No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(73)

Incredulous, Knuckles said, “That’s f*cking insane.”

Brock said, “I know, it’s not optimal, but the guys who are augmenting all have SWAT training. They’ll lock down the floor while the GIGN clears. Nobody will get out.”

“Get out? What if the bad guys just start shooting? This isn’t a capture/kill mission. It’s a hostage rescue. The precious cargo takes priority. I don’t give a shit if all the terrorists run out the back. I do, however, care greatly if they decide to bring harm.”

Brock said, “Not our call. It’s their country. Their show. They’ve done this sort of thing a hell of a lot.”

“Screw that. What if we can neck it down?”

“‘We’? You mean us? How are you going to do that?”

“You got a signal-intercept capability with all of that tech shit you brought?”

“No. It’s all biometric. We got a Quick Capture suite here with us. We can scan an eyeball or fingerprint and get a read via satellite in seconds.” He said the last with a little pride.

Knuckles deflated him. “Who gives a shit about who they are after we’re done? You need to get back to what this is. Forget about your tours in Afghanistan. It’s all about the rescue. We can do the forensics afterward, but that’s just a sideshow.”

Stung, Brock said, “I get that, but the rescue is their mission. I’ve been given mine. What do you want me to do? Take over the operation?”

“Yes. Tell them we have some kit to isolate the phone. Get us something better than an entire floor. I’ll send Brett in. He conducts a recce and comes back.”

“What skill does he have?”

“Not much, but he’s black.”

Brett, digging through a Pelican case, snorted and said, “Trust me, I’ve got more skill than anyone in this room for the mission. Get the commander over here.”

Brock stood for a moment, and Knuckles could see the options banging through his skull, the implications of action competing with the results of inaction. He knew Brock was feeling enormous pressure to do nothing and let the French take the blame for any problems, but the hostages’ lives weighed in the balance. Knuckles waited on the correct decision and had no doubt Brock would make it. They were both too much alike not to.

Brock turned away and waved. The troop commander came over, and Brock began speaking French to him, surprising Knuckles. They went back and forth, and the commander looked at Knuckles. Speaking with a heavy accent, he said, “You have done this before?”

“Yes. It’s what we do.”

“The FBI does this? I have never seen this, and I’ve been to Quantico several times.”

Knuckles grinned and said, “Special cell.”

The commander slowly nodded, then started barking in French. Soon enough, Brett was outfitted with derelict clothes and given a motorbike. The commander said, “No weapons. You go, you come back. Understand?”

Brett said, “About what I expected.”

Knuckles buried the Growler in a knapsack slung over his back, running the antennae down the shoulder strap. He said, “You want backup?”

“No. I don’t need a white-boy spiking.”

He pulled out of the garage, and Brock said, “Need to send in a SITREP. Let them know the FBI is operational on this mission.”

Knuckles grabbed his arm. “You don’t need to send shit. He’s my man. My responsibility. I’ll send the SITREP.”

“To who? This is my show.”

“To the National Command Authority. Trust me, it’s not your show.”



* * *

Brett returned barely thirty minutes later, tooting his horn to get the garage door up. He entered, the GIGN surrounding him. Knuckles pushed through and said, “Well?”

“I couldn’t get a single apartment, but I necked it down to two. Fourth floor, just like the Frogs said.”

The GIGN commander smiled at the verbal slight and said, “Show me.”

Brett spent twenty minutes describing the entrance, the stairwell, and the target doors. The GIGN men, through the commander, asked questions about breach points, security positions, and lighting, all of which showed Knuckles they were on their game. He relaxed, letting them get to it.

Brock said, “I guess that was a good call.”

Knuckles said, “Intelligence is always a good call.”

“Doesn’t change anything. You’re still in the back, and I’m still the ground force commander.”

Knuckles looked at the ceiling and said, “No worries.”

Five minutes later they were rolling, a caravan of various panel vans and bread trucks, all designed to blend in to the environment. Knuckles looked out the windshield, following along as the men in his vehicle checked and rechecked breaching charges, weapons, and radios.

They turned down a street and he saw a large Orthodox church at the end. The stick leader in his van said something in French, and Brock said, “Thirty seconds.”

Knuckles stacked against the back of the van, next to Brett, giving the GIGN full access to the sliding door. He saw two vehicles continue straight, the regular gendarmerie locking down the block. Sealing off the operational area. The vehicle in front turned into a narrow lane, revealing a metal gate. Incongruously, as often happened in such operations, there was a single man out front on a park bench, talking on a phone, oblivious to the impending storm. Knuckles realized he was white, the sight looking completely out of place.