by Brian Drake
She corrected and steered toward Aaron and Raven. Why run when you can ride?
The Jag crashing was the best break Raven could have hoped for.
Dacourt had lost control, the car spinning, coming to an abrupt and violent halt when the driver’s side fender met the wall.
“Come on, Sammy!” Osborne shouted, racing from his position after the Jag.
“On your right!” Raven advised, sprinting after Osborne, conscious of Tracy firing on the delivery van, then joining the race. She steered the van toward them.
“Coming to you, Sam!” she said. “Side door unlocked.”
Raven zigzagged as Geneva Ramsden opened fire. She had exited the Jag and crouched near the door, gripping her machine pistol in both hands. A burst hit the van’s windshield. Then Tracy corrected again to put Raven on the passenger side. He grabbed for the handle to pull the sliding door open. It slammed back. He hopped aboard.
“Down, Aaron!”
Ahead, Aaron dropped. Raven extended the Galil in one hand while gripping a handle inside, and returned Geneva’s fire. His salvo forced her to scramble to the front of the car.
Tracy slowed for Aaron. Raven jumped back to allow Osborne space to board.
“Let’s go!”
Tracy stomped the gas.
Geneva Ramsden exited the Jag first, the Beretta in her hand spitting fire. With three incoming targets, she aimed wildly, none of her rounds connecting, though she did impact with the front windshield. Hitting the van didn’t count; she wanted the people inside.
When a hail of return fire smacked the body of the Jag, she scrambled for the front bumper. The wall prevented her from moving further back.
“Fortun!”
Dacourt finally made it out on his side of the car, awkwardly wielding a black briefcase. The money. He jumped onto the hood, and slid in front of Geneva, yelling for her to follow him.
The lights of the incoming van centered on them, and a shot cracked, and Geneva screamed.
11
Dacourt dropped the briefcase and grabbed Geneva with both hands. He hauled her against him, using his right arm to hold her close while snatching the Beretta with his left. He fired the machine pistol until the slide locked back. The oncoming van swerved, then turned in a circle. Dacourt used the opportunity to urge Geneva forward.
She stumbled, dragging Dacourt down, and he dropped the pistol to get her upright again. He made for the corner ahead, Geneva finding some strength to keep up. They rounded the corner and merged with the shadows.
Geneva’s legs gave out and she pulled him down once again. He stretched her out on the concrete. She let out a cry. A single shot had gone through her lower back and out her belly. Blood soaked the front of her blouse, her face blank but her eyes wide and full of fear.
On his knees, Dacourt looked over her with a sense of helplessness and panic. He had no weapon and the van screeched to a stop on the other side of the building. A door opened and footsteps scraped on the pavement. Sweat dripped into his eyes as he watched the corner. The killers were sure to come around and finish them off.
Geneva cried out again. He wiped her face with his hand. If they were going to die here, they’d die together.
Footsteps scraped again. A door slammed. The van’s engine raced, tires chirping, and the sound of the motor faded. The crickets filled the sudden silence.
Dacourt bolted to his feet and peered around. The bright lamps highlighted the departing van. Its red brake lights flared as it reached an exit and sped off along the road.
Dacourt ran back to his wrecked Jag. The 93R was where he’d left it but the briefcase of cash was gone.
Geneva yelled his name.
He ran back to her. She had an arm beneath her as she tried to sit up. He helped her to her feet and she leaned against him.
“Can you walk?”
“I’ll try,” she rasped. A line of blood tricked down one side of her mouth.
“We have to hurry.”
They started forward, making slow progress, Geneva moving her feet, but dragging most of the time. Dacourt urged her on.
If his luck held, they’d reach the backup car, get help, and then tell the syndicate boss.
And think about getting even.
Osborne shoved Raven aside and leaped out of the van, ignoring the fleeing couple, and almost tripped in his haste to reach the Jag. Stopping his fall with a hand on the fender, he shuffled around the front of the car, grabbed the briefcase, and ran back into the van. Raven slammed the side door. Tracy reversed and turned the van around toward the exit.
Osborne’s rifle clattered to the side as he held up the briefcase in both hands like a trophy.
“We got it! We got it!”
He let out a whoop and laughed.
“Hey, babe?” Tracy said.
“What, honey?” Osborne’s grin stretched across his face.
Raven completed her thought. “You better make sure the money’s in there.” He sat on the floor and placed the Galil next to him.
Osborne’s happiness evaporated as he lifted the lid with his hands shaking.
Stacks of euro banknotes of various denominations sat packed inside, wrapped with rubber bands, and Osborne let out a breath.
“Okay, we got it.”
Light from the street flashed in the van as Tracy drove.
Raven said, “What didn’t we get?”
“What?”
“What didn’t we get, Aaron?”
“The two pushers, so what? I got the woman.”
“Didn’t I tell you—”
“Sam, dammit, we’ll be out of the country before the bitch is out of the hospital. If she survives!”
“You’ll never run far enough, Aaron. This whole thing was a disaster.”
“What do you know?”
“Enough. And you know better. What’s the money for?”
“I told you!”
“What’s it really for?”
“I told you! There is enough here to repay my old man and give you a nice cut, too. More than I thought. Now will you shut up?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s gonna be fine, Sammy, no sweat.”
“Really?”
Aaron wiped his face. “Shut up.”
Osborne closed the briefcase and sat against the wall opposite Raven, clutching the case to his chest like a child holding a teddy bear.
Raven glanced at Tracy. Her concentration was on the road. Back to Osborne. He had his head back and his eyes closed.
Raven had only one thought. This is the oddest situation I’ve ever been involved with.
Tracy parked the van in the empty garage of the home Osborne had rented for the duration of their mission. As the automatic garage door closed off the night, Raven finally allowed himself to relax.
But a nagging feeling told him he wouldn’t be at rest for long.
12
The trio entered the furnished rental with their weapons and combat gear. They placed the equipment in a corner for cleaning and sorting later. Tracy announced she was heading for the shower.
Osborne grabbed two bottles of beer from the refrigerator and gave one to Raven. The two dropped onto the couch.
“I’ll sleep good tonight!” Osborne said. He took a long drink.
Raven stared at his bottle. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with Aaron as far as the money went. Foremost on his mind instead was putting the money somewhere safe. They had to move while evading cartel and police detection. The one good thing about the failure at the mall was Aaron had been correct about the cops. But they’d been close enough to the building for the security cameras to capture their faces.
The cops wouldn’t be clueless for long. Ditto the cartel, who probably had enough cops on the payroll to receive advance notice when the police accessed the footage.
Osborne emptied the beer down his throat and let out a loud belch. He turned to Raven. “Want another?”
Raven held up the full bottle.
“Well, hell, Sam, better catch up!” Aaron left the couch for the kitchen.
Tracy turned on the shower and set the temperature. As steam covered the bathroom mirror, she leaned against the sink and pulled her cell from a pocket.
She felt sweaty and gross all over, but she had to inform her handler of the latest.
She texted a short message to a number in London.
Got the money. Awaiting next move.
She ended the text with a number. 078.
The reply: Raven?
Still here. He offered Aaron money but Aaron insisted on raid. No clear answer why. Very frustrating.
OK. Stay with it.
Tracy deleted the messages and set the phone on the counter. Then she pulled off her sweaty clothes and stepped into the immediate comfort of the hot spray.
The doctors didn’t ask questions when Dacourt brought Geneva to the hospital because she was bleeding. He had until surgery ended, one way or another, before they demanded answers he might not be able to give.
Which meant he needed some luck yet again.
He paced the hospital lobby, unable to sit still, pained worry across his face. He’d made a phone call to his police contact as soon as doctors wheeled Geneva into surgery. He was waiting for a call back. He needed Sergeant Bereau to intervene before the questions started.
He jumped and made a startled sound as his phone rang. He dashed to a corner to avoid the eyes and ears of the others in the waiting room.
“Felix?” Dacourt said. “You have news?”
“I have pictures,” said Sergeant Felix Bereau, 20-year veteran of the Marseille police force.
“My face?”
“Isn’t on them. The angle at which your car crashed kept you off the video. We see a little of Geneva, and a lot of one of the men who attacked you.”
“Enough for an ID?”
“His face will be plastered all over by morning.”
“You need to forward the picture to me, Felix.”
Dacourt’s voice remained low, but he hissed the emphasis to make it sound as much like a command as possible. With his face in the corner, he still felt eyes on his back. Now wasn’t the time for loud threats.
“You’ll have it. But it won’t help if we can’t identify him.”
“You have his picture.”
“Yes. But there is no promise of his face being in our database, or Interpol’s, or anybody else’s. We aren’t perfect, Fortun. If you want perfection, get shot in America. American CSI can tell you what he had for breakfast and give you his Facebook account.”
The sergeant let out a little laugh.
“None of your jokes, Felix. Geneva may not make it.”
“Uh-huh.”
Anger bubbled inside Dacourt, but he took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. After a moment, he opened his eyes and said, “When may I expect you here at the hospital?”
“I’m turning the corner now.”
“Do you—”
“I have the picture on my phone. What do you pay me for?”
Dacourt breathed heavily into the phone as he loosened his tight grip on the cell.
Bereau let out another laugh.
Dacourt composed himself, standing erect, shoulders back, tilting his head to look up at the corner where the wall met the ceiling.
“I’ll see you shortly, Felix.”
Dacourt finally sat and put his face in his hands. His whole body felt dirty, dried sweat grating against his skin.
His legs were shaking, but not from anger at Bereau. Geneva might be dying down the hall. He clung to the idea of no news meaning good news and then he heard Bereau’s voice.
He put his hands down and turned his head to the left. At the nurse’s station, Bereau had his badge out and spoke with the nurse behind the counter. The young woman pointed at Dacourt. Fortun stood. Felix put away his badge and approached the waiting area.
“I’m here,” the sergeant said.
Felix Bereau wore a tan trench coat over a gray suit, dark hair touched with gray. He was two inches taller than Dacourt.
The drug seller had to look up to meet the sergeant’s weary eyes.
“Show me the picture.”
Bereau pulled a smartphone from inside his coat, opened the picture and showed the screen to Dacourt. “Look familiar?”
“Of course not.”
“Just checking.” Bereau tapped the screen and entered Dacourt’s number and pressed send. When Dacourt’s phone chimed a moment later, Fortun examined the picture again.
The image showed the man exiting the van and running to the Jaguar. Light reflected off the sheen of sweat on his forehead. The footsteps. This was the man who took the money.
Money Dacourt still owed his syndicate bosses.
“Whoever he and his friends are,” the sergeant said, “they won’t be able to leave the city or country. This picture will go everywhere.”
“Including my people,” Dacourt said. He stared at the photo.
“Do what you must.”
“Excuse me.”
Dacourt sat again and forwarded the photo to his primary contact in the syndicate, who would inform the top bosses, who probably already knew about the shooting but hadn’t tried to reach him yet.
“I’m getting some coffee,” Bereau said.
Dacourt waved him off as if brushing away a buzzing fly.
When the phone rang a moment later, Dacourt moved to the corner again and put his head down.
“Yes.”
“The money?” his syndicate contact said.
“Stolen. I’ll pull the funds from my account to make up the loss.”
“Fair enough, but we can’t let this incident go unpunished.”
“This is my vendetta,” Dacourt said. “Send me a gun crew and I will find this man.”
“We will take your request under consideration.”
“But—”
“The old man will allow an electronic transfer in this case. You will move our money by five p.m. tomorrow.”
“All right. I want—”
His contact dropped off.
Dacourt cursed and put the phone away. He turned sharply and checked his step. Sergeant Bereau stood behind him, blowing into a steaming paper cup.
“Watch it, Fortun.”
“Get out of my way.”
The sergeant cracked a smile. Dacourt’s attention snapped to the surgeon coming toward them.
13
“Is she—”
“Resting comfortably,” the surgeon said. “You can go in shortly. But first—”
Bereau held out his badge. “I’m already here. Let’s talk for a minute.”
The surgeon led the sergeant back to the nurse’s station, where they spoke in hushed tones.
Dacourt dropped into a chair. He was too relieved to care what the surgeon and Bereau had to say.
Dacourt slept in a chair in Geneva’s hospital room. She remained sedated and hooked to monitors. The surgeon and attending physician expected a full recovery. She’d be able to leave in a few days, but full recovery would take weeks. Maybe longer.
Back home to shower and eat, Dacourt used his computer to transfer funds to a syndicate shell account. He’d advocated using electronic money transfers many times, but the old school attitude of the syndicate boss, a man pushing 90, had been difficult to surmount. The old man didn’t trust computers. But now, since it was an emergency, he had allowed the electronic transfer. Maybe this was the leverage Dacourt needed to make the practice permanent. Had they done this as a matter of habit much earlier, Geneva wouldn’t have been shot, and the money not taken.
He called his syndicate contact.
“You’re paid.”
“Very good.”
“You know where my loyalty lies,” Dacourt said. “Do I get my shooters?”
“The problem will be taken care of,” the contact said. “You will be re-supplied and we expect you on the street.”
“Unacceptable!”
“One moment, Fortun.”
Dacourt paced in the narrow kitchen which he’d always considered small, but now felt microscopic. His eyes lingered on a corner near the stove where grime had accumulated. Neither he nor Geneva were the best housekeepers.
“Fortun.”
“I’m still waiting.”
“In light of your prompt payment of funds, which the syndicate appreciates, you will have the task of tracking your attackers. Whatever money you recover is yours.”
“Give the old man my thanks.”
“There is also the matter of the drugs in the delivery van.”
“Confiscated?”
“Can you recover the product?”
“Sergeant Bereau will see to that.”
“You have an opportunity to move up in the organization if you succeed,” the contact said. “Don’t ruin it.”
“Whoever attacked us,” Dacourt said, “will pay. I will cut off their ears and wear them as a necklace.”
The contact laughed. “Try wearing such a thing to your operas.”
“When will—”
“Shortly, Fortun. The shooters will join you shortly. In the meantime, I’d start creating a plan of action.”
“Way ahead of you.”
Dacourt ended the call and departed for a return to the hospital. He didn’t want to repeat Bereau’s doubt about the attacker’s sweaty face not being in any databases; the face had to be. Dacourt needed a place to start. A name to brand into his memory along with the face already there.
