| |
LEINE REPOSITIONED THE Velcro on her tactical vest for a better fit and studied the area surrounding Henri’s building. It was early morning, and the sun hadn’t yet made its presence known, giving the neighborhood an abandoned vibe. The alley where she was parked had only a single working streetlight at one end, leaving the rest of the area in murky darkness.
She’d been sitting inside her rental car for close to two hours waiting for him and thinking. Thinking about the knife’s edge she’d be walking if she continued down the road before her. She’d been here before. Back in the day her lover, Carlos, had made it bearable. Made it so she could avoid seeing the choices on offer as the morally bankrupt traps they were. Back then, she’d convinced herself of the rightness—the righteousness—of her actions.
But she was different now. She required more. There was no trust, no decency, no honor in this life she’d been on the brink of choosing again. Valerie was a symptom, set in motion for profit by Henri, someone Leine had considered a long-time collaborator and partner. Yet again, cash was king. And even though Spencer saved her life that evening, he could have just as easily turned on her if the money was right.
What kind of life was that?
The parking lot was empty except for an old motorbike off by itself at one end. It wasn’t Henri’s—she remembered him railing against the dangers of motorcycles on more than one occasion.
The French arms dealer had always been a creature of habit, which boded well for Leine. As Valerie had confirmed during their stakeout of the florist shop, he still stopped every morning at the same boulangerie he’d gone to for the last twenty years, still bought five fresh croissants—two chocolate, and three plain. Then he would brew his own espresso at the shop, using a high-end commercial espresso machine. Depending on his mood that day, breakfast would take two hours or more before he deemed it was time to work.
She’d have to take him as he entered the shop. She didn’t plan to kill him right away.
At half past five, a Sprinter van pulled up to the back door of the building and parked. Henri got out of the vehicle carrying a brown paper bag with the logo of his favorite bakery and headed for the door. Leine quickly scanned the area for passersby. There was no one visible. Sliding her 9mm free, she exited the car and eased up behind him. She waited until he’d opened the door before she let him know she was there.
“Good morning, Henri.”
He stiffened and his head snapped up. A microsecond later, his shoulders relaxed and he turned. “Leine!” he boomed. “So nice to—” The words died in his throat when he saw the gun.
“Weren’t expecting me, were you?” She patted him down with one hand and removed a Glock 42 from a concealed holster in his waistband. She pocketed the smaller pistol and ordered him to raise his pant legs. He did and she relieved him of his backup pistol and a tactical knife, both of which she pocketed. She grabbed the bag of pastries and nodded toward the darkened hallway inside the door. “Let’s go.”
“Put your gun away,” he said, testily. “Are we not friends?”
“I used to think so.” Leine followed him into the building and let the door close behind them. “But real friends don’t exist in this business, do they?”
Henri didn’t offer an immediate reply. The smell of chocolate and freshly baked croissants filled the space between them. He nodded toward the bag.
“Whatever business you have with me must wait until after breakfast.”
“I don’t think so.” She gestured toward the end of the hall with the gun. “Go. Now.” She glanced inside to make sure the bag didn’t contain anything that could be used as a weapon and counted five croissants.
With a resigned sigh, Henri clumped down the hallway. When they reached the second blast door, he placed his thumb on the biometric fingerprint reader and then punched in a code to unlock the door. She followed him inside.
They walked to the conversation area and she tossed the pastries on the coffee table.
“Now what is this about?” Henri said, removing his coat. “In all the years we’ve known one another you have never threatened me at gunpoint.”
“You’ve never tried to have me killed before.”
He looked stricken. “I would never do such a thing.”
“Then tell me why Valerie attempted to put a bullet in the back of my head.”
“She did what?” His look of shock was a bit on the dramatic side.
Leine kept herself from rolling her eyes. “Stop, Henri. Just...stop.” She sighed. “I don’t know what you stood to gain from having me killed, but I’m willing to bet it had something to do with the group responsible for the Notre Dame bombing.”
“Now, now,” he said, putting his hands up. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.” He took his phone out of his pocket and looked at the time before putting it back. “Valerie is due here in an hour. We will ask her then.”
“Yeah. I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s dead.”
Henri’s face drained of color. “She’s—dead?” He stared uncomprehendingly at Leine. “No,” he breathed. “Please tell me that she did not suffer.”
“She didn’t.” She gestured toward the couch. “Have a seat. I need answers and you’re going to give them to me. Answers will keep you breathing.”
Henri sank onto the divan, his expression blank. “She was a fantastic assistant. The best.”
“Yes, well, you should have thought about that before you sent her to kill me.” Leine remained standing, her gun trained on him. “Was the contract your idea?”
Henri produced a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He pulled in a deep breath and let it go. “No. Well, yes.” He held her gaze as he worried the fabric in his hands. “You must understand. The field is very competitive these days. Not like when you were at your peak. She needed a spectacular kill—one with distinction—before anyone would take her seriously.”
“And that kill was The Leopard.”
He had the good sense to appear ashamed. “Yes. Have you accepted any jobs in the last few years? I mean in the freelance arena?”
Leine shook her head.
“Ah. Well, independent contracts have become quite lucrative. Quite.” Henri pulled the bag of croissants toward him and retrieved one of the chocolate pastries before pushing them back toward her. Taking a bite, he closed his eyes in ecstasy.
“Who ordered the hit?”
Henri swallowed and licked his fingers. “You really should try one.”
“Who, Henri?”
“I don’t know her name.”
“Her?”
He nodded. “Not presently, anyway. In another life she called herself Salome.”
“That’s not the first time I’ve heard the name.”
Henri raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Well, I’m not surprised. She’s got a—what do you call it in the States?—a hard on for you. Something about you spoiling an operation of hers?”
So—confirmation that Salome was alive and knew about Leine’s role in the Russian deception. That meant she had a contact in the Kremlin. The only other way she would know about Leine would be from Leine’s own government, which seemed remote.
“How did you contact her?”
He shrugged. “Through a friend. I’m afraid I don’t have a direct line.”
“Give me the name of this friend.”
“You know I can’t do that. He would never again trust me.”
“And that matters to me because...?”
“Because you need me. Your kind wouldn’t exist without someone like me.”
“I think ‘my kind’ will manage.” Leine gestured with her gun at his pocket. “Give me your phone.”
“No.”
Leine took a step closer and aimed the barrel of the gun at his forehead. “Give it up, Henri, and I may let you live.”
“But it’s my lifeline—my business.”
“Which is why I need to see it.” She arched an eyebrow. “Are you going to give it to me or am I going to have to take it from you?”
Resignation flickered across his face as he reached inside the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the mobile. He touched the screen with his thumb as he handed the device to her, minimizing an app.
“What did you just do?” she asked, searching the icons. She tapped one that she didn’t recognize labeled HBI, and an app called “Hot Button Incorporated” opened to reveal a series of surveillance monitors with a red link underneath labeled “Emergency.” The first monitor showed the outside entrance to the building. The second pictured the hallway before the turn to the last door to Henri’s warehouse. The third one showed five gunmen in tactical gear forming up outside the blast door. She glanced up sharply. “What the—”
At that precise moment a series of loud clicks could be heard as the locks disengaged and the massive steel door to the warehouse swung open. The black-clad gunmen swarmed into the cavernous space, the red dots of their tactical lasers dancing against the walls.
Someone shouted and the gunmen released a fusillade of bullets aimed at Leine. Henri rolled off the couch onto all fours and scrambled across the floor toward the back room. Shooting as she moved, Leine vaulted behind the couch. The upholstery and couch frame wouldn’t stop a round from the automatic rifles they were using but it might slow them down if they couldn’t see her. She rolled to a crouch, ejected the empty mag, and slapped in a full one.
Valerie’s desk was a few feet to her right. Beyond that was the back room and the emergency exit, through which Henri was now disappearing. To her left was the stand with the compact submachine gun she’d tried the last time she was there. Leine darted up from behind the back of the couch and fired, hitting one of the gunmen in the throat. He clutched his neck and sank to his knees.
She kept shooting, backing up until she could grab the submachine gun. Ignoring the pain in her arm from the earlier shrapnel wound and edging her way to the massive desk, she fired the automatic weapon with her good hand, spraying a barrage of rounds at the gunmen. Two went down immediately, while the other two leaped out of the way. The SMG emptied quickly, and she tossed it aside as she dove behind the desk. The sound of the last two gunmen reloading gave her the seconds she needed to make her exit. She sprinted toward the back room and made it through the door as the gunmen’s rounds splintered the doorjamb.
The sound of the two gunmen crashing through the warehouse behind her spurred Leine on, through the storage room filled with wooden shipping boxes and packing material and enough weapons and ammunition to outfit an army. The rear exit had been left ajar, and Leine barreled through as she reloaded her pistol. She kicked the door closed behind her and fired a round into the glowing biometric lock, turning the steel slab into a doorstop.
She pivoted and found herself in a long, dark hallway that veered left, lit by intermittent cage lights. Henri’s ragged breathing echoed from somewhere down the corridor, telling her he wasn’t far. She jogged after him, calculating how long it would take the gunmen inside to make their way around the outside of the building to the exit. More gunmen were most likely stationed there, shortening the time she had with Henri.
She rounded a turn and slowed. On his feet and lurching toward the exit, the French arms dealer leaned against the wall for support, hand clutched to his ribs, his breath coming in uneven gasps. Leine caught up to him and glanced at his chest. Dark blood stained his shirt where he’d been shot. He staggered a few more steps and then stopped. Wheezing, he looked at her. Pain filled his eyes. He shrugged his shoulder as if to say he’d tried.
His knees buckled and Leine grabbed his elbow, easing him to a sitting position. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and let his arm fall to his side.
“Bah.” He scowled and shook his head. “Shot by my own fucking men.” He paused for a moment before he erupted in laughter, which devolved into a painful sounding cough. “That’s funny, no?”
He struggled to sit up straighter. Leine helped him slide back so that he was more comfortable.
“Did you kill them all?” he asked, referring to the five gunmen. A red bubble formed on his lips. He wiped the blood away with his fist.
“Not yet.”
He nodded. “Then you must go. They will not stop until you’re dead.”
“Not until you tell me who you used to contact Salome.”
Henri’s chin dropped to his chest and he closed his eyes. “What do I care?” he muttered. “I am a dead man.” He raised his head and looked directly at Leine. “You must promise not to kill him.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You must.” He burst into another coughing fit. Blood and spittle sprayed from his mouth.
“All right. Fine. I won’t kill him unless he’s going to kill me. Deal?”
“Oui.” He shifted his position, trying and failing to get comfortable. “His name is Damil. He works directly for Salome. She uses her position at an NGO as her cover.”
“An NGO in Libya?” Everything finally fell into place.
He nodded. “Yes. Some refugee camp.”
“How did you get this information?”
“Damil told me.”
“And you trust him?” she asked, listening for activity at the other end of the tunnel. So far, so good.
Henri nodded. “He is my nephew by marriage. He would not lie to me.”
“Do your men know about the bolt hole?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Is anyone positioned outside?”
Henri nodded. “A sniper.”
Three gunmen. Not bad odds when she knew they were coming. Leine rose to leave.
Henri raised his hand but had grown too weak and let it fall to his side.
“Do not underestimate her,” he said. “Damil told me she was the one responsible for the sarin gas attack last year in Las Vegas.”
“She’s supposed to be dead.”
“She faked her own death. Not unusual for someone who is being hunted by American intelligence.”
What was she up to now? Other than trying to kill Leine.
“Your nephew. Is he a jihadist?”
“He was, once. The last time we spoke he sounded less than enthusiastic about his prospects.” Henri gave her a weak shrug. “He is young, and she pays very, very well.”
A whisper of movement could be heard at the other end of the tunnel. She turned to go.
“You could call them off, you know,” she said over her shoulder.
When he didn’t answer she glanced over her shoulder at him. His head was bowed and his chest no longer heaved, having grown still in death.
Leine went to meet the gunmen.