Fear No Evil(Alex Cross #29)(37)

“Well, folks, I’ve got some good news from the cockpit, some not-so-good news, and some bad news. Bad news: that sensor-light issue we had on the ground is back.”

People began to groan all around me.

“But the good news is we are still on our way to Paris. The sensor has nothing to do with the way we fly. It’s linked to our Wi-Fi system. So while we are still expecting to touch down at de Gaulle on schedule, I’m afraid you’ll have to spend your time on this flight the old-fashioned way, without text or internet.”





Chapter





41


Clichy, France



With the sounds of sirens still wailing in the distance, Matthew Butler shifted in the front passenger seat of an old gray Mercedes work van with decals on the side advertising a twenty-four-hour emergency plumbing service that did not exist. The van was crossing a bridge over the Seine, heading northwest away from Paris.

“ETA seven minutes,” Butler said over his shoulder to Big DD, Cortland, and Alison Purdy, all of whom sat in the rear wearing coveralls with embroidered logos featuring the same nonexistent plumbing firm. “Let’s be smooth, now. It was ugly, but we did what we came to do, so let’s slip out easy, head back to the ranch.”

Vincente, who was driving, said, “Make like we were never here.”

Big DD grumbled, “Oh, we were definitely here.”

“Don’t start,” Cortland said.

“It was supposed to be surgical,” Purdy sniffed. “Instead, we got civilian casualties, Cort, which means they’ll be hunting for us twice as hard.”

“I got the job done,” Cortland said. “Mission accomplished.”

Butler said, “We’ll discuss the ad lib later, Cort. After we get clear.”

Vincente turned north on the other side of the bridge and drove them to a light industrial area in the town of Gennevilliers. Butler got out at the gate and used a combination to unlock it. He locked it behind them after Vincente drove through.

They drove around the back of a long, high-roofed metal building and past a series of shut loading docks to one where the overhead door was just rising. A stout ramp was in place against the dock.

Vincente drove up the ramp and into a large, airy space that held a machine tool-and-die business. The door lowered behind them.

He parked in front of a short, burly guy in a welding smock. Graying hair, late forties, he had huge forearms and puffed on an unfiltered cigarette while squinting at them suspiciously.

Butler climbed out and noticed the oily smell in the air immediately. “Francois.”

Francois ripped the cigarette from his lips, spat a bit of tobacco on the concrete floor, and said in a thick accent, “It is done?”

“It is done.”

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.