Their table at Più Grand gave Sherman and Caruso a direct line of sight to the covered balcony on the second floor of a tapas bar and restaurant called Casa Ibérica. There had been no time to put listening devices in place. In fact, it was little more than luck that they had such a good visual. The two Russians had arrived a half-hour before, first getting a table at a small restaurant across the street from Dom and Adara called the Bar Restaurante O Barco. John Clark had walked past, aware that they were probably checking for a tail. He was proven right five minutes later when the Russians stood and dropped their menus on the sidewalk table, apparently unable to find anything to their liking. They walked down the ramp to the beach, on the sidewalk just feet away from Dom and Adara, before returning to get a table at Casa Ibérica, up the switchback hill from the promenade of shops and restaurants above Carvoeiro Beach. Guarding against another turn-and-burn by the Russians, Clark sat down across the street on the same level as Adara.
“Eyes wide,” Clark said into the mic on the neck loop under his shirt, as if muttering at his menu.
Dom toyed with a shrimp in his cataplana, a seafood-and-pork stew. “Copy. Our friends are just sitting there, chatting over their beers.”
Adara paused for a beat, waiting to see if Clark responded or if Lisanne came back with a sitrep on where they were with the fleeing motorcyclist.
“I’m thinking they’re either in the dark about Gaspard,” she said, “or they are complicit to the hit.”
Jack’s voice crackled over the net. “She’s heading right toward you. Makes me think they’re probably involved.”
“Maybe,” Clark said with a whispered grunt. “I don’t see any countersurveillance, but guys like this will surely have some. We do.”
Adara took out her phone and raised it to take a couple of photos of Dom with the sea behind him. She handed him the phone and let him take some of her. Like a giddy couple on holiday on the Portuguese coast, they put the phone on the table between them and scrolled through the photos, paying special attention to anyone behind either of them that looked out of place. Two men behind Caruso caught their attention. Both were young, rawboned, with shaggy blond hair. Their clothing was just ill-fitting enough that it looked like it had been purchased by a distant aunt who’d never met them — or an SVR quartermaster. One of them hid discreetly behind a menu and the other turned his face.
“Watch this, John,” Adara said. She motioned a waitress over and asked her to take a photo before sliding her chair around beside Dom. Again, the men ducked their heads.
“Got ’em,” Clark said. “Somebody’s cage just got rattled.”
Farrin Galle pounded on the dashboard with his left hand, his right touching the butt of the Steyr GB pistol at his belt. He was originally from Belgium. Seven years in the French Foreign Legion’s elite 2e Régiment Étranger de Parachutistes had ingrained in the bullish thug enough tactical sense not to draw his weapon during a chase. There was too much of a chance the handgun would be dislodged during even a minor fender bender. And anyway, shooting was too good for the bitch. What he really wanted to do was cut her up in tiny little pieces and then step on each piece before feeding them to the crows. It wasn’t that she’d killed his boss — there was no love lost for Hugo Gaspard — but this woman had had the balls to kill him right under Farrin’s nose. There was no way to keep something like that a secret. Word would get out. Good work would dry up and he’d be forced to protect low-level drug dealers, or worse yet, some prima donna actor. No, this little brunette bitch was dead. If he managed to kill her, that might salvage his reputation, at least a little.
“Want me to run her over, boss?” Yves, the man behind the wheel, said.
“That would be most welcome.” Farrin nodded at the fleeing Ducati, now fading into the distance. “But would you not have to catch up with her to do that?”
Instead of answering, Yves stomped on the accelerator.
Farrin glanced in the side mirror. The dark Audi loomed larger as it gained on them. They were likely in league with the assassin. Louis and Alain would make short work of them.
Alain’s voice crackled over the yellow FRS handy-talky in the seat between Farrin’s legs. He snatched it up.
“Go.”
“We’re in position, boss,” Alain said.
“Take them,” Farrin said. “And make an example of it.”
“Black Peugeot,” Lisanne said. “Coming up behind us fast.”
“I see them,” Jack said through clenched teeth. He swerved the rental car back and forth, keeping the Peugeot from moving up alongside. He had a Smith & Wesson M&P nine-millimeter in his daypack, but shooting from a moving vehicle at another moving vehicle with a pistol was not just a last resort, it was a waste of meager ammunition. Beyond that, there was little point in relying on 128 grains of lead when he had three thousand pounds of metal at his fingertips.
The guys in the Peugeot didn’t understand the concept, because the passenger rolled down his window and leaned out, aiming over dark sunglasses to open up with some kind of SMG. Both Lisanne and Ryan ducked instinctively when a couple of lucky rounds thwacked into the trunk.
“We’re taking some fire,” Lisanne said, her voice matter-of-fact, describing the offending Peugeot over the net for the rest of the team.
Jack rolled his shoulders to keep them loose, willing himself not to squeeze the wheel as he continued to swerve the Audi across both lanes. “So much for blending in. Someone is bound to call the cops.”
“Hang tight.” Ding’s voice broke squelch on the radio. “We’re three-quarters of a mile behind them and gaining.”
“They’re resorting to spray-and-pray,” Ryan said. “But I like their odds if they have enough ammo. Good chance they’ll get off a lucky shot by the time you can close the gap.” He shifted in his seat, settling in deeper behind the wheel, reaching a conclusion. “I’m going to try something.”
Ding inhaled so deeply his mic picked up the groan. “Jack…”
“Trust me,” Ryan said. The machine gun clattered behind them again, this time shattering the Audi’s rear window. “I think they’re going to try and PIT us.”
Lisanne craned around to look over her shoulder, and then up at Ryan. Her head cocked to one side, dark brow arched. “So what’s your plan?”
Jack turned and gave her a quick wink.
“I’m going to let them.”
Yves slowed the Mercedes on the outskirts of Carvoeiro. “She disappeared, boss,” he said, pushing a lock of blond mop out of his face and gulping back the croak of failure.
“This I can see,” Farrin said. He slammed a big hand into the dash, a blow he really wanted to deliver to Yves, but that would have made the imbecile run into a utility pole. “Get out!”
“Boss?”
Farrin’s voice grew quiet. “Get out of the car and switch seats. I will drive.”