Chapter 8
Ysabel jerked awake and listened to the silence of her prison. What had startled her? She reached over for her rock and turned on the lamp, shattering the darkness. With her rock back and ready to throw, she shot her gaze up to the hole where the rat had disappeared. It was still blocked.
There.
She heard someone coming. The voice of her jailer yelled in French, “Stay away from the door!”
Ysabel put her hand holding the large stone behind her back and waited. It wasn’t long since he’d last come. She still had food and water.
The door opened, and she blinked at the brightness of the flashlight. “Stand up.”
“Why?” she asked.
The man didn’t ask again. He walked over and grabbed her arm, jerking her from the cot. “Hold this.” He slapped a newspaper at her chest, but it dropped, and he stooped to pick it up. With every ounce of strength she had, Ysabel crashed the rock down on the back of the man’s head. He went down to his hands and knees, and the flashlight skittered across the room. Ysabel jumped past the man, grabbed the flashlight, and pushed the door closed behind her. The iron bar that sealed the door shut was heavy and awkward, but she managed to shove it into place. She glanced back through the small window. The man had fallen to the ground and wasn’t moving. Had she killed him? She swallowed hard and turned away from the cell. Now, how did she get out?
She walked carefully, following the tunnel. After about five minutes, the tunnel ran into a bigger passage, which led to three other tunnels. There was no indication as to which way to go.
Ysabel sat down on a rock and pushed her hair out of her eyes. Which way? There were over three hundred kilometers of catacombs under Paris. She drew a deep breath and stood up. At least she was free. If she were going to die, she’d rather die looking for a way out than die in a cell. Ysabel bent down and mixed some dirt in a puddle of water. She marked a Y near the floor on the tunnel she’d taken. It was barely visible, but she could backtrack if she needed to do so. She shivered a bit as she made her way down the corridor. She prayed the flashlight had fresh batteries.
* * *
Harbinger and Smithloitered at the corner bistro where they were to meet the contact Con had found for them. “He’ll show,” Smith said as he drank the iced coffee he’d ordered.
“H, this is CCS.”
Harbinger glanced over at Smith, who nodded that he’d heard the communication, too.
“Go ahead.” He looked at Smith as he talked.
“Pierre made a call on the cell, but it was to a local bakery.”
“An intermediary?” Smith asked.
“Unknown. We tapped into the cameras in the area as soon as we pinned the location. The phone call lasted thirty seconds.”
“What was said?”
“He needed a delivery of baguettes. They discussed the price, and Archambeau told them he’d have his assistant call to confirm. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.”
“Except a multi-millionaire calling for a catering arrangement,” Smith said. “It was code.”
“We thought so, too. I tapped into his switchboard for his business, which took a hot minute. They have some really good safeguards, but the comms aren’t on fiber. If they were, we’d be screwed. His computer systems are, though, and man, is that security state of the art.”
“You can determine if he calls out?”
“I can monitor all the calls, which I’m routing through a recording device and into a program I have that can isolate Pierre’s voice. It’ll alert me to any call he makes.”
“Where did you get his voice?” Smith asked.
“A video of him speaking at the crypto summit held last year. He spoke about the sustainability of cryptocurrencies. It was more than enough to train my program.”
Harbinger tapped Smith’s foot with his. Smith glanced around and saw the man they were looking for. “We’ve got to go,” Harbinger said.
“CCS clear.” The woman was gone.
Harbinger turned to look at the guy, and at his attention, the man moved over to their table. “Are you the ones looking for a private tour guide?”
“We are,” Harbinger said as he stood. “I believe you require our requested itinerary?” He handed the man an envelope.
The gentleman opened the envelope and peeked in at the stack of high-denomination euros. “Shall we?”
The man seemed a bit jittery until they left the area. “So, you’re not the police?” the man asked as they walked down the sidewalk. “If you were, you’d have arrested me before we left the area in which you’d taken a position. So, what are you looking for?” He stopped and crossed his arms, looking at Smith. “You’re going to have a hard time in the tunnels. They were made by people shorter than the modern human.”
Smith shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”
“We’re looking for a place where a person could be held.”
The man shifted his gaze to Harbinger before taking the envelope out of his pocket and handed it back to him. “I’m not into that type of thing.”
“We’re looking for a woman we believe is being held against her will in the tunnels,” Smith said quietly.
“Damn.” The man shoved the envelope back into his pocket. “I’m Matt.”
“H.”
“Smith.”
The man shook their hands. “Okay. You’ll need to look in the areas that aren’t mapped. We have extensive mapping of the areas closed to the public, an amphitheater, and even a bar down there. There are crystal clear aquafers where people go scuba diving. Of the three hundred kilometers, we have about half the distance mapped, and it isn’t uncommon to see other people below. So, whoever has your woman would want to stay clear of our areas.” The man rubbed his face. “I know a guy making it his personal goal to map the outlying areas. Let me make a call and see if he can meet us.”
Harbinger reached out and stopped the man from turning away. “Her life depends on us finding her. Don’t fuck around on us.”
Matt frowned. “I’m not planning on it. I’m trying to help.” When Harbinger let go of his arm, Matt turned and walked off about twenty feet before making his call. He came back to them. “He can meet us. Come with me.”
Harbinger and Smith followed the man to an older-looking apartment building. They entered it and went down to the basement. From there, Matt removed a piece of paneling and took three flashlights from a bucket in the corner of the room. He also grabbed a package of batteries for the lights. “Take a water.” The man nodded to a sealed case of water. Harbinger grabbed one, and so did Smith, but only after giving one to Matt. The guy nodded to the opening. “This is one of the many that will take us down. Follow me.”
The passage was narrow, and when he looked back to check, Smith walked more sideways than straight and would have one hell of a backache because of the bent-over hunch he had going on, but they made good time. Harbinger placed a small dot on the limestone at each turn. They would reflect light and mark their way back. He didn’t trust the man leading. It wasn’t anything against Matt, just a fact of life. Trusting the wrong people could get you killed. Harbinger knew that for a fact. That was what happened to his sister and her friend. They’d trusted a man and were raped and murdered for it. The man who did it was tried and let off on a technicality. A technicality. The DA chose not to retry the case because, without the evidence that couldn’t be admitted, they didn’t feel the case was strong enough.
Harbinger knew what to do about that, and it was through his actions Demos found him. He wasn’t one to dwell in the past. Right. Well, he hadn’t been until Ysabel walked out of his life.
He peeled off a dot and slapped it on the tunnel wall as they turned again.
His sister, Kelly, and her best friend, Cathy, were in college when it happened. He attended the same college but had his own apartment and studied theater, where Kelly and Cathy pursued business as their major. He’d always wanted to be an actor, and now, well, he acted every day, and the world was his stage. The teaching assistant who’d offered his sister and her best friend a ride to a party had drugged their drinks, raped, killed, and mutilated them. Harbinger remembered the day he was finally allowed to see the crime scene photos. His mother looked at the pictures for two seconds and vomited. His father seemed to wither in on himself, and Harbinger became the one to drive the family’s need for justice. His mom turned to alcohol, and his father turned inward. He met with the prosecutors, who promised him they had the evidence to convict the man. Until the defense submitted a break in the chain of evidence. The bastard’s DNA was not admissible. It was what tied him to the rapes and the murders because there was no other physical evidence.
Two weeks after the dismissal of all charges, Harbinger began his first official performance. He used the makeup techniques he’d learned and changed his appearance and height. Now, looking back, the change wasn’t enough, but he didn’t know then what he knew now. He walked to the man’s apartment and knocked on the door. When the TA opened the door, Harbinger lifted the gun he’d purchased on a street corner from a known drug dealer and fired. One through the brain. It was too good for the bastard. He dropped the gun, which he’d ensured didn’t have any print or trace evidence on it. Harbinger walked down the stairs and didn’t look at the other tenants who rushed out of their apartments to see what had happened. He walked across town, dropping his wig and stripping out of the clothes he wore on top of his own clothes. Each item found a home with a homeless person or in a dumpster. He went into a bar and had a drink, making sure the bartender saw him and could identify him. He waited for an hour and then hailed a cab back to campus and his apartment.
The police arrived two days later. The investigator demanded to know where he was the evening of the murder. Harbinger remembered the feeling of absolute freedom when he crossed his arms and requested a lawyer. They had nothing on him. He knew it, and he wasn’t going to talk to the investigator. They arrested him, which he’d expected. It was a tactic he’d seen used many times on the true crime shows he watched. They could hold him for twenty-four hours without charging him.
He was roused from a fitful sleep when the officer let a man wearing a finely tailored suit into his cell.
“Horatio Langdon?”
Harbinger sat up and stared at the man. “Call me H.” He hated the family name, even though he was currently Horatio Langdon the Seventh.”
“My name is Demos. I’m here to make you an offer.”
He leaned back against the wall of the cell. “I’m not talking without my lawyer present.”
“Good, then listen because I won’t repeat myself. You killed Larry Finch. I can prove it.” Demos pulled photos out of his pocket. They showed him walking away from the bastard’s apartment and showed each time he peeled off a layer of clothing. It showed him entering the club, and the timestamp was accurate. Then it showed him hailing a cab at the correct time, too. Demos tapped the time and date stamps to make sure Harbinger took note of them. “Excellent idea, poor execution.”
The certainty he would get away with his vengeance disappeared as Demos picked up each picture in sequence. “That being said, I’m impressed with the attempt. I’m offering you one chance to get out of this mess. I know why you killed him. I understand the need for vengeance. My question for you is, could you do it again?”
Harbinger looked around the cell. Could he speak freely? Demos smiled. “I’m not a lawyer or a cop, nor am I someone who would testify in a court of law. You may speak freely.”
Leaning forward, Harbinger stared at the distinguished man across from him. “I could if the bastard did what he did to my sister and her best friend. People like that don’t deserve to be on this planet.”
A twitch of Demos’ lip was the only indication he’d said the right thing. “I’m in a position to offer you an opportunity to put this behind you and to hunt bastards like the man who slaughtered your sister and her friend. You would leave this life, and you could never come back. You will be tested to ensure my evaluation of your ability is correct. If it is, you will join an elite organization that eliminates the monsters of this world that the court system can’t or won’t.”
“My parents?” They were a mess, and if they found out he’d killed that bastard, they probably wouldn’t survive.
“Will be taken care of. Your mother needs inpatient alcoholic rehabilitation treatment, and your father needs help also, but in a psychiatric hospital. Our company will see to it they’re afforded every opportunity to heal and move on.”
“Will they be told I’m dead?”
“No, and you can check on them. Coming back here isn’t an option. Contacting anyone but your parents isn’t an option. You will walk away tonight and forget everyone you’ve ever known.”
Harbinger stared at the man. “I accept.”
“Follow me.”
Demos stood up, and Harbinger followed him out of the jail. The jailor was asleep and another in a guard uniform followed them out of the jail. Harbinger glanced up at the cameras. “They’re on a loop and not recording us,” the guard said, noticing the direction of his gaze. Another guard opened the door to the outside and followed them out. All four men got into a blacked-out SUV and drove out of the compound, through the guarded entrance, and onto the access road. That was the beginning of Harbinger’s new life. He’d checked on his parents. They were doing well, and he talked to them three or four times a year. They had a contact number, and should they need him, Guardian would let him know.
Harbinger slapped another dot on a turn and almost ran into Matt when he stopped. “Careful here, we need to go around the aquafer.” Matt’s light illuminated the water in front of them. “Louis will be on the other side about a kilometer farther.”