JACK WAITED for Fran to reach the rendezvous point. He glanced at his watch. The final mission of the Executioner was about to go down.
One way or another Jack had to see that Ami didn’t get caught in the aftermath as was planned.
But he couldn’t do this alone.
Fran parked her ancient Audi near his rental and quickly emerged from the car. In four long strides she stood face-to-face with him.
“Why’d you move the time up?” she asked, taking a look at her own watch.
“I need your help.”
A well-honed guard slipped into place, concealing whatever she might be thinking. “The last time you needed my help you almost got me killed.”
She didn’t have to remind him of the incident. He’d hoped she’d forgotten that by now. Jack had been new to the Company back then. Things were different today.
“It’s important.”
Fran cocked an eyebrow. “I can see that. You wouldn’t have called otherwise. What is it you need me to do?”
“I don’t want Ami to take the fall for this,” he said, knowing that what he was about to ask her to do risked not only her life but also her career. Something he was fully prepared to do, but Fran was nearing retirement, she might feel entirely different about the situation.
She looked at her watch again. “It’s a fine time to make a decision of that magnitude. What did Fowler say about it?”
Jack had known Fran long enough to surmise that though she was clearly suspicious, she wasn’t opposed to a change in plans. She would have balked at the first suggestion otherwise.
“Fowler doesn’t know,” he stated flatly, not bothering to pretty it up.
She didn’t look surprised. “Well, he always was a stick in the mud when it came to human needs and basic emotions.”
Ire kindled low in Jack’s gut. “This isn’t about emotion,” he protested, setting her straight. “This is about what’s right. She’s already sacrificed far too much. It isn’t right to take anything else. I want her back with her child. I want this nightmare over for her.”
“What about Arad?” she countered. “Doesn’t he deserve a reprieve, as well? Let’s face it, the past three years haven’t exactly been a frolic through a rose garden for him.”
“That’s out of my hands,” Jack snapped.
Fran nodded sagely. “I see.”
She was enjoying the hell out of this. Well, Jack didn’t have time to amuse her, nor did he give one shit if she derived pleasure from his squirming. “Look,” he pressed. “We have to move now. Are you in or out?”
She propped her elbow on her arm and tapped her cheek. “What’s it worth to you, Jack? I can always use a field supervisor in my pocket.”
“Now, Fran. I need a decision now,” he growled.
She grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She angled her head toward her antiquated Audi. “Let’s get going before the concept becomes moot.”
As usual Fran could always be counted on for a quick analysis of the situation.
They had to get to Ami now…before it was too late.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MICHAL PAUSED before climbing into the Jeep. He stared back at the villa some twenty or so yards away. Even the air around it seemed to still. He surveyed the hillside to which they would retreat, and then the grounds surrounding the villa once more.
“Something is wrong,” he said, his tone matching the somber mood that had abruptly settled over him. More wrong than his men could possibly guess.
This was the defining moment.
“What is wrong?” the Spaniard demanded. “The bastardo is dead and the electronic transfer is complete. We have confirmation. Nothing is wrong,” he insisted, clearly ready to leave the scene of their most recent kills.
Michal shook his head. “We can’t take that risk.”
“What risk?” Kolin prodded.
He wanted to get the hell out of here, as well, Michal would wager, but his years of experience over the other man’s would not allow him to so easily dismiss the possibility Michal had suggested.
“I have to go back in.” Michal did an about-face and started toward the villa.
“What the hell are you doing?” The Spaniard moved in front of him, blocking his path. He glanced up the hill, scanning cautiously. “We must get out of here. You know that, Michal. Going back inside is not necessary.”
“Mother of God,” Kolin swore between clenched teeth, his gaze fixed on the second story of the grand villa. “Someone’s in there.” He pointed to one window in particular. “I saw him in the window.”
The Spaniard threw his hands up. “We have accomplished our mission. It is time to go. Whoever else is in there is none of our concern,” he persisted.
“Go,” Michal said to them, his full attention locking onto the second story. “I will tie up this loose end and meet you in Marseilles.”
“How-”
Michal cut off whatever else Kolin intended with a look. “Go now. Wait for me in Marseilles.”
“This is loco!” the Spaniard snarled before double timing it toward the Jeep. He didn’t like what Michal was about to do, but he liked the idea of hanging around to watch even less.
Kolin reluctantly followed.
Michal didn’t look back. Not once. He strode quickly to the villa and disappeared inside.
Looking back would not have fit the character of the ruthless Executioner.
Michal Arad never looked back, he moved forward constantly. Always accomplishing his goal.
He had never failed.
Not once.
Fifteen seconds after he passed through the arched portal that separated the courtyard from the shadowy interior of the villa an explosion shook the very foundation of the massive structure. Glass and bits and pieces of decor burst from the windows…the doors, spraying down a lethal rain of razor-sharp edges and spearlike material. After a moment’s groan, the walls fell inward, burying all that was inside.
The Spaniard and Kolin watched from the safety of the hillside. They had scarcely chugged up the road half a mile when the unexpected tragedy struck.
The two men exchanged looks of sheer terror and then the Spaniard floored the accelerator.
Getting the hell out of here was their only priority now. The import of the news they carried would reach the farthest corners of the globe before the sun set.
The Executioner was dead.
THE HOUSEKEEPING CART stopped near Room 214 and the maid rapped on the door.
Thomas cautiously pulled the door open, but only a fraction. He had no intention of letting anyone get close to Ami. Michal had given him specific orders that her safety was to be considered above all else.
Unlike his predecessor, Thomas would not fail.
“What do you want?” he demanded of the maid before she could articulate a syllable.
“Yours is the only room on the floor I have not cleaned,” the woman said in French, her abuse of the language making him wince. “My work is not complete until I have cleaned all the rooms,” she added with a stubborn tilt to her chin.
Thomas didn’t want anyone else in the room, but he supposed this was necessary. He grunted an affirmative she would understand as he pulled the door fully open.
Ami lifted her head from the pillow when she heard the squeaky wheels of the housekeeping cart. She’d heard the voices, but the words hadn’t really registered. All she could think about was Michal. Why hadn’t they heard something already? How long would it take?
She worried and worried about what was the right thing to do, and in the end, when she’d realized that she actually had only one option, it had been too late.
Her head felt swollen and achy from her hours of sobbing. And far too heavy to hold up. When she would have collapsed back onto the pillow her gaze collided with an all too familiar one.
Fran Woodard was the cleaning lady who’d just weaseled her way past Thomas.
She fiddled with her supplies, smiled and shared a secret wink with Ami.