The Frenchman nodded. A smile came slowly to his lips and then he threw his head back and laughed with gusto, shaking his hands and the cigarette at the ceiling. After that, he came at Butler and bear-hugged him so hard, the rest of his team started chuckling.
“Thank you!” Francois said, beaming as he pulled back. He gestured to the others. “From the bottom of my heart, all of you, thank you.”
“Our pleasure,” Vincente said as he ripped off one of the decals from the right side of the van. “Anyone who would do something like that to a man’s daughter deserves punishment.”
Purdy ran her fingers through her close-cropped hair. “No matter how rich the son of a bitch is.”
Francois looked at Butler, his eyes glistening. “There is nothing I can ever do to repay you for this.”
Butler smiled. “You can take this van apart by morning.”
Cortland set a long canvas duffel at the Frenchman’s feet. “The guns are already broken down into parts. I’d say melt them quick.”
Francois gazed at the duffel a few long moments, nodded, and threw his arms wide. “Yes, of course, all of it! And strip off your coveralls. I will burn them in the blast furnace for you. It will be as if you were never here.”
“Just the way we like it,” Vincente said.
Butler removed his coverall and dressed in the casual clothes he’d stored at the shop hours earlier. After that, he grabbed a black carry-on along with his passport, wallet, and cell phone. When he turned it on, it almost immediately pinged, alerting him to a text: Call Maestro.
He was about to do so when Francois came up to him. “The Land Rover is waiting for you outside whenever you are ready.”
“Thank you.”
The burly Frenchman put his hand on his heart. “And if you happen to talk to M, tell him a grateful father sends his sincere regards.”
Chapter 42
Washington, DC
In the intensive care unit at GWU Hospital, John Sampson groggily opened his eyes to see his young daughter, Willow, standing at his bedside grinning at him through tears of joy.
Overwhelming relief filled Sampson. He had been spared. He was still alive for his little girl.
Before he could say anything, a bolt of pain shot through his gut. He gritted his teeth and moaned but kept his smile alive for Willow until the agony passed. Then he shifted his right leg and felt another spasm of pain go through his thigh.
“Hi, baby,” Sampson said in a croak when the spasm passed.
“Hi, Daddy,” she said, still crying. “The doctor said don’t move much.”
“Just figured that out,” he said, noticing that Nana Mama, Jannie, and Ali were also in the hospital room. “What day is it?”
Jannie said, “July first. You were stabbed last night, right around this time.”
“Been out ever since,” Nana Mama said. “You gave us a fright, John.”
Willow said, “I have never been so scared in my life, Daddy.”
Ali, who looked tired, said, “She wouldn’t go to sleep last night because she didn’t want to wake up an orphan.”
“You kept trying to leave the room,” Willow said.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
Jannie said, “Anyways, Willow’s been here all day, waiting.”
Sampson’s daughter took her eyes off Ali and said, “I wanted to be here when you woke up, Daddy. I wanted to be the first thing you saw.”
John felt such exploding love, his head swam. It took several moments for him to say, “And you were, baby. Thank God, you were.”
A big force of nature named Juanita Alvarez chugged through the open door behind them wearing hospital scrubs and a stethoscope around her neck.
“Too many people,” the nurse said in a singsong voice. “Who let you all in here?”
Ali said, “You did.”
“I must have been out of my mind,” Juanita said, smiling as she went to the other side of Sampson’s bed to check his IV lines and the monitors. “We thought you were going to sleep all week, Detective. The staff’s been calling you ‘patient RVW.’”
“RVW?”
“Rip van Winkle,” she said and laughed. “That’s pretty funny, you have to admit.”
“How bad am I?” Sampson asked.
“You’re pretty damn good, considering,” Juanita said. “The knife wound to the thigh missed your femoral artery, and the one to your abdomen got only a little of one lobe of your liver. They had to remove a chunk, but luckily the liver grows back.”
He was becoming more alert. “How long until I can leave?”
She shrugged. “A few days? They’re going to want to see that you don’t show signs of infection and that you’re on your feet walking.”
“Walking?” he said, anticipating the pain of that. “When?”
Juanita looked up at the clock on the wall. It was seven thirty in the evening. “I’d like to see you on your feet before midnight,” she said. “But let’s get you peeing on your own first.”
“Why? Doesn’t it work?” Willow said and broke into infectious giggles. Soon they were all laughing, even Sampson, although he tried not to and grimaced when he did.
“Glad I could provide comic relief,” he said when the laughter died down.
Juanita said, “She is a funny little thing, isn’t she?”
Sampson gazed at his daughter and smiled. “She is that. Got it from her mom. Where are you staying, baby?”
“At Uncle Alex and Aunt Bree’s house,” Willow said.
He frowned. “Where is Alex?”
“On his way to Paris,” Ali said.
Nana Mama nodded. “He texted us that Bree was in trouble and he was taking a plane straight there from Denver.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Jannie glanced at Nana Mama before saying, “There was some kind of terrorist attack in Paris. Bree was involved. That’s all we know.”
Chapter 43
Paris
The last twenty minutes of the flight were endless. I barely got an hour of sleep despite the reclining seat and I was feeling frayed as we made our approach to the city almost twelve hours later.
As we came in for a landing, I prayed for Bree, as I had on takeoff and a hundred times since. And I prayed for myself, asking for the strength to carry on should the worst-case scenario prevail. My stomach lurched when we touched down. My fingers trembled as I turned on my phone.
I expected a barrage of texts but got only one, from a number I did not recognize. It said: You’ll thank me later — M.
Before I could digest that, my phone started to go haywire. The housing got hot, the screen flashed several times, and it shut down. I started it again and tried to call Elena Martin but I got an error tone and a recording in French. The same thing happened when I tried to call my home phone and Jannie’s cell.
It was maddening, but I managed not to explode with frustration as we pulled up to the gate. I had my carry-on down the second the seat-belt sign dinged off and was fourth in line for the door.
When it opened at last, my entire focus was getting through to a Wi-Fi connection as soon as possible. But I had taken only one step beyond the plane door when a man said, “Dr. Cross?”
He was tall, black, and wore a full SWAT outfit. He was also carrying a submachine gun. So was the shorter woman beside him.
“Yes?” I said.
“Directorate for Internal Security,” the big man said, opening a side door off the Jetway. “You will come with us, please.”
There’s no arguing with agents of the French organization dedicated to counterterrorism, so I went through the door and down the steep staircase. Two other French agents similarly clad and armed were waiting at the bottom.