No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(75)

One minute later, two other couples approached, the females dressed to the nines, and the males in suits. They were let in as well.

“Shit. This is it. Call Nung. Get him staged on this road.”

She started dialing, saying, “We don’t have the police. What’s the mission?”

“Catch that f*ck Braden.”

Looking through plate glass, I saw the first couple start browsing the displays on the western side. Next to the guard at that door. The other two couples split, one headed to the interior of the store, and the other focusing on the displays near the eastern door. Near the guard.

I said, “Get him on the phone. It’s going to happen quick.”

And it did. I saw the eastern man pull something from his coat, and the guard at my door dropped like he’d been hit in the head with an axe handle. Looking through the glass, I saw the western door was empty. Two seconds later, the men were replaced by the two suits, both shoving in the earpieces of the door guards and looking as if they belonged. I couldn’t see the two roving security guys but knew they were down as well. The females took off their high heels and started racing through the store, smashing the glass in the displays and shoving gold into their bags.

I said, “Jesus Christ, they’re fast. This is about to be over. Where’s Nung?”

She held a finger up, speaking into the phone. “No, don’t pull up yet. Get where you can arrive in five seconds. No earlier.”

I saw a man on a motorcycle coming toward us on the eastern side, driving at an unhurried pace, keeping with the traffic. He had on a helmet, but I knew who it was.

I said, “Braden’s coming. Get Nung moving. We’re about to lose him.”

Jennifer relayed, and I watched impatiently as the bike pulled up to the eastern entrance. It sat there puttering, then one couple burst out of the exit. The man shoved a bulging canvas sack into the bike rider’s arms. I watched them run into an alley, seeing the woman toss her hat to the ground and whip off a wig.

They were gone.

I looked through the store, trying to find the others, but could see nothing. I knew they’d exited through the west door. And that they’d also gone through the profile change, altering their appearance with wigs and jackets.

I saw the bike hammer the throttle, headed to the Champs-élysées, and shouted, “Where the hell is Nung?”

A Fiat slammed to a stop in front of us, and Jennifer said, “Here. Let’s go.”

We raced out of the café, the owner behind the bar screaming at us. I had no time to pay our bill and simply ignored him, piling into the back, Jennifer taking the passenger seat.






52




Nung started driving, not saying a word, making me wonder what he thought he was doing. It was like Thailand all over again. The Terminator robot walking relentlessly forward with his last orders, calm and immune to chaos.

A tall man with a shock of crew-cut black hair, he looked vaguely Thai, but with a mix of something else. Exotic, he’d probably get more ass than a toilet seat if he weren’t so damn straightforward. I was pretty sure any woman who approached him would say one coy thing, and he’d answer with something honest, like, “I don’t seek females with small breasts.”

We approached the Champs-élysées and he asked, “Destination?”

I said, “See that bike? The one headed away from the Arc de Triomphe? That’s the target. Stay on him.”

He took the turn, and I started thinking of options. From the front, Jennifer said, “We need to get him clean. We can’t take him down on the streets of Paris. We’ll all get locked up by the police.”

I cursed Kurt under my breath and said, “I know. We’ll follow to a bed-down site. Nung, don’t lose him, but don’t spike either.”

He said, “That may be a command I cannot accomplish. If forced, which is it? Don’t spike or don’t lose?”

I said, “Don’t lose. Whatever it takes, don’t let that f*cker get away.”

We traveled down the thoroughfare, passing all the high-end stores and entering Franklin Roosevelt circle. We continued on, the stores falling away for tree-lined promenades, with palaces left and right. Jennifer said, “The Louvre is ahead. Is he doing something else?”

“No. No way.”

We hit a dead end at a large oval, and he turned south, crossing the Seine. I said, “He’s going home.”

He took a left on boulevard Saint-Germain and started weaving in and out of traffic, picking up the pace. I said, “Stick with him.”

Nung floored the accelerator, driving me into my seat. I shouted, “Jesus Christ, just keep him in sight.”

Nung said, “You need to be more clear.”

I looked at Jennifer, and she rolled her eyes, silently telling me, He’s your crazy team member.

I said, “Nung, stay with him, but don’t kill us.”

He said, “You never specified anything about harm to us. Sorry.”

My mouth fell open, and he smiled. He said, “American joke.” Showing me for the first time he was at least human enough to have sarcasm.

We went through multiple roundabouts, the bike weaving in and out of traffic with us barely keeping up. I saw the helmet flick back to us and knew we were about to be burned.