Saturday evening
Kitsune checked into a small, quiet hotel on the West Bank, took a room sight unseen, and was barely inside the door before she plugged the thumb drive into her laptop and watched the files upload. Hundreds upon hundreds of files, every one a valuable link to Lanighan’s enterprise. It gave her great satisfaction to hold the heart of his world in her hands.
If Mulvaney was close by, she would find him in these files.
She set the laptop down on the small desk and opened her bag. She wanted to hold on a bit longer, but there was no help for it, she needed fuel and rest. The hotel provided fruit at the front desk. She’d taken three apples and a banana, had jerky and granola bars in her bag from her stop at the travel center. She ate while the files began to load, then took a shower. She set her alarm for two hours of sleep and drifted off immediately.
She woke refreshed, though still tired. She took a handful of vitamins loaded with ginseng to help her stay awake and focused. She drank water, stretched, and made a cup of herbal tea.
While she was sipping her tea, the files finished uploading. She scrolled through them, down to the S files—the security folder—hoping there were protocols of the security systems from Lanighan’s warehouses. She was in luck; there was a folder inside labeled DropCams.
There were at least fifty camera feeds to go through. With a sigh, she settled deeper in her chair and began opening them one by one.
She hit pay dirt on the eighth folder. The screen was separated into five squares, two large showing the first-floor interior of a warehouse, and row upon row of what she knew must be artwork, and three smaller squares on the bottom showing individual rooms on the top floor, one a very large office. And in the office, she saw Mulvaney, tied to a chair, his arms stretched tight behind his back, a gag in his mouth. He was slumped over, asleep or dead, she couldn’t tell. The video was too grainy to see if his chest rose and fell. She saw flashes of light, shadows moving outside the range of the cameras. She realized whoever was in the room with him was taking photographs.
She took a deep breath to calm her rage, looked at the file, saw the address—it was a warehouse in Gagny Neuf-trois. Forty minutes away.
She hadn’t wanted to believe Lanighan, but now she had no choice—she’d seen Mulvaney with her own eyes. She felt tears burn her eyes, shook it off. She’d save him, she had to.
She scanned the remaining files, saw a few more attached to the Gagny warehouse. She opened them and read through the information, found the corresponding video feeds for the cameras on the grounds.
She wasn’t surprised the outside cameras showed armed guards patrolling the perimeter. She counted fourteen men in fatigues, cradling AR-15s to their chests, all in a state of readiness she’d seen from professional soldiers. They fairly screamed mercenary.
It made sense to have security, of course, with the treasures he had inside the warehouse. But this—fourteen heavily armed men sweeping around the building in a clearly coordinated pattern, this was overkill, and done for a reason: Lanighan knew she was coming.
If it was a war he wanted, she was happy to bring it to his door. One against fourteen wasn’t the best odds, but she’d dealt with worse.
She spent the next fifteen minutes drawing up plans, making lists. She had a storage unit near Paris that held everything she’d need, units similar to ones she had all over the world. Tools were needed for her work, and it paid to be prepared.
She looked at her watch; she was supposed to meet Lanighan at 9:00 p.m. back at his apartment on Avenue Foch, but she had no intention of doing that. She put away her computer and called him.
86
Paris
Avenue Foch
Saturday evening