Bree got up from the table a bit confused. She’d thought for sure that Abelmar was looking to hide his own money or the embezzled money, and here he was, motivated by the needs of other wealthy clients. Or so he claimed.
“Please,” the billionaire said, gesturing for Bree to lead the way.
With Abelmar behind her, she felt slightly uneasy. He was a monster. There was not an iota of doubt in her mind about that. The stories the women told had had too many similarities. The secret rooms. The assaults. The videotaping. The despicable demeaning and blackmailing of the young women afterward.
Yet he had been a perfect gentleman the entire night; charming, even. It didn’t jibe at all with what she’d read in the horrific sealed files.
By the time Valentina and Abelmar’s chief of security had come from the bar to join them, Bree had resolved her inner conflict by remembering that monsters could be wealthy, and they could also be charming when they needed to be.
Luc L’Argent led them out of the bistro. On the sidewalk, Abelmar said, “It is only a short walk up the street. Ten minutes.”
“I can do that,” Bree said.
“Fantastic,” the billionaire said and went ahead to walk with L’Argent, leaving Bree alone with his personal assistant.
Before Bree could say anything, her cell phone rang. She looked at the number and saw it was Alex. They hadn’t spoken since the day before yesterday. “Sorry, it’s my brother,” she said in English to Valentina. “I have to take this. I’ll tell him I’ll call him back later.”
“Take your time,” the Australian said, getting out her own phone and walking on.
Bree slowed her pace to answer. “Alex?”
“You finally picked up,” Alex said.
“It’s been crazy. Where are you?” Bree asked, watching Valentina walking a few yards ahead of her on the sidewalk and Abelmar and L’Argent another fifteen yards ahead of Valentina. The two men paused at an intersection and talked intently.
“Denver airport,” Alex said. “Heading for home and Sampson. Did you hear?”
His question barely registered. Just as she was about to ask Alex if she could call him back, Bree heard a thud, and the front window of a shop on the corner shattered. The billionaire and his security chief were two steps out into the intersection.
In one motion, L’Argent drew his weapon and spun around to protect his boss. Before he could, a second suppressed shot blew a chunk of the security chief’s head off.
He crumpled in the street. Valentina screamed. Stooped over, terrified, and sprayed with L’Argent’s blood and brains, Abelmar ran back toward Bree and dove behind a small parked Citroën. One of its windows erupted. Valentina screamed again.
Bree ducked behind another small car, dropping her phone and hearing it clatter on the sidewalk as she clawed in her purse for the pistol. “Valentina!” Bree shouted. “Get down! Now!”
Chapter 38
Denver
I’d been sitting in a cowboy-themed restaurant at Denver International Airport with an hour to kill until my flight home, still trying to wrap my head around everything Marco Alejandro had told me, when I dialed Bree’s phone in Paris.
“Alex?” Bree said, answering for the first time in two days.
“You finally picked up,” I said.
“It’s been crazy,” she said. “Where are you?”
“Denver airport. Heading for home and Sampson. Did you hear?” There was a noise like glass shattering; Bree grunted with surprise. “Bree?”
A woman screamed. There was another shattering sound, and the woman screamed again. I heard scuffling, then a clatter.
“Valentina!” Bree shouted. “Get down! Now!”
I could hear the slapping of shoes coming closer to the phone and a woman saying hysterically, “Luc’s dead. He’s really dead!”
“Bree!” I said, loud enough that the other patrons in the restaurant looked over at me. I didn’t care. “Bree! Talk to me!”
An automatic weapon opened fire with a quick burst that clanked off metal. As the bullets pinged, the woman screeched with fear.
A gun went off closer to the phone, two rounds. I jumped up, digging in my pocket for cash.
“Call the police, Valentina!” I heard Bree shout. “I can’t find my phone.”
I threw two twenties on the table, grabbed my carry-on, and left the restaurant.
There was another burst of automatic gunfire, and the woman went insane. “Philippe!” she screamed. “No! Don’t!”
I heard another burst of weapon fire, longer this time, and more pistol shots. “Bree?” I shouted.
“Valentina!” Bree called. I heard scuffling and more shots going off very close to the phone. And then the line went dead.
“Bree!” I shouted, not caring that other travelers in the hall were staring at me.
A female police officer walked up to me. “Sir? You’ll have to lower your voice or—”
“I’m Dr. Alex Cross and I’ve been in law enforcement for twenty years, Officer Finch,” I said, my voice trembling as I read her nameplate. “Working homicide in DC and now consulting for the FBI. That was my wife, a former police chief, on the phone. She’s in the middle of a firefight in Paris with automatic weapons.”
“No lie?”
“No lie,” I said, trying to call Bree back, though I was shaking so badly, I could barely hold the phone.
“How can I help, Dr. Cross?” Officer Finch asked. “Anything.”
I handed her the phone and said, “Can you hit Redial for me?”
The police officer took it, punched Redial, and gave it back to me.
After two rings, it went to voice mail. “Bree, it’s Alex, call me as soon as you can.” I hung up, feeling breathless and more frightened than I had in a long time. I hit Redial again, but nothing happened. I tried a third time, with the same result.
Knowing I was no use to anyone in this state, I forced myself to breathe deep and slow so I could make a decision based on logic rather than impulse.
“Is there anything else I can do?” Finch asked. “Someone I can call?”
I looked beyond her at the big electronic display showing flight departure and arrival times. A United Airlines flight to Paris was leaving from the international concourse in twenty-seven minutes.
“Dr. Cross?”
I pointed at the board. “Call the gate for the Paris flight. Tell them I have my passport and credit cards and I need any seat on that plane. It’s an emergency.”
Then I turned and took off like my life — and Bree’s — depended on it.
Chapter 39
Paris
Bree was down on her knees behind a small Peugeot with her pistol out. Abelmar’s assistant was forward and to her right, still standing on the sidewalk. Valentina had been frozen in place and screaming since the billionaire’s security chief was shot, but when Bree shouted for her, she finally ducked, ran to Bree, and crouched beside her.
“Luc’s dead. He’s really dead!” the young woman cried.
An automatic weapon opened fire from a rooftop on the opposite side of the street. Bree saw the muzzle flashes and heard the bullets smack the sides of the cars near Abelmar. She jumped up and aimed at where the flashes had come from, shot off two rounds, and ducked back down.
After a moment, Bree rose to peek through the windows of the Peugeot that shielded them. “Call the police, Valentina! I can’t find my phone.”
Valentina was hysterical, screeching with fear. The machine gun opened up again, raking the car Abelmar was crouched behind. The second the shooting stopped, the billionaire started to rise.
“Philippe!” Valentina shouted. “No! Don’t!”
Abelmar took off toward them in a low charge. Bree rose up and fired twice more at the rooftop to cover him but the shots did not stop the automatic weapon from ripping the night in a sustained burst that caught the tycoon, riddled him with bullets, and cut him down. He crashed to the sidewalk.