by Brian Drake
Selecting the photo gallery, Tracy handed the device to Raven and told him to scroll through.
Pictures of a man and woman, neither of whom tripped any recognition in Raven’s mental mug file, filled the small screen.
“They aren’t major players,” he pointed out.
Osborne and Tracy said nothing.
The photos showed the couple either together or alone, going about daily activity.
The woman was tall and curvy with blonde hair never in the same style twice. The dark-haired male matched her in height and looked lean; a shot of him without a jacket revealed a muscular upper body.
“Who are they?”
Tracy said, “Fortun Dacourt and Geneva Ramsden. They’re tied in with the major syndicate in Marseille. Basically, they’re street pushers catering to the new money in town. The tech crowd, stuff like that.”
Raven handed back Tracy’s phone. “I imagined the target a little bigger. The three of us shouldn’t have too much trouble against those two.”
“There will be more the night we make the hit,” Osborne said. “Dacourt and his girlfriend will meet a syndicate delivery crew at an out of the way place. It’s been a mall parking lot the last few times. In exchange for the new shipment, Dacourt hands over the syndicate’s cut of recent sales.”
“The money we want is in Dacourt’s case,” Tracy added.
Raven nodded. “How many on the delivery side?”
“Usually four,” said Osborne, “three of which carry submachine guns. Dacourt doesn’t carry but Ramsden usually has a pistol. Not sure about the fourth syndicate man. He keeps his hands free for the money and drugs but I’m sure he’s armed too.”
Raven swallowed more beer. “You sure this is worth it?”
“I’m sure,” Aaron said.
“All of them need to be killed, Aaron. If even one survives, you two are on the run, and the syndicate won’t get tired.”
Osborne shrugged. “We better not miss.”
“All I have is my pistol,” Raven said. “What kind of hardware are we bringing to the party?”
“It’s inside,” Tracy said.
9
Osborne pulled a case from beneath the messy bed in the master bedroom. He didn’t care about the rumpled sheets. Tracy tried to straighten up as Aaron popped the locks and lifted the lid.
Three automatic rifles sat in foam cutouts, along with magazines and sighting accessories. Osborne grabbed one of the weapons and held it up for Raven to see.
“Galil ACE31, short-barrel, 7.62x39 and takes Kalashnikov mags. Folding stock. It will conceal under a trench coat.”
Raven took the offered weapon. Manufactured by Israel, Raven knew the Galil well. The new ACE31 felt lighter, the short barrel a bit of a minus in his book. It measured eight-and-a-half inches and he’d have preferred at least 16-inches for the rifle cartridge the gun fired. But the length would suffice to get the bullets on target at close range. He didn’t figure they’d be making 300-yard shots at Dacourt and his girlfriend.
Raven tucked the stock into his shoulder and aimed at the opposite wall. The iron sights looked good, but infrared optic sights sat in the case. He’d attach one to the upper Picatinny rail. He folded the stock against the receiver and extended the Galil in both hands.
“Looks all right,” he said.
Tracy stopped fussing with the bed. “All right?” she said. “It’s terrific. We tested each gun with 200 rounds.”
Raven handed the short-barreled rifle back to Osborne.
“I was going to ask if you had.”
Osborne returned the Galil to its foam cutout and shoved the case back under the bed.
“A few more questions,” Raven said. “How long have you been watching Dacourt and Ramsden?”
“Three months,” Osborne said. “They’re resupplied once a month.”
“Where?”
“I told you, a mall in Marseille.”
“Have you been there?”
“Twice.”
“Did you watch the drop take place?”
“We did,” Tracy said. She folded her arms.
“Tell me what you saw.”
“Dacourt drives a black Jaguar,” she said. “Geneva is always in the passenger seat.”
“And she has the gun?”
“Yes,” Osborne said.
“What kind?”
“Machine pistol,” Tracy said. “Beretta 93R.”
“Nice piece,” Raven said. “All right. What vehicle meets them?”
“White panel van,” Osborne said. “I’ve secured a matching model.”
“We’re taking the place of the delivery crew?”
“Right. It will keep them off guard and we’ll ambush them at the last second.”
“I’ll drive the van,” Tracy said. “You two will set up near the Jag. Dacourt’s car sits lower than the van so he has to get out to trade his money for the drugs. Geneva gets out too and stands near the hood of the car.”
“And while they’re exposed,” Raven said, “we take them out and take off with the money.”
“Yes.”
“What if they change the meet?” Raven said. “Are we prepared to start over with a new plan?”
“Shit happens,” Osborne said. “If they don’t show up, we know where they live.”
“Okay,” Raven said. He paused. They’d answered the questions satisfactorily, but he still wanted to find a hole in the plan. Not to lord it over them, but to find a solution. At this point, they’d indeed worked out a sensible ambush.
“What about the other van? Do we know where it starts from?”
“No,” Tracy said.
“Then this operation depends on getting there early,” Raven said, “and out before the cartel crew shows up.”
“Yes,” she said.
“And we’ll let them find the bodies? Because there’s your problem. What if they show up early?”
Osborne laughed. “They’re usually late.”
“What about the mall? Security cameras?”
Osborne answered. “Dacourt parks the Jag at the far end of the lot. There are security cameras on the exterior of the building, but we’ll be too far away for a clear picture.”
“What’s around the property?”
“Couple of office buildings, which will be empty,” Tracy said. “There’s a neighborhood, too.”
“A neighborhood? In other words, we’ll wake up a bunch of people who will call the police.”
Osborne said, “They wake up, take a minute or two to realize what’s going on, and then call. It’ll be five minutes before anybody calls, and another three minutes before the police get there.”
“No,” Raven said. “Everybody’s on edge after the car bomb. Cut the time in half.”
“Dammit, Sam—”
“Hey! You want this to work, or do you want to screw it up? I’m trying to help you.”
“Sounds like you’re trying to talk us out of it.”
Tracy said, “Aaron—”
“I know you think this is crazy, Sam, but don’t act like I’m a green rookie.”
“If you’d take my offer, we wouldn’t have to do this at all.”
“We are doing this!”
“Then plan on a faster police response!”
“Stop it, both of you!” Tracy shouted.
Raven and Osborne locked eyes, both waiting for the other to respond. Raven held his ground. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of Osborne’s face. He wiped it away.
“Fine,” he said. “You’re right. The cops might show up faster.”
“The rest of the plan sounds okay,” Raven said, “but my offer is good up to the last minute.”
“What offer?” Tracy said.
He turned to her. “I told Aaron I’d give him the money.”
She looked at Aaron. “And you said no?”
“I have to do it this way, honey.”
“Why?”
“I’m done explaining myself,” Osborne said
. “If you two want to back out, it’s up to you.”
Tracy glanced at Raven. Her eyes pleaded with him to do something. Raven’s mind went blank. If he hadn’t been able to talk Aaron out of the scheme already, what else could he say? It was more evidence Aaron had a hidden agenda, and he wasn’t going to discover the truth by arguing.
If he insisted on going forward, there was nothing else to do but follow him. The answers would be forthcoming. As long as nothing went wrong during the ambush.
And it would go wrong. There would be problems. Always.
“When do we leave?” Raven said.
“Tomorrow. I have a chartered flight standing by.”
“Chartered? Sounds like you thought of everything.”
“Better believe it. I have a lot at stake. We can’t mess this up.”
Raven believed him.
But not necessarily for his stated reasons.
A chartered flight? Was he spending his last dime on the jet, or had he slipped up with his “it’s been rough and I’m poor” routine?
Raven wanted to know more about Tracy too. What was her full background? What did she know that he didn’t? Aaron hadn’t told her about Raven’s offer; what else had he hidden from her? What had she tried to communicate with her look?
All Raven knew for sure was he wanted to get this over with as soon as possible, with as little problems as possible, and discover the truth.
“I guess we have it covered,” Raven said. “Is there any beer left?”
“Yeah,” Aaron said.
They left the bedroom.
Around four in the morning in Marseille, a container ship from Turkey docked at the Port of Marseille. Dock workers spent the day unloading the ship. Derrick operators removed the legitimate cargo but several crew members also carried off smaller containers. Customs crews conducted inspections quickly, taking for granted the smaller containers held children’s toys as the paperwork stated.
The smaller containers were placed onto the beds of two pick-ups, which were then driven to a warehouse adjacent to the port property.
At the warehouse, men opened the containers. They transferred bags of cocaine, hidden within plastic dolls, to tote bags.
By morning couriers collected the totes for transport into the city.
“This is making me nervous,” Geneva Ramsden said.
“The crickets are loud tonight.”
“It’s not the crickets, dear. We are not using this place for a drop ever again.”
Fortun Dacourt looked at Geneva as she sat in the passenger seat with the Beretta 93R machine pistol in her lap. Capable of firing semi-auto or three-round bursts, the 93R was good for laying down suppressive fire.
“I won’t argue with a woman who has a gun in her lap,” he said.
“It’s convenient but we’re getting careless.”
“We have nothing to fear from the police. Our bribes assure us of that.”
Geneva laughed. “Did you forget what just happened in Paris? The jihadists can buy more bombs if they steal our money.”
Dacourt checked his watch. At least ten more minutes. The faster the deal ended, the sooner Geneva would quit complaining about the drop location. And find something else to nag him about.
Though she did have a point. They’d used the mall location too many times.
He didn’t want to push his luck.
Dacourt’s Jaguar F-Type sat in the farthest corner of the huge empty parking lot. The multi-story garage on the other side of the complex might have provided more cover, but Dacourt did not like the limited exits. From where they sat, they had four potential escape points.
The bright parking lamps spread throughout the lot at least helped them see anybody coming. There was something to be said about total awareness, even if it also worked against them. An enemy could see them clearly too. The Jag was fast if they required a speedy getaway, and Geneva was a good shot with the Beretta 93R.
Behind them, the crickets chirped, making an awful racket, within a cluster of trees and brush. If they had to escape on foot, they weren’t far from a neighborhood where they could disappear. They’d stashed a backup car in the neighborhood for such an emergency.
Dacourt’s arm dangled out the open window, which he’d lowered to let in the cool night air. It also allowed him to hear the engine of an approaching vehicle.
“It’s time,” Dacourt said.
Geneva grabbed the Beretta from her lap and clicked off the safety.
The lamp stands with their bright tops annoyed Raven to no end. The glare ruined his night vision.
To keep from being exposed, Raven stayed in the shadows of the trees where they bordered the pavement. The Jag, parked face out, sat about fifty yards away. Keeping low, he moved in spurts, using the trees for cover. He was careful of ground shadows cast by the lights in case they concealed obstacles he might trip over. A twisted ankle would wreck the mission quick, and as Osborne said, they couldn’t mess up.
When he guessed he was twenty yards from the Jag, he dropped flat on the uneven ground and braced the Galil ACE 31 in both hands. He settled the red dot of the mounted scope on the windshield.
Speaking into the com unit microphone near his mouth, he said, “In position. Two confirmed in the Jag.”
“It will be a shame to shoot up that car,” Tracy said.
“Where you two at?” Raven said.
“About to turn into the parking lot,” Tracy said.
Osborne replied, “Near the rear of the car.”
“Dammit, Aaron, I’m in your line of fire.”
“Better move, bud.”
Raven cursed and scooted deeper into the shadows before rising and advancing again. If he could line up on the passenger side, he’d avoid Aaron’s “friendly fire”.
Tracy said over the com link, “We have a bigger problem. I think the delivery crew is right behind me.”
“They’re early,” Osborne said.
“What happened to ‘usually late’, Aaron?” Raven said.
He ignored Aaron’s reply as he moved faster, jumping obstacles, ducking others. No more time for careful steps. Then, as he lined up with the Jag’s passenger side, he dropped again and sighted on the female in the passenger seat.
“They’ve noticed both vans and they look nervous,” Raven reported.
Tracy was driving the duplicate van toward the Jag with the other van a few car lengths behind her.
The ambush had gone off the rails before it began.
The early arrival of the delivery crew now left them outnumbered, and outgunned, putting the operation in jeopardy, and Raven wasn’t sure how Osborne would react. Would he abort, or open fire in desperation, and take the chance of getting them all killed?
Sweat trickled down Raven’s neck.
10
“Two vans?” Geneva said.
“We are leaving.” Dacourt pressed the ignition button, the big V8 rumbled to life, and he put the gear selector in drive. He stepped on the gas and the car surged forward.
Automatic gunfire slammed into the back of the Jag. Geneva screamed Dacourt steered left and the coupe roared across the pavement. The bright lamps reminded him of their drawback as the glare exposed them.
The right rear tire exploded, the back of the car sinking, the harsh grind of steel rim on blacktop filling the cabin. Geneva twisted around, fighting the seat belt, the Beretta 93R clutched in her right hand.
The Jag fishtailed, Dacourt letting off the gas to turn into the spin, and Geneva pushed the Beretta out her window. She fired two three-round bursts at the tree line. More gunfire struck the Jag, and Dacourt hit the gas again, trailing a shower of sparks as the car rocketed toward the main building. They could put distance between them and the shooters, and slip away once on the opposite side. Then a careful hike to the back-up car.
Dacourt remained calm despite the sheen of nervous sweat on his face.
The exchanges were supposed to be routine.
What had gone wrong
?
Tracy’s first instinct was to go after the Jag, but Raven and Aaron were turning it into Swiss cheese. There was still the other van to deal with. The drug crew with their automatic weapons took priority.
Her Galil ACE 31 lay on the floor, held upright by the sling she’d looped around the armrest of the passenger seat. A Glock 19X pistol rode in shoulder leather under her left arm.
She swung the van hard left, tires screeching, and braked hard. Throwing the van into park, she grabbed the ACE and jumped out. The delivery van laid a screaming patch of rubber on the ground as the driver braked to avoid a collision.
Tracy ran around the front of her van, the Galil tight to her shoulder, sighting through the optic lens. She placed the red dot on the driver’s face.
The ACE bucked against her shoulder as she fired. Two sizzling 7.62x39 projectiles smacked through the windshield and snapped back the driver’s head. The passenger leaned out his open window as the van started forward, but Tracy didn’t remain in place. She moved in an arc away from her vehicle, making a semi-circle around the side of the delivery van. The Galil spat lead again and again, scoring a headshot on the passenger. She shifted her barrage to the side of the van. The passenger dangled half out of the window.
The van stopped as it bumped against Tracy’s vehicle, Tracy continuing to fill the side and interior with hot slugs. The Galil clicked empty. She ran back to her van for cover while changing magazines. As she slammed the ammunition in place, the drug van’s side door slid open.
She advanced to meet the threat. The light from the parking lamps gave her a quick glimpse inside. One man down and bloody, the final gunner, wounded, exiting, his dark eyes on her as he began to step out. He raised his pistol.
Nope. Tracy put two rounds through his chest before a single foot touched the ground and he tumbled back inside.
“Scratch four drug dealers,” she announced into the com link.
She spun at the sound of a loud crash, then ran to her van. The Jag had smashed into the mall building. Targets exiting.
Jumping behind the wheel, she sped toward the crash, catching sight of Raven and Aaron running across the lot toward the Jag. The brightness of the parking lamps highlighted their positions, which made both men easy targets. When Geneva Ramsden opened fire with her machine pistol, Tracy tensed but did not slow down. Slowing meant Dacourt and Ramsden would get away, and they had to stop them from escaping. Aaron needed the money. She also needed to answer the CIA’s questions. Tracy ducked as a trio of 9mm slugs spiderwebbed the van’s windscreen.
