The War Business: A Sam Raven Thriller

by Brian Drake

Raven steeped a tea bag in a mug of hot water. He looked up when Tracy entered the kitchen.

  “Aaron still asleep?” he said.

  “Out cold. How many beers did you two have?”

  Raven gestured to the kitchen trash can. Empty beer bottles overflowed.

  “I had exactly one,” Raven told her.

  She shook her head and crossed to the coffee maker. Raven dropped his tea bag on top of the heap of bottles.

  Tracy poured her coffee.

  “You take it black?” Raven said.

  “Black and strong.”

  Raven let silence pass between them. She’d fought well at the mall. He wondered if she’d seen more combat than the average military intelligence officer, or if there was more to her story than she had revealed.

  “I guess you were right,” she said.

  Raven didn’t reply.

  “I appreciate you not saying I told you so,” she said.

  “I’m not sure what to say. Why wouldn’t Aaron take the money I offered instead?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He hasn’t told me anything more than he’s told you.”

  “This makes no sense.”

  Tracy said, “What do you think we should do next?”

  “Get breakfast, I’m starving.”

  “You know what I mean. We have a briefcase full of cash to hide and the heat’s on.”

  “For sure we can’t stay here.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Let’s take a drive to Switzerland.”

  “Are you nuts?”

  “No, my bank is there. Plus, the cops and the bad guys will be looking for us. They’re already watching planes and trains and everything else. A road trip will be our best bet for staying off the radar.”

  “What’s the name of your bank?”

  “Bergstrom Brothers.”

  “Never heard of them,” she said.

  “They’re private. Very discreet. They cater to people like us.”

  “What about crossing the border?”

  “What about it?”

  “We got awfully close to the building, Sam.”

  Raven shrugged. “I saw the camera and it probably captured a nice view of the van’s license plate. We have to ditch the van and alter our appearances. We’re only moving a briefcase, not half of Fort Knox.”

  Tracy nodded and sipped her coffee.

  “Where are you from?” she said.

  Raven leaned against the counter near the sink. The kitchen’s bland white tile and countertops were balanced only by the tan wood of the cupboards. He let his eyes wander around the antiseptic look while he thought about how to answer the question.

  “Nowhere,” he said. “Dad was an army officer, so we moved around a lot.”

  A little of the truth wouldn’t hurt.

  “And you joined because of him?”

  Raven let out a breath. How to answer? He didn’t want to give her his life story, or even a truncated version. Aaron had most likely told her about their experience together, but Osborne didn’t know many details of Raven’s past.

  He also didn’t want to revisit the memories, or the pain associated with them.

  “Pretty much,” he said instead. “Did a few years in special forces and then CIA.”

  “Did you get fired?”

  “I quit.”

  “And went freelance?”

  “Long story.”

  “Okay, don’t tell me.” She laughed, then turned serious. “Can I trust you, Raven?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hey!”

  Raven and Tracy turned to the sudden arrival of Aaron Osborne, still wearing his boxers. He looked haggard and still tired despite sleeping through the night.

  “Damn,” he said. “I got a bitchin’ hangover. Bongo drums in my head, man.” He laughed.

  Tracy handed him her coffee, told Aaron to choke it down, and said she’d get the shower going because he seriously needed one. She left the kitchen. Osborne made no move to grab her. He swallowed a mouthful of coffee.

  “What are you two scheming about?”

  “How to get out of France,” Raven said. “After you clean up, we’ll get breakfast and figure out what to do.”

  Tracy returned. “Water’s hot.” She poured another mug of coffee. Aaron finished the coffee and put the mug on the counter. He snaked his arms around her and playfully suggested she help wash his back, but she gave him a shove. He laughed again and staggered away.

  Raven drank his tea and watched Tracy not look at Aaron as he departed. She kept her eyes on the kitchen floor.

  “What were you going to ask me, Tracy?”

  She shook her head. “Later.”

  He said okay.

  14

  Aaron didn’t want to go out and eat. He stretched out on the couch and moaned a lot. Raven and Tracy left to get take-away and brought the food back to the safe house.

  Tracy turned on the television. She and Aaron sat on the couch while Raven ate off his lap on the floor. His Styrofoam container of scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns formed a greasy mix.

  Osborne spoke between mouthfuls of egg. “We gotta ditch the van.”

  “Read my mind,” Raven said.

  “What do you think we should do?”

  Raven repeated what he’d told Tracy, who focused on eating and appeared to tune out the reprise.

  “I don’t have an account in Switzerland,” Osborne said.

  “My banker will get you set up. Won’t take more than a half-hour.”

  Finally, Tracy jumped in. “We have to get there first.”

  “I’ll stay here and plot the route,” Raven said, “while you two go get another vehicle. Who rented the van?”

  “I did,” Osborne said. He shoved a piece of bacon into his mouth and made big motions with his jaw as he chewed. He dabbed his forehead with a napkin.

  “Then, Tracy, you get the other car. And rent from another place, don’t double dip.”

  “Not my first time at the rodeo,” she said.

  Raven was going to reply when the news anchor on the television began describing the shooting at the mall. Tracy turned up the sound. What the news anchor described, and what interviews with police revealed, suddenly meant little as a picture flashed on the screen. A black-and-white picture of Osborne. The picture showed him running to the wrecked Jag with his Galil in plain view, as well as his face.

  “Well, shit,” Osborne said.

  “Ditch the van,” Raven said. “Tracy gets the new vehicle and you keep out of sight, Aaron. Unless you’re a master of disguise.”

  Osborne glared at Raven. “You’re acting like you’re in charge.”

  “Apparently I should be.”

  Tracy wiped her mouth. “No fighting, you two.”

  Raven said, “Here’s a better idea. Tracy and me deal with the vehicles and, Aaron, you plot our way to Zurich.”

  Aaron put his container of food on the table. He looked defeated. He used the remote to mute the TV. “Okay,” he said.

  “It’s going to be fine,” Raven said, “but I told you this might happen.”

  “You did.”

  “We should have worn masks,” Tracy said.

  “It went to hell the moment the delivery crew showed up early,” Raven said. “But yeah.”

  Raven resumed eating. Tracy took her trash to the kitchen. She returned with more coffee.

  “How can you keep eating?” Osborne asked Raven.

  Raven swallowed a mouthful of hash browns. “Not my first rodeo,” he said.

  Tracy stifled a laugh.

  Osborne’s shoulders sank.

  Geneva remained in bed, stirring only long enough for Fortun to see her notice him in the corner chair.

  He jumped up and grabbed her right hand. Her weak grip almost brought tears to his eyes. He clasped both of his hands over hers and she whispered something. He told her to rest and not talk. He told her the doctor said she’d be okay. With a half smile, Geneva d
ozed off again.

  Fortun held her hand a moment longer. At least it was warm. His luck had passed to her.

  He released her hand and sat down again, and his phone rang.

  “Yes?”

  A man’s voice. “We are downstairs.”

  “Who is this?”

  The man on the other end said, “You ordered shooters, didn’t you? We are in the parking lot. Black Town Car.”

  Dacourt blasted out of the chair, saying, “Don’t move,” as he cleared the hospital room doorway. He let the door swing shut on its hydraulic hinge.

  Three floors down. Dacourt took the stairs and hurried.

  Dacourt found the black Town Car easily. The big four-door dwarfed most of the other cars in the lot. He slipped into the back seat.

  Two men up front. They might have been twins. Thin, pale, mustaches, black suits. The driver wore wrap-around chrome-framed sunglasses while the passenger smoked a foul-smelling cigarette. His arm dangled out the open window, but smoke from the lit tip trickled inside.

  “No names,” the driver said, watching Dacourt in the rearview mirror.

  “Okay.”

  “We will call you; you will not call us.”

  “Right.”

  “Where do you want us to start looking?” Sunglasses said. His face looked dull with the shades over his eyes, and Dacourt figured it was an improvement.

  “You have the picture?” Dacourt said.

  Smoker exhaled a stream out the window. “We got it,” he said.

  “I had my police contact trace the license plate. It’s a rental. A Hertz office.” Dacourt took out his phone. “I’ll text you the address.”

  It only took a moment. Sunglasses looked at his phone after it beeped. He showed the address to Smoker.

  “Doesn’t Yvette work there?”

  “Tuesdays and Fridays.”

  “It’s Tuesday.”

  “Then she will be there.”

  Sunglasses finally turned his head to look at Dacourt.

  “We’ll start right now. Get out.”

  Dacourt didn’t say goodbye as he pushed open the door.

  Dacourt returned to Geneva’s room and used the internet on his phone. He wished the cops hadn’t shown his attacker’s face on TV. If the authorities grabbed the man first, Dacourt was sure Sergeant Bereau would send him a tip.

  He knew they were looking for at least three people. Sergeant Bereau had, earlier in the morning, passed along more info saying the cameras also captured long shots of another man and a female.

  They would likely ditch the van, and need a new vehicle with which to escape the city.

  On his phone, he studied the routes out of Marseille. Which road would they take? And where would they go?

  They might be going anywhere, and in fact might already be gone. He wondered if Sunglasses and Smoker were embarking on a wild goose chase. Should he consider himself lucky Geneva had survived and call it a day?

  But what if there was still a chance to catch them?

  He’d been lucky so far; maybe his good fortune would hold.

  Sunglasses and Smoker visited the Hertz office located in a shopping center.

  They crossed the parking lot resembling the skinny version of the Blues Brothers except they were French drug cartel assassins on a mission from the kingpin.

  The inside of the rental office felt chilly with the A/C blowing hard from floor vents. Music from overhead speakers punctuated the conversation between a customer and the office manager at the counter. The manager's name was Yvette.

  Sunglasses and Smoker stayed near the door, while Yvette finished the transaction. She was short and stocky, generously proportioned, with her hair pulled tightly back. It was her “office look”, coupled with a very conservative blouse-and-skirt combo. Sunglasses knew her as a party girl who only let her mane down, and didn’t know the meaning of the word modest, when there was partying to be done.

  She acknowledged both with a smile and promised to return quickly as she escorted the customer outside.

  Yvette returned on clicking heels after a few minutes. “What do you need?”

  Sunglasses did the talking. “Remember this van?” He showed her Dacourt’s picture on his cell.

  “Yes, it’s out for the week.”

  “Police been here?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Are you the one who signed out the van?”

  “No. It’s listed on the long-term sheet.”

  “Do you know if the man in this picture rented it?”

  Yvette tapped the computer keyboard on her side of the counter and read off the monitor. The screen reflected in her black-framed glasses.

  “American. Aaron Osborne. I’ll print his ID for you.”

  While the printer beside the computer ejected a sheet of paper, Yvette frowned.

  “What’s wrong?” Sunglasses said.

  “I got a call from a friend at our other office this morning, and she asked about the van too. She wanted us to know it might be leaving the country.”

  “Why?”

  “A woman came in and rented a four-door, another American, and when my friend showed the car, she saw the van with our sticker on the back. The van followed the American woman out.”

  Sunglasses grunted. “How do you know they might be leaving the country?”

  “The woman had to buy extra insurance because she was driving to Zurich.”

  Sunglasses smiled.

  15

  Dacourt remained in the hospital room chair, watching television while Geneva slept. His phone rang.

  “We have them,” Sunglasses reported.

  Dacourt sat up with excitement. “In front of you?”

  Sunglasses explained the new information, adding, “Do you know what’s in Zurich?”

  “A lot of banks.”

  “I’m getting more men to help watch those banks. We have IDs on the man in the police photo and we’re getting the woman’s ID. They won’t slip by.”

  “Unless,” Dacourt said, “they know we are looking and they’re laying a false trail.”

  “There is only one way to find out,” Sunglasses said. “But we also have names and faces. They won’t be able to run for very long, no matter how far they go.”

  “Do you have the license plate of the new car the American woman rented?” Dacourt said.

  “We’ll have it soon.”

  “Send me the information. My police contact can track them using the speed cameras on the motorways. False trail or not, we’ll find them.”

  Dacourt decided his luck was holding up very well indeed.

  Marseille to Zurich. Seven hours. They planned to drive in shifts and make the trip with no stops other than bathroom breaks.

  Raven drove the first shift, Osborne in the passenger seat, Tracy in back, and nobody spoke. The Volkswagen Jetta wasn’t his first choice for basic transportation. He would have preferred something larger with more legroom. On the plus side, but it was fully loaded, GPS, leather seats, decent stereo. At least he figured the stereo was decent. They rode without any music. It was more important to stay focused on the drive while watching for any tails, police or otherwise.

  They planned to follow the A7 all the way. Raven didn’t like the idea of sticking to one route, but it had the benefit of being the fastest. The sooner they reached Zurich, the better.

  Raven felt ready for any “just in case” scenario. His light jacket covered the Nighthawk .45 riding in the shoulder harness under his left arm. The Galil automatic rifles, cleaned and reloaded, sat in the trunk. The briefcase full of money and their minimal luggage rode back there too.

  Seven hours.

  The outside scenery flashed by.

  Tracy, in the back seat, watched Raven drive. She knew more about him than he realized. Maybe later there would be a chance to reveal to him her true affiliation. Her attempt in the kitchen earlier hadn’t been a good move. But if both of them had the same questions, what help could he be?


  Aaron's plan couldn’t move forward without the stolen money. But she still had no idea what plan he had in mind.

  She had to find a way to tell Raven why she’d been ordered to get involved with Aaron again and learn his agenda. How could she do so with Osborne so close?

  She’d managed to send another text message to her handler in London. She advised of the trip and mentioned she’d committed the unpardonable sin of (a) using her real name to rent the Jetta and (b) telling the rental office of their Zurich destination. She’d been lucky Raven insisted she rent the car alone while he waited in the van. He knew nothing about her choices.

  She had her reasons. If she failed to learn Aaron’s true plan, fixing things to arrange for his murder would put a stop to whatever he had in mind. She didn’t have any moral objections to the plan. She was a covert operative. The mission came first. In this case, protecting US interests from a potentially rogue actor.

  Osborne had to be stopped one way or another, and in such a way as to not come back on the United States government. If the trail she’d left allowed the cops or drug thugs to take him out of play, so much the better. It put her and Raven at risk, too, and while she knew she might be able to slip away in any confusion, she figured Raven was smart enough to do the same. Unless his devotion to Aaron prevented him from doing so. She knew their history; the bond between two fighters who had been through hell together was a tough one to break.

  Would he side with her if presented with what the CIA suspected?

  Tracy let out a breath and turned her head to watch the other cars on the A7.

  She’d get her chance to bring Raven up to date if she remained patient.

  Unless she ran out of time when the cartel caught up.

  Aaron Osborne sat quietly in the passenger seat, the A/C vent turned to blow on his neck. He wondered how to get rid of Tracy and Raven.

  Tracy had been a fortunate catch. He hadn’t wanted their relationship to end when she’d originally broke off with him, and disagreed with her reasons for doing so. But that was life. Meeting up with her again, when neither had demands on their time, had been nice. But now there were demands, ones she didn’t know about, and it was time to part again. For good.