50
Knuckles saw a flurry of movement, then heard a command in French.
Brock said, “Might be time,” and jogged over to the man who was apparently in charge.
Brett said, “You think they could neck down a phone location with that little drone?”
“I was wondering that myself. I’m thinking of volunteering your services. Get you inside with a Growler. If they’ve got the phone talking to the router, you could pinpoint.”
Brett raised an eyebrow and said, “You mean because I used to work in Ground Branch? Because I’m used to penetrating hostile environments and can’t be flustered by ordinary pressure?”
Brock came back to them, and Knuckles said, “No. Because you’re the only black man in the room.”
Before Brock could utter a word, Brett muttered, “Always about the black man.”
Brock looked at him, then at Knuckles. “You guys got a problem I need to know about?”
“You tell me. What’s up?”
“They’re ready to go, but it’s going to be a little bigger than we wanted. They’ve got the phone pinpointed to the fourth floor based on signal strength, but that still leaves fifteen apartments. The signal’s stronger in the west, so we’ll hit that first, then roll forward, taking three rooms at a time.”
Incredulous, Knuckles said, “That’s fucking insane.”
Brock said, “I know, it’s not optimal, but the guys who are augmenting all have SWAT training. They’ll lock down the floor while the GIGN clears. Nobody will get out.”
“Get out? What if the bad guys just start shooting? This isn’t a capture/kill mission. It’s a hostage rescue. The precious cargo takes priority. I don’t give a shit if all the terrorists run out the back. I do, however, care greatly if they decide to bring harm.”
Brock said, “Not our call. It’s their country. Their show. They’ve done this sort of thing a hell of a lot.”
“Screw that. What if we can neck it down?”
“‘We’? You mean us? How are you going to do that?”
“You got a signal-intercept capability with all of that tech shit you brought?”
“No. It’s all biometric. We got a Quick Capture suite here with us. We can scan an eyeball or fingerprint and get a read via satellite in seconds.” He said the last with a little pride.
Knuckles deflated him. “Who gives a shit about who they are after we’re done? You need to get back to what this is. Forget about your tours in Afghanistan. It’s all about the rescue. We can do the forensics afterward, but that’s just a sideshow.”
Stung, Brock said, “I get that, but the rescue is their mission. I’ve been given mine. What do you want me to do? Take over the operation?”
“Yes. Tell them we have some kit to isolate the phone. Get us something better than an entire floor. I’ll send Brett in. He conducts a recce and comes back.”
“What skill does he have?”
“Not much, but he’s black.”
Brett, digging through a Pelican case, snorted and said, “Trust me, I’ve got more skill than anyone in this room for the mission. Get the commander over here.”
Brock stood for a moment, and Knuckles could see the options banging through his skull, the implications of action competing with the results of inaction. He knew Brock was feeling enormous pressure to do nothing and let the French take the blame for any problems, but the hostages’ lives weighed in the balance. Knuckles waited on the correct decision and had no doubt Brock would make it. They were both too much alike not to.
Brock turned away and waved. The troop commander came over, and Brock began speaking French to him, surprising Knuckles. They went back and forth, and the commander looked at Knuckles. Speaking with a heavy accent, he said, “You have done this before?”
“Yes. It’s what we do.”
“The FBI does this? I have never seen this, and I’ve been to Quantico several times.”
Knuckles grinned and said, “Special cell.”
The commander slowly nodded, then started barking in French. Soon enough, Brett was outfitted with derelict clothes and given a motorbike. The commander said, “No weapons. You go, you come back. Understand?”
Brett said, “About what I expected.”
Knuckles buried the Growler in a knapsack slung over his back, running the antennae down the shoulder strap. He said, “You want backup?”
“No. I don’t need a white-boy spiking.”
He pulled out of the garage, and Brock said, “Need to send in a SITREP. Let them know the FBI is operational on this mission.”
Knuckles grabbed his arm. “You don’t need to send shit. He’s my man. My responsibility. I’ll send the SITREP.”
“To who? This is my show.”
“To the National Command Authority. Trust me, it’s not your show.”