8. Alexei #3
“That homeless guy in the doorway of the handbag place,” I murmur into my comms, “is wearing brand-new sneakers. The newspaper stand where the lady in blue is standing isn’t actually open. And the guy in the hoodie on the park bench keeps touching his ear like he’s wearing comms.”
I’m starting to get a really bad fucking feeling about this.
“If they were police,” Mickey says, “Lars would have hacked them by now.”
Fucking great.
“So they’re either intelligence,” I say, “or private contractors.”
Lars snorts. “And you said Paris would be no fun.”
“Some party,” I say, double-checking the street to make sure I haven’t missed anyone.
It’s always possible that they’re not here for me.
It could be Lars or Mickey. It could even be someone who has nothing to do with us.
And it could be Ofelia.
It wouldn’t be the first time someone has kidnapped Roman’s children in an effort to come at him. I should know, given that last time it was me who was given the job of snatching them.
Cold, sick fury trickles through me.
Don’t fucking think about it. If I think about someone taking Ofelia, about what they might do to her, I’ll lose focus altogether.
But they’re definitely here for someone.
I have no intention of being taken by whoever is in that van. I don’t want them knocking on Lars’s door. And I definitely don’t want them anywhere near Ofelia.
What I need are answers, and the easiest way to get them is by getting inside that van.
I do some quick calculations. There are three people on the ground. The van isn’t big enough to comfortably seat more than six. With a driver and equipment, that leaves two, maximum, running whatever they’ve got in the back.
Two I can take, before the driver knows what’s going on.
“Lars?” I say tightly. “Anything on the van?”
“I have to move carefully, Lex, or they’ll fucking know I’m popping their cherry and shut me down.”
The street sweeper leans his broom up against a tree and nods at the lady by the newsstand. I glance around and see a produce truck coming down the street.
“Fuck,” I mutter as it passes me. “Mickey. Produce van in the street. Tell me where it goes.”
“Got it,” he says almost instantly. “It’s indicating right, down the street next to the hotel, parallel to you but on the opposite side.”
I watch the street sweeper and the lady in blue cross the road toward the same street.
Fuck.
“They’re going to slip in the trade entrance,” I say tightly.
“None of you fucking move, got it? It will take them at least four minutes to get up to the penthouse. Anything comes toward you, fucking shoot it. Roman’s people should be arriving any minute.
Call them, Mickey, get them to come up from the rear.
Hopefully they can pick up those two before they even get close. ”
“Calling now,” Mickey says. “And I’ve got our friends on camera. They’re moving through the kitchen. Hang on, Luis is on the line.” Then, a moment later, “Fuck. You there, Lex?”
“What?” My stomach is churning.
“There’s some kind of accident blocking the road four blocks away. Luis and Bryce are stuck there.”
“That’s no accident.” I move out from behind the car, sliding along the wall. “We’re out of time. I’m going for the van.”
I check to make sure hoodie guy is still turned away from me, then move swiftly across the street, keeping my head down. On the other side of the road I flatten myself into a doorway. The van is less than thirty paces to my right, just around the corner.
“You’re clear,” the security guy says in my ear. “Hoodie guy is still watching the street his friends went down.”
“I’ve got eyes inside the van,” Lars says triumphantly. “Apart from the driver, there are two in the back. Both with sidearms, can’t see what else. Both facing screens on the left-hand side from the rear. They know someone is knocking on their system, so they’re distracted. Go.”
“Mickey.” I pull out my Luger. “Keep your sister safe.”
Staying low, I race around the corner and move silently up to the driver’s side door. Pulling it open, I knock him out with the butt of my gun before he has a chance to pull his own weapon.
There’s a dark glass divider between the driver and the back, one I know from a glance is bulletproof.
Leaving the driver slumped over the wheel, I edge down the side of the van, expecting bullets.
But the operators in the back must be too distracted by Lars’s hacking skills, because the rear doors are still closed.
Easing my hand beneath the handle, I pull it open.
I knock out the first guy before he even realizes I’m there.
I take the woman behind him before she has a chance to raise the alarm, pulling the doors closed behind me as I cover her mouth.
I mute her mike, then stare down at her.
“I’m going to take my hand away,” I say quietly.
“Don’t scream, or I’ll kill him.” I nod at the guy slumped against the doors, my gun against his temple. “Do you understand?”
She nods slowly.
“Who are you here for?”
“For you.” Her English is heavily accented.