let us on the airplane. And even if they do, they will never, never let us go free after.”
“You’re not Americans. I’m the only one they want – why would they care about you?”
JP laughs mirthlessly. “Perhaps you would like to speak with the Police Nationale and request their assistance? I think they will give you the same reception that your Bureau Fédéral will give me.”
Alright. He has a point.
As the French say: Touché.
But I’m not about to give up on a technicality.
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” I say. “Let’s ask him.”
74
Over the protestations of both JP and Dominique, Marcel gives me a burner cell phone.
I remember Mailin’s number from the other day, when Grant was on the phone with him during the Eiffel Tower bust and had me repeat it back to him.
The memory hurts. All I can think of is Grant’s face – smiling, cocky, alive.
No.
Stop.
Just put one foot in front of the other and DO THIS.
I dial Mailin’s number and say a silent prayer.
Please God, please let him be alive –
Someone answers after a couple of rings.
“…hello?” Mailin’s voice says cautiously.
“Oh thank God,” I breathe out in relief.
“EVE?! Are you okay?!”
“Yes – but they got Grant.”
“Oh shit…”
“Yeah,” I say, and my resentment boils over. “Do you believe me now?”
“I always believed you, Eve. But Duplass is definitely convinced.”
“So he’s alive?”
“Yeah. He got shot, but it was minor. He’ll be fine.”
I almost say, Well, that’s too bad, but I refrain at the last second. Not the best move to wish death on the people you need help from.
“Are YOU okay?” I ask instead.
“Yeah. I got banged up, but I made it. Jones and Martin… didn’t.”
I’m assuming Jones and Martin were the other two guys in the SUV.
Shit. Now I feel horrible.
&
nbsp; No matter how much of an asshole Duplass is, he doesn’t deserve to get murdered. And those other two agents certainly didn’t.
“Do you want the asshole responsible?” I ask.
“The manhunt’s already on for the shooters. The French government has – ”
“I meant Epicurus.”
“Oh, believe me, whoever’s behind this is going away forever when we catch him. And we will – every resource the Bureau has is going into this as of thirty minutes ago.”
“No – I mean, do you want him today?”
There’s a long pause.
“…what are you not telling me?”
“Grant swallowed a GPS chip before the mercenaries got him. I’m currently tracking him on a plane that looks like it’s heading for the U.S. – probably straight back to Epicurus.”
“Holy SHIT! That’s fantastic!”
“There’s a catch.”
“What?”
“I have the tracking software. You need it to get to Epicurus – and I need your plane to get me to Grant.”
“That’s it?”
“No. I have two friends of Grant’s here with me. They’re French, and they’re going to help me get him back. I need you to take them, too, and I need you to promise not to turn them over to the French authorities when this is over.”
“So they’re criminals.”
“Small-time, nothing violent. And I can promise you they’ve never committed a single crime on American soil.”
JP makes a face like, Uhhh, that’s not EXACTLY accurate…
I ignore him. “So there’s no reason why the Bureau should care about them.”
“We don’t need their help. We can handle it just fine.”
“Doesn’t matter. They go on the plane with me, and they walk away scot free after it’s all over, or no deal.”
“We both know that’s bullshit, Eve. You’re not going to torpedo the only chance of getting Grant back over a couple of French crooks.”
“Mailin… I need you to promise me,” I say, my voice on the edge of pleading.
He sighs. “That’s not even the big issue here. You know that if we save Grant – and by ‘we,’ I mean the FBI – if we save him, we’re arresting him. We’re not going to help him out just so we can cut him loose.”
The Billionaire's Redemption (The Billionaire's Kiss, Book Five): (A Billionaire Alpha Romance) Page 20
