54
I slapped in the combo to our hotel safe and ripped out the two suppressed pistols, handing one to Jennifer. I was kicking myself for not having them with me in the first place, but when I thought the Paris gendarmerie were on board it made little sense to bring firepower. We weren’t going to actively engage, and trying to penetrate an arrest to interrogate Braden would have been made much, much harder sporting two illegally suppressed Glocks. It wasn’t worth the risk.
I did find it humorous that Jennifer had placed our laptop inside as well, like the maids would have stolen it. For the price we were paying for this Parisian gem, I would expect to be able to leave a couple of half-dressed midgets in the room holding the Glocks and get no flack. Of course, I wasn’t going to push that theory.
She stowed her weapon and booted up the laptop, going online and furiously typing, trying to find the location of the hostages before the men who held them realized something was wrong.
I had nothing else to do, so I called down to Nung, making sure he was ready to receive us when we had a destination. Our hotel wasn’t exactly conducive to vehicles, so I’d had him drop us off, then circle like a shark until summoned. The time getting back to the hotel had eaten up thirty minutes, and I was growing worried that we were about to miss our window. We needed an edge.
Jennifer said, “No, damn it. A Samsung Galaxy,” and I realized she was on a chat with someone at Taskforce headquarters, the Samsung phone hooked to her laptop. She said, “Where’s Creed? Get him online.”
I heard, “He’s at the White House Situation Room. Working the problem.”
I wanted to punch the wall at the words, superstitiously wondering if the devious bastards we were after had managed to divert the one computer geek I trusted at Taskforce headquarters. Refusing to face the real probability that those same devious men might have killed two members of my team. Including Knuckles. My friend and my mentor.
Earlier, we’d searched Braden’s body and found a passport from the UK, confirming his identity, along with two cell phones. The cell he was using when we killed him was a ruggedized flip phone that worked on the cell network like a walkie-talkie. The other was a Samsung Galaxy smartphone, stuffed into his back pocket. I’d continued searching, stripping the body, when a museum official from the exit came down, shocked at what he’d seen.
He’d said, “The police are on the way. Don’t you move.”
Nung had simply looked at him, then at me, saying, “Time to go.”
He’d glided toward the stairs with his catlike gait, and the man stepped aside.
I said, “Give me your radio.” The guard did, and I sprinted up after Nung, reaching the exit and a group of tourists standing around with large eyes, getting more for their entrance fee than they expected.
Marching out as though I owned the place, holding the radio from the man downstairs, I picked out the first thirtysomething man I could find. A guy with Harley-Davidson tattoos and a bad goatee. An American who looked as if he was used to bending the rules.
I’d said, “Don’t let anyone else come up. I’m coordinating the first responders, but I don’t have the manpower to lock down the exit. There’s a bad guy down there.”
His wife or girlfriend said, “That’s not our business . . .” but I saw him grin, looking at my radio. Because, you know, if you’re holding a radio, clearly you’re the authority.
He nodded his head, saying, “Shush, Celia. We can help.”
We sprinted through the door, and Jennifer was waiting. Right outside. I couldn’t believe it, thanking the gods yet again that I’d run into her and her bottomless pit of historical knowledge four years ago. We piled in, and she said, “Where’s Braden?”
I said, “He’s dead. No time to discuss.”
I pulled out my Taskforce phone and called Kurt, praying he would answer. He did.
“Sir, I don’t have time to explain, but we took down Braden, and he’s tied into the hostages. I need a geolocation of a phone signal right now.”
His answer had rocked my world. “Pike, I don’t have time for this right now. The hostages may very well be dead. Along with Knuckles.”
He’d given me the abbreviated version of what had happened, speaking in short, clipped sentences. The story left me speechless. How could we have been sucked in to such a trap? Where were the intel indicators?
Jennifer saw my face and said, “What? What’s he saying?”
I waved her off and returned to the mission. “Sir, I just caught the guy from the tape in Cambridge. I don’t know what the hell is going on with that hit, but your niece is alive. Braden was giving orders to kill her, but he couldn’t get a signal because we were deep underground. I need this phone lock.”
“Underground? What the hell are you talking about? And how do you know she’s alive?”
“Sir, I don’t, but I’m close. You guys are on the wrong thread. Help me. Please.”
I heard a bunch of background noise, then he came back. “Pike, they’ve just made a demand. I have to go. Call George Wolffe. Tell him Prairie Fire. He’ll open the world.”
I heard the command and felt some comfort. Prairie Fire was the code word for a catastrophic event, when Taskforce lives were on the line. He was giving me the keys to the kingdom for his niece, and I had no doubt he would back it up.
I said, “Thanks, sir. Gotta go.”
He spoke again, hope seeping through the connection, penetrating the disaster he was dealing with. He said, “Wait. The reports here are bad. Very bad. At least seven bodies all burned beyond recognition. Why do you think she’s alive?”
“Because she’s from your genes. Trust me, she’s alive, and I’m bringing her home. Like I promised.”