Chapter 17
Seventeen
Omar sat in the back of the white work van, orange vest over his shirt, hard hat in his lap, and watched the street through the tinted windows. Dawn had barely broken. The sky above the apartment building was still gray.
The street was quiet, still asleep except for two men who loitered on the corner holding takeout coffees. They wore baseball caps and casual clothes. They weren’t looking at the building, but weren’t not looking at it either.
The first stakeout team. Exactly where they were supposed to be.
Jake drove past slowly, circling the block. Trent sat in the passenger seat with a tablet showing the building schematic. Omar scanned the surroundings, cataloging exits and threats.
“There.” Trent pointing. “The service entrance is down that alley.”
Jake turned into the narrow alley and parked alongside the building. They sat for a moment, engine idling, all three of them watching.
No one appeared. No one challenged them.
“No team on the side? Nobody in the back?” Omar asked.
“Taking a leak? Fell asleep in their car?” Jake posited.
Omar’s gut tightened. Then he shrugged. He knew better than anyone that stakeouts were mind-numbingly boring. He almost had sympathy for the poor saps.
They climbed out. Grabbed their toolboxes. Walked to the service door like they did this every morning.
Trent had his lock pick in his palm, ready to do his magic. But when he tried the door, it swung open. Unlocked. He stowed the pick and held the door open.
They stepped into a dingy hallway that smelled like garbage and cleaning chemicals. They walked single file to the staircase and started climbing.
The safe house was on the fourth of six floors. They took the stairs two at a time, boots echoing in the concrete stairwell.
Omar’s heart hammered and adrenaline sharpened the smell of old paint, the sound of his breath, and the weight of the Glock tucked under his vest against his still-sore ribs.
They reached the second floor landing.
Third floor.
No one stopped them. No one asked questions.
“Well,” Trent said as they were halfway between the third and fourth floors. “This is easy.”
Omar stopped. “Too easy.”
Jake and Trent turned to look at him.
“What?” Jake asked.
“Think about it.” Omar gestured back down the stairs.
“Two guys on the street corner. Nobody at the service entrance. Unlocked door. Empty stairwell.” He met Jake’s eyes.
“If they wanted to grab our guys if they left, they’d have coverage on every exit.
They’d have someone inside positioned at the stairwells. ”
“It’s a trap,” Trent said in a flat voice.
Jake pulled out his radio. Keyed it. “Squirrel, you copy?”
Static, then: “Copy, Wild.”
Omar raised his eyebrows and mouthed ‘Wild?’ Trent shook his head. Don’t ask me.
“Can you do a flyby? Visual on the fourth-floor windows?”
“Stand by.”
They waited in the stairwell, listening to the hum of the building’s HVAC system and the distant sound of traffic. Omar counted his heartbeats. Thirty seconds. Forty-five.
Then Squirrel’s voice crackled through the handset, “Got eyes on the flat. Windows are dark. I’m not seeing any movement. No heat signatures. It’s empty.”
Omar’s stomach dropped.
“Say again?” Jake’s voice was tight.
“The apartment is empty, Wild. Nobody’s home.”
Trent swore under his breath.
Jake keyed the radio again. “What about on the ground?”
“Two-man team in front of the building, visible. The other three sides are unsecured, but there’s a team concealed in the park behind the building. Six, maybe eight men. Tactical gear. They’re set up for an ambush.”
“Stand by, Squirrel.”
“Copy.”
Jake shook his head. “We walked into a trap like a bunch of mice looking for cheese.”
“We can go back down,” Trent said slowly, “and shoot our way past U.S. agents on French soil …”
“Or we can live to fight another day,” Jake finished.
Omar pointed overhead. “So, roof?”
“Roof,” Jake said.
“Run,” Trent added.
They ran.
They passed the fourth floor. Fifth. Sixth. The stairwell door at the top was locked, but Trent had it open in seconds. They burst onto the roof, the morning air cold and sharp.
Omar scanned the skyline. “Squirrel, we need extraction. Roof of the target building.”
“On approach. Thirty seconds.”
Heard the helicopter before they saw it—a distant thump of rotors growing louder. Then it appeared, banking hard, coming in low and fast.
Below, Omar heard faint, frantic shouting. The team in the park had spotted them.
The helicopter touched down, skids scraping concrete. Jake yanked the door open and they piled in. Trent was last, diving through the door as Squirrel pulled up and away.
The building dropped away beneath them. Omar looked down and saw men spilling out of the park, pointing up at them. Too late.
They banked hard, gaining altitude, and Marseille spread out below. The sleepy town, the old port, and the Mediterranean glittering in the early light.
Trent pulled out a phone.
Omar glanced over. “What are you doing?”
Trent shouted over the noise, “Relax. It’s a burner. I bought from a gangbanger in Paris. Bought two actually. One for my lovely wife.” He typed a short message and hit send.
Then he angled the screen to show him what he’d typed:
Line from your favorite movie.
Omar frowned and mouthed, “What?”
Trent grinned. “She’ll know.”