Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3) (21 page)

“How did Zervas get here so fast?” Her pulse zinged and she pictured shadowy figures brandishing automatic weapons invading the building like swarms of killer bees.

He wrapped one powerful arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “He didn’t. He probably called in a favor.”

Her heart still rabbited. Her nerves felt wound, tight. Fear, yes, but more. Tuned in to her surroundings, even the normal sounds and smells—the hum of air conditioning, the distant blare of car horns, the spearmint sharpness of the receptionist’s candies. Was this—every sense on alert—what hummed through warriors like these two men in the face of danger? In anticipation of adventure?

“Cleo?” Thomas began.

“I’m fine.” She licked her dry lips, ready to do whatever was necessary. She trusted Thomas’s expertise and instincts— and Lucas, loyal to his boss, just as vigilant and capable.

“No telling how many men are downstairs.” Lucas reached behind him and withdrew a pistol that looked like the one Thomas borrowed on Santorini, a Beretta. “Sooner or later they’ll get tired of waiting for us to go down.”

Thomas nodded. “Car’s on fourth. They’ll use the stairs. We have to get out of here.” He now held an identical pistol. More of Lucas’s doing.

He turned to her. “We’ll need to move fast. Del Rio will take care of our bags later.”

Her purse with her passport and money went into the zippered pocket of her jacket, a small attempt at protecting it from the rain she could hear peppering the skylight. A scarf wouldn’t keep her dry but the Mondrian-print foulard would hide her bright hair. She tucked away her red flats in favor of black leather brogues. Ugly but practical in Venice. And here.

She observed intently as the men organized their escape in terse phrases and hand gestures, seeming to communicate almost by telepathy.

Their plans apparently in place, Thomas caught her to him. “Stick to me like paint, Cleo. Move when I say, stay put when I say.” He demonstrated the corresponding hand signals. “Trust me. Can you do that?”

Like Santorini and Venice. Cleopatra could.
She
could. Think of the chase as an adventure.

Rubbing her damp palms on her pants, she nodded. Speaking might morph the mind-escape thrill coiled inside her into panic and paralysis.

Catching the faint gleam of what looked like mutiny still in Cleo’s eyes, Thomas kicked himself mentally for coming on too strong. He would protect her however he saw necessary, but he needed her trust.

He prayed he had it, then shifted into the alert stillness of the zone. Ready, he brushed a kiss across her lips. “Then let’s go.”

He held her arm to keep her by his side as they approached the elevators. One on two, one on the ground floor, another on four. He punched the button. He noted her expression of alarm when Lucas slipped into the stairwell. “He’s going to distract them while we beat it out a back door.”

“Okay.” Her voice was steadier than he’d expected, her gaze clear and alert.

A car started up from four, a floor Lucas had said housed the offices of an insurance company. Probably empty, but he would take no chances. He motioned her to the side and plastered himself to the wall, out of range. They’d appear in the glass wall’s reflection but so would anyone inside the lift.

Ding.
The doors opened.

THE BERETTA COMFORTABLE
in his palm, Lucas crept down the stairs, his sneakers silent on the concrete steps.

He had to give Thomas and Cleo time to slip out to the Métro. Might have to take down the hired thugs, not just distract them. Tricky in the middle of Paris.

He paused on each landing, listened, processed. No indication of human movement above or below, only the faint hum of the building’s ventilation, the dry smells of metal and concrete, and his own sweat.

On the last landing, he crouched and peered through the metal railing. Small window in the upper half of the steel door. The lobby light seemed dimmer. And not to save electricity during night hours, he bet. If he looked out, the brightness of the stairwell would provide Zervas’s thugs a fat target—his head.

Hydraulic mechanism on this side meant the steel door opened inward. Fifty-fifty chance he’d have heard a man make that move. Recessed bulbs in the walls on either side of the door and the fluorescents overhead cast stark light in all corners. Nobody.

He let out a breath, slow and quiet. Checked the automatic. Safety off. His back to the green concrete wall, he edged down the last six steps. Tuned in with all his senses. Swung around to check below the stairs. Empty.

He crouched on the bottom step. Listened for sounds in the lobby.

The exit door swung open a few inches. A dark-jacketed figure hunched in the gap. The man’s eyes narrowed as he spotted Lucas. Three shots blasted the stairwell. Bullets sliced chips off the step above Lucas. Another ricocheted off the metal railing an inch from his hand. He opened fire, put two rounds in the man’s chest.

The man fell sideways through the opening, his free hand clutching his chest. The door swung shut.

Lucas’s ears rang from the barrage in what amounted to a vertical cement tunnel. Shit, now he couldn’t hear with either ear.

He approached, low, dragged the assailant away from the exit. Blood pumped onto the floor then slowed to a trickle as the light faded from his eyes. The dead man stared at nothing with one blue eye and one brown. Average build, brown hair, soul patch. A neck tattoo pegged him as a local gang member.

A quick search of pockets located no ID but he hadn’t expected to find one. He pocketed the man’s pistol, a Glock 19, and the extra clip stowed in the jacket. One less bad guy. One less weapon for the other dickwads to use.

He worked his jaw to loosen taut muscles, swallowed to clear his ears as he pictured the lobby. Double glass doors to the street, security desk to his right, seating area and bushy potted plants opposite. Whatever the plants were, their foliage would provide concealment. The shooters in the lobby would wait to see who came through the door—their man or somebody else.

He fired two shots into the stairwell’s back corner. The blasts would confuse the issue, make them wonder. He gripped the door handle.

***

Thomas waited beside the open elevator car, listened, watched for any movement or shadow in the hidden corners.

Only a soft violin version of “Take Me Home, Country Roads” with a distinct French lilt and the faint tang of sweat exited the car. Before the doors could glide shut, he bent low and scanned the interior.

“Clear,” he barked. “Cleo, with me.”

Once she scooted inside with him, he punched the button. “They might be watching the rear of this building. Third floor has a way into the next building. We’ll leave from there.” Del Rio would give them time. “Stand in the corner by the buttons. Just in case.”

Cleo obeyed instantly, without a word, eyes as intent and focused as those of any soldier on a mission. He’d ask her about that later.

Offering a prayer they would have later, he steadied the Beretta with his left hand. This automatic model could fire controlled bursts of three rounds, close in operation to the Sig Sauer he preferred.

When the doors opened on three, he sidled into the opening, scanned the area, gun leveled. A closed door with three brass nameplates faced the elevator. A wide corridor stretched to the right and left. Empty. More doors with brass plates, also closed. Nearly eight o’clock, so those offices should be locked up and empty. He beckoned to Cleo.

Tapping the button for the ground floor, he sent the car down empty.

Toward the right, he spotted his goal. “Del Rio said to take that exit door to the next building.” Their shoes swished in near silence on the dark green carpeting as they hurried toward the lighted
Sortie
sign.

“Is there any escape hatch or ambush spot Lucas hasn’t checked out?”

“Doubt it. He’s a worst-case-scenario kind of guy. A good man to have your back. He overlooks nothing.”

They hustled along a dim corridor to the other building’s exit sign.

He signaled her to stay to the side while he checked the stairwell. Silent and clear. “In case they’ve fanned out to look for us here, keep it fast and quiet.”

They made it to the ground floor without incident. He groaned inwardly. No window in the door to see what was outside. Beretta ready, he inched open the door and caught the smells of wet pavement and car exhaust. No voices or scrape of shoes, only the rain’s patter and the traffic’s muffled roar. As he eased out farther, rain soaked his hair and splashed his leather shoes.

The scene before him explained the lack of near traffic. Shit.

He let the door close again. “Problem. Del Rio said to go right, then left up Franklin D. Roosevelt Avenue to the Métro stop. Outside’s a U-shaped courtyard. Right end is closed. No public building entrances I can see. After eight everything’s locked up tight.”

She nodded, her eyes bright. The color of the freckles across her nose and high in her cheeks stood out against the pallor of her skin. “Maybe he meant to go right on the Rue Camille beyond the courtyard.”

“You know the street?”

“Before I moved to Venice, I lived in Paris for a year and worked at an art supply store near here. Camille is lined with restaurants, hotels, and shops, busy even after offices close for the night. Turning right on Camille will take us to Roosevelt.”

He should’ve known. She’d been knocking around Europe awhile. What artist wouldn’t spend time in Paris? Kissing her would yank him right out of the zone but, man, he really wanted his mouth on hers.
Focus, Devlin.

“Your route works, but it means going back the way we came,” he said. “Maybe Del Rio has distracted Zervas’s thugs. Maybe not. We don’t know how many there are. Probably deployed outside as well as in the lobby. Definitely armed.”

Concentration deepened the sea green of her eyes. “What can I do to help?”

“I need your eyes and ears. Watch for teams of two.” He pulled her into his arms, absorbed her softness, the rapid thump of her heartbeat against him, the fragrance of her skin. She wrapped her arms around him, holding on as if her life depended on the connection. Damn, she was braver than he’d ever imagined.

Stepping away, he checked his weapon. “Cleo, my aim is to get us out of here without detection. I’m hoping these hired thugs won’t risk a shootout in the middle of Paris. But if it comes down to it, I’ll protect you with my life.”

***

Lucas opened the stairwell door a crack and listened. His hearing hadn’t recovered enough to distinguish subtle sounds. Hell, go for it. He scuttled low through the opening.

A staccato burst of bullets sprayed the door.

He answered with a burst of his own as he dived behind the plant pots. Shots cracked one washing-machine-size container, spraying ceramic shards and dirt. The shrub tilted at a precarious angle but didn’t fall. He scooted closer to the other two, prayed their pots held together. Warm liquid trickled down his temple. Damn clay shards had dug a gash at his hairline.

The shots came from behind the security station. Curved desk rose about chest height, tall enough to conceal more than one man. But they wouldn’t stay down long. He changed the Beretta’s magazine and set it on the floor, then checked the Glock he’d liberated. Nudged it through the green leaves, ready.

One man rolled out from the desk’s right side, firing.

Lucas pulled the trigger. His bullets splintered marble and wood, sending the man diving for cover.

Shots erupted from the desk’s other end. Two more men rushed out, bent low as one continued firing. The other spoke into an ear module.

Shit, double coverage. The entire block could hear this racket. How long before the
gendarmes
mounted up? And how long could he last even with two guns? What the hell, he’d offered to distract the bastards, hadn’t he?

He returned fire, then took aim again at the first man. Heading for the glass doors beside the elevators. The corridor beyond led to a rear exit. Creep had to be stopped. His shots had to count. As he fired, more blasts from the other two shooters shattered the ceramics, his only cover. Dirt, shredded leaves and clay bits showered him as the plants toppled to the floor.

He lay prone behind the wrecked pots. Gun firm in a two-handed grip, he lifted his head only to see the two men disappearing out the front doors and into the darkness.

Fuck, they’d played him. The first shooter had drawn his fire so the other team could escape. He turned toward the first man. Down just shy of his exit door. Not moving. One arm trapped beneath him, the right outstretched, hand still holding the automatic. No blood visible.

Lucas pocketed his Beretta and clambered to his feet, Glock ready. He edged around the planter debris toward the still form. Dead eyes. Heaving a sigh, he kicked the pistol away into the corner.

He took out his phone and punched Thomas’s number.

The faint wail of sirens penetrated his deadened hearing. Shaking his head, he tried his hearing aid. Blown battery. He had bad enough news for Thomas, but what the hell was he going to tell the cops? And Special Ball-Breaker Agent Hunt?

***

With his life.

The declaration—delivered in a matter-of-fact tone—thundered in Cleo’s ears. After the knife fight, she’d avoided thinking about the fact he was risking his life for her. Hearing him say the words again gave the possibility form and substance. Zervas’s men wanted to grab her, not kill her, but that wasn’t true about Thomas. If he were hurt or killed, she—

Icy shards scraped the back of her neck and she felt the blood drain from her face. He held her gaze with his steady appraisal—always observing every detail, every nuance. She swallowed and nodded, calling on Cleopatra’s boldness. “I’m ready.”

She followed Thomas outside. No shots, no running footsteps, only the rainy tap dance on the paving stones. They dashed across the courtyard. Although the downpour had ebbed, the drizzle quickly soaked her face and hair, and the pounding of her shoes fountained cold water against her jeans. She ought to be shivering but maybe adrenaline insulated her from the discomfort.

When they reached the partial shelter of the opposite building, he backed them into a doorway and surveyed again. Always cool, always aware, always alert, he would see the bad guys before they saw him. Trusting him, believing in him helped her maintain her adventure mind escape— deep inside, yeah, she did know it was a fantasy.

“The heavy rain kept people indoors,” he said. “The let-up is in our favor if more people come outside.”

“Cover?”

“Right.” He held up a hand as he pulled out his mobile phone, its vibrations humming.
“Del Rio,”
he mouthed.

His gaze scanned the courtyard, the street beyond. “Copy that. Don’t see them yet.” A pause. “Roger. ETA at least an hour to meet you.”

He urged Cleo back into the drizzle. “I’ll fill you in later. Two men got away, may come around the building after us. Could be others. Here we go.”

They raced for the street. The Rue Camille teemed as usual.

As they joined the other pedestrians, he slowed their pace. “In this crush, they might not spot us. Don’t act too careful. A dead giveaway you’re trying not to be seen. Walk normally. Look in shop windows.”

Slowing to the pace of the crowd didn’t come too soon. Thank God. He barely breathed hard, nothing like the frantic bellows pumping in her chest.

She angled her head. In the glare of car headlights, she saw two men in hooded black jackets striding toward them from the direction of the Champs-Élysées, about fifty yards back. Even though the team wasn’t running after them, her heart somersaulted. She clutched Thomas’s sleeve.

“I see them. And two more out the back door. Del Rio said there was another rear exit,” he said, keeping her between him and the building. “I’ve got you, babe. They haven’t spotted us yet.”

Buoyed by the security of his arm around her shoulders, she forced herself to stroll.

Pedestrians scurried along, hunched beneath colorless hooded raincoats and dark umbrellas. Street lights reflected the white sprays kicked up the passing cars and a bicycle slicing through the gutter. The scene could’ve been a shades-of-gray painting by Caillebotte. Little did people know they were actually in a black-and-white thriller film.

He steered her around a trio of tourists with maps and cameras and past a bakery, closed but still redolent of pastries and yeast. They edged by a gang of hoodie-clad teens studying an outside menu. In spite of her tension and the traffic fumes, her stomach growled at the aroma of herb-roasted chicken wafting from the restaurant’s kitchen.