Jigsaw (Black Raven Book 2) (30 page)

Seventy yards.

Screams and shouts mingled with honking horns and shattering glass.

Misty rain on the windows made visibility crappy. Headlights turned night to day, red brake lights gleamed in the darkness. Interior lights went on as drivers opened their doors.
Shit.
Everyone wanted to see what was happening and the people Zeus could see seemed to have no real clue. In normal lives, gunshots sounded like backfires. Too many movies and television shows depicted violence as entertainment, leaving the viewers untouched physically. They were in for a rude awakening if this clusterfuck progressed, as Zeus knew it would.

Pop. Pop. Pop.
Glass shattered, metal screeched. More screams. Doors slammed as some people scurried back to the relative safety of their vehicles. Others scattered, presumably abandoning their cars and running off the bridge.

Great.
Fucking cars weren’t moving anytime soon.

The gunman was sixty-five yards away. Reloading and moving with purpose, but in no hurry, Zeus considered exiting the vehicle and dodging between the cars up ahead to circle behind him. But the lights, coupled with milling public, guaranteed a high percentage of collateral damage, and the very real probability that the perp would detonate sooner than later.

He waited.

Agent Mike Prantz—the driver of Sam’s car—had the windshield wipers going.
Swish, swish, swish
. Momentarily clear field of vision, then sparkling diamonds of raindrops obscuring the scene.

“Gridlock ahead,” Zeus told those without a ringside seat. “Pedestrian walkway on our right not an option. Blocked with vehicles and pedestrians. Perp on approach. Now sixty yards from my position. Weaving. Doing a slow zigzag through traffic, going over to the pedestrian walkway, and stepping back into traffic. Looking inside cars.”

For what? For who?

There were at least ten cars boxed in on the bridge from the ITT proceeding. Marshals, and other security.

Zeus’s blood went cold.

Sam?

Pop. Pop. Pop.
Hisssssss.

Their car shifted slightly, to the right.

“There go our tires,” Agent Prantz said.

Through the front window, Zeus observed the shooter’s progress. The closer he came, the more detail Zeus was able to see. Head to toe black garb. Car headlights and the lights of the Pont Neuf illuminated enough of the dark, misty night for him to observe the man’s head was covered by a bulky ski mask. He wore a belt of rectangular, plastic-wrapped explosives. He also wore a flak vest, with plastic-wrapped squares. Packets of explosives were also strapped to his legs.

“Don't shoot until I give the signal! Shooting will risk detonation. Axel. Lambert. I need your eyes on him. Tell me, from your vantage point, every place you see explosives positioned on his body.”

“Sir. Everywhere. Even on his head, strapped to his ski mask. Belt. Vest. Packets of explosives are also strapped to his thighs and calves.”

Zeus knew the likely explosives. TNT. Plastics. Triacetone triperoxide. All were in current use by anarchists worldwide. All were damn effective.

“Axel?” Zeus turned to look out the rear window. “You’re three behind us. Between us is Judge O’Connor. A damn likely target.”

Which meant that the minute the shooter saw the judge, immediately recognizable as his face was plastered on every news show, every night, the shooter would detonate.

Which meant they had about two more minutes, at the rate the shooter was edging along the traffic. It felt as though hours had passed since they’d stopped, but a quick glance at his watch showed Zeus that it had been mere minutes. His rapid heartbeat counted off the seconds as the man approached.

“Zeus, best guess is TATP,” Ragno said.

The current favorite explosive of anarchists. TATP—aka Mother of Satan, due to ease of detonation. Typically enhanced with bolts and nails, the bombs were lethal for anyone within reach of the shrapnel, and even the bones of the bomber became shrapnel in an attack.

“Understood.”

“With the quantity I see on him, I’m estimating kill zone is fifty yards. Easily. More depending on the quantity of hardware he’s packed for shrapnel.”

Car windows were no match for shrapnel and there were a hell of a lot of innocent people on the bridge, both from the ITT and innocent John Q. Public. He glanced down, saw Sam looking up at him, her eyes wide with fear. For good fucking reason. “Head down. On the goddamn floor. Jenkins. Cover every inch of her.”

“With traffic stopped like this,” the driver said, “God knows how many people he’ll kill when he blows himself up.

Zeus eyed the pedestrian sidewalk to their right. The bridge’s railing stood about hip-high to him. Below, in the distance, the Seine looked choppy and dark.

An idea formed.
Fuck.
It was a long shot, but it was the only idea that made sense. The idea became a plan.

“Why hasn’t he blown himself up yet?” Axel asked.

“Great question,” Zeus muttered. “Nerves? Having too much fun with his gun? Looking for a specific target.”

Yeah.
The latter.

Another staccato
pop, pop, pop
blasted through the night. Too close to them. “Axel. Lambert. He’s about twenty paces away from my car. Anyone see a handler?”

“Negative,” Axel said.

“Negative. Looks like a one-man op,” Lambert said.

That was good news. Handlers often remotely used a cell phone or other wireless device to trigger the explosion. Given Zeus’s plan, the handler would trigger the explosion the minute Zeus acted. The problem was, Zeus’s action involved his hands on the shooter, which could very well trigger the explosion. Even prior to detonation, explosives were sensitive to heat, shock, and friction. TATP, the likely explosive strapped to the shooter, was especially sensitive.

I’ve faced worse fucking odds.

“Agents, secure your charges. Hunker down. I’m stepping out. My plan is to get my arms around him and throw him over the fucking side of this bridge.”

“Sir.” Jenkins glanced up. “I’m good for this.”

“No.” Zeus’s curt, one-word answer ended the discussion.

“Prantz, disable the interior lights. Going to do this as quietly as possible. Don’t want to surprise him with lights when the door opens.”

Sam was gripping his calf as he crawled across the back seat. He glanced down at her, hesitating before he pushed the door open.

“Don’t.” Her voice, strong and pleading, was infused with panic. “Don’t go out there.”

Removing her hand from his leg with a solid grasp of his larger, stronger hand, he said, “Stay down.”

Glancing at Jenkins, he said, “Cover her, dammit.”

Zeus eased the car door open as the shooter stepped, one more time, onto the pedestrian walkway. The man didn’t see him. Zeus hunched low, and quickly ran, closing the fifteen-foot gap between them.

When Zeus was ten feet away, the gunman saw him. Weapon in hand Zeus lunged to the side, but continued moving forward.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

A bullet hit his vest, throwing him backwards. As he went down another bullet grazed his left arm, slicing through his suit jacket, shirt, and skin. Neither hurt in the moment. But later…

Gunfire will soon be the least of my problems if this suicide bomber decides to detonate. Or if my touch triggers an explosion.

Staggering to his feet, Zeus drew a deep breath, and lunged forward in a fast run as the shooter ejected his clip, then reached for his waist. He was either reaching for more ammunition, or—worse—a detonation cord. Given that the guy kept the weapon firmly in his hand, Zeus assumed the reach was for another clip.

Zeus took a flying leap, landing squarely on two feet, and turned and kicked the weapon out of the shooter’s hand. As the gun hit the ground and slid along the pavement, Zeus closed his hands on the man’s forearms—the only place where he didn’t see explosives. When it came to muscles and brawn, Zeus clearly had the upper hand.

Yanking back the shooter’s arms as hard as he could, Zeus held them steady. The man grunted in pain, but tried to work his hands free as he shouted garbled, incomprehensible French. A hand on the guy’s wrists, Zeus yanked, twisted them up and away from his body. He screamed, not with fear, but with harsh fury that he’d been stopped.

The man swore, face contorted and used his feet as brakes. Zeus felt the snap and break of tendons and bones as he pushed the man across the sidewalk to the bridge railing. Six feet to go.

Zeus kick-pushed him forward. Three feet.

The shooter managed to wrench an arm free.

Fuck!

He was reaching across his body, presumably for a detonation cord. Twelve inches to the railing. Zeus wrapped his arms around the man, picked him up, and threw him over.

Not waiting to hear or see the splash, Zeus turned and ran like hell towards the line of stopped cars. One step. Two step. Three. When he heard the explosion start, he dropped and rolled, covering his head as he wedged himself between the rise of the pedestrian sidewalk and the nearest car.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Pausing in mid-stride as he walked through the small corporate airport to the waiting Gulfstream, H.L. focused on the television monitor showing flashing news. The live news show had a banner on the bottom of the screen indicating breaking news from Paris. A suicide bomber had attempted an attack on traffic on the Pont Neuf. Included in the snarl of stopped cars were participants in the ITT proceeding.

The media had secured cell-phone video footage taken by an eyewitness. The videographer’s hand had shaken, and the dark night made the footage seem grainy. Nonetheless, the camera had captured enough spectacular footage of Hernandez’s struggle with the suicide bomber.

Using a one-time phone, H.L. punched in digits for J.R. “Are you watching the news?”

“Yes.”

Stepping into the drizzly Paris night, H.L. said, “I thought we agreed any attack on the vehicles this evening would be futile.”

“We did. Fortunately”—J.R. drew in a deep intake of breath and exhaled—“we’re not the only anarchists in town.”

“Given the trouble Fairfax and Hernandez created today, I say end them. At the first possible moment.”

“Proceeding forward with that plan,” J.R. said.

“Are you mindful of the warning I received earlier?”

Earlier in the afternoon, their deep, undercover contact had a few seconds to give H.L. a hurried, almost breathless communication of what was transpiring with the Amicus team and their ability to access Black Raven data. The hurried communication had been for them to be careful with the use of burner phones, to make sure other phones were disabled, and to turn off other devices.

“We’re mindful of it. Yes. He isn’t telling us anything M.C. didn’t already figure out. Black Raven has to be stopped, if we’re going to continue. And we will continue.”

“Be more than mindful.” H.L. climbed the steps of the jet.

“We’re two steps ahead of you. We’re not only going to put an end to Jesus Hernandez and his meddling with the Amicus team, we’re going to put a serious end to Black Raven’s cyber-data collecting capabilities.”

“How?”

“The details of the plan M.C. and I have developed will fucking amaze you.” J.R. chuckled. “This is what we set into play.”

As J.R. explained the plan, H.L. listened. J.R. was right. He was amazed, because the plan was goddamn brilliant.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Zeus stepped into the suite that he shared with Sam. Touching his watchband, he muted his microphone on the connection he had with Gabe. As he listened to his brother recount the facts of the fruitless search for Maximov in Syria, he said to Sam, “You waited up for me?”

“Answer is obvious,” she whispered.

She’d been on the couch and rose to her feet as Zeus entered their private living room. A pillow nestled against the armrest had an indent where her head had been. Glasses on, hair hanging loose and straight, her laptop was on. It rested on the cushion, next to a rumpled blanket. She wore form-fitting leggings and a black sweatshirt unzipped enough to show the ridges of black lace on her camisole.

He hadn’t bothered with a shirt after the doctor had bandaged his arm. With her eyes on the now fist-sized, round, blackish-purple mark on his chest that showed where the bullet had hit his flak-vest, he asked, “You okay with looking at a bruise?”

She went pale, but nodded. “That must hurt.”

“Not if I don’t think about it.”

In his earpiece, Gabe was winding down his narrative. “Face facts, bro. Maximov is a ghost. It’s either Praptan, or nowhere. As far as I can tell, the government-sanctioned task force has no other leads.”

To Sam, Zeus said, “The search in Syria for Maximov didn’t pan out.”

He pressed his watch, making the connection on his line live again. “Gabe, Ragno, I’m with Sam now. She had strong opposition to her motion to interview Stollen. The judges took the matter under advisement.”

“We’re in position to go in now. The ruling could be days away. The interview could take even longer to set up,” Gabe said.

“You’re waiting till we have a ruling and if it’s favorable, you’re waiting until after Sam interviews Stollen.”

“I propose that we go in now, then if Stollen adds any additional intel leading to ground we haven’t covered, I’ll go in on a more targeted search,” Gabe offered.

“I know you don’t like waiting, but that’s part of the job right now. Stop arguing. Sam, when should we expect a ruling on the motions? And what is the earliest the interview could take place, assuming the ruling is favorable?”

Some of the color had returned to her cheeks. She kept her eyes on his, steady, as though she couldn’t bear to see the wounds. He didn’t blame her. After-effects of what had almost happened still jolted him, and he usually didn’t feel aftershocks from putting himself in harm’s way.

“Tomorrow, or Monday for a ruling,” she answered. “Given that Stollen is Robert Brier’s client, even if we get a favorable ruling, I think the court will defer to his request to delay the interview until he can be present. So, perhaps Tuesday for the interview.”

“Ragno. Gabe. Hear that?”

“Yes,” Ragno said. “So Tuesday at the earliest for Gabe to go into Praptan.”

“Fuck me,” Gabe said. “We’re supposed to cool our heels till then?”

“No. Strategize. Think,” Zeus said, walking closer to Sam, “Gather more intel.”

“Maybe I should come work with you,” Gabe said. “From the looks of what happened tonight, it sure looks like you need an extra hand. I just watched the cell-phone video. Here’s the count. One. Two. Three. That’s all the time you had before becoming ash.”

“Thanks, Gabe,” he said, his stomach churning with the reality of almost dying before he had a chance to see Ana’s dance recital, watch her graduate from high school, or walk her down the aisle. Ana was only six, for God’s sake. She needed a father. Even a mostly absent father was better than a dead father. He wasn’t afraid of dying. He was afraid, however, of permanently checking out of her life before she was old enough to handle it. “Didn’t need that reminder.”

“It was a brilliant move on your part,” Gabe said. “I love the hell out of you. Live my life for the day that I do one thing as powerful as what you did tonight. You’re my hero. I know you know that, but if I was with you, I’d be wrapping you in the biggest hug of your life.”

And that was why people loved his brother, Zeus thought, because the guy had a way of infusing cocoon-like warmth into a chilling, dark night. “Thanks, Gabe.”

Ragno said, “Zeus, get some good rest.” Lowering her voice, she said, “Or whatever is coming your way. You deserve it.”

He yanked the earpiece out of his ear, breaking the connection as he heard Gabe chuckling over Ragno’s whatever comment. In the intervening five hours since he’d thrown the suicide bomber over the railing of the bridge, he’d seen Sam once, between an interview with the French military officers in charge of ITT security and the hour it had taken the Black Raven doctor to examine him and repair the long slice along his left bicep, where a bullet grazed him. He’d taken a bullet to the chest, on the right side, a few inches below his shoulder, but the vest had done it’s work. He was bruised and sore, but intact.

Sam had the television on the news show that had picked up the cell phone video. The grainy footage of his struggle with the bomber was chilling, given the mere three seconds that elapsed after he hoisted the man over the railing and the fireball explosion that lit the night sky as the man blew himself up.

“Funny how people who are scared shitless still manage to take damn good cell phone videos,” Zeus muttered as he watched the video footage near its conclusion. He’d seen it, downstairs, while the doctor had been cleaning and stapling his arm.

When she didn’t say anything, he glanced at her. She visibly paled as the screen turned orange, the light from the television glinting in her wide, frightened eyes. He walked over to the coffee table, picked up the remote, and turned the television off. “Stop looking at it.”

She nodded, glancing in his direction, but not quite seeing him. Instead, he could see from the way her eyes were focused inwards that her mind was replaying the scene. Over and over again. She held her hand against the back of her mouth, her shoulders trembling.

“Sam, you’re safe. It’s over.”

She shook her head. “Not me I was worried about.” Squaring her shoulders, she said, “I was, oh, God. Zeus, I was so afraid.”

All the color faded from her face. Without heels, without makeup, without any of the sophisticated-shine and impenetrable style that she wore during the day, she seemed frightened and vulnerable. He had no choice but to step closer to her.

“So afraid for you,” she whispered, as he closed his arms around her, pulling her into the warmth of his bare chest.

“Breathe,” he said. “Slowly. One—Two—Three —Now hold it.”

She was trembling more, and not listening to him as he smoothed her hair down and drowned in the fresh, sweet scent of jasmine.

“Come on, Sam. Give me a deep breath in. Fight past the fear.”

He felt her inhale.

“Good girl. Hold it. One—Two—Three—Hold it. Now exhale. Slowly.”

Her face was turned into his chest, at his heart. A warm puff of air hit his bare skin as she exhaled.

“Breathe in. One—Two—Three—Hold it, hold—”

“Not me. I was scared for—”

“Don’t talk. Hold your breath. Now inhale again. As deep as you can. Hold it.” Long minutes passed where she did nothing but breathe in sync with him, following his instructions.

“The breathing thing—”

“Don’t talk. Inhale.”

She did.

“Hold it.” More time passed.

“That really works,” she whispered.

“It’s the one—two—three—hold it that does it. Go on. Breathe. One—two— three—hold it.”

Her shoulders stopped trembling and holding her became about something more than helping her breathe. She exhaled. “God. Why am I such a wimp?”

“Not a wimp. What happened tonight was pretty damn horrific. Even experienced agents have some creative techniques to talk themselves back from the ledge.” Arms holding her tight, he inhaled deep, the scent of jasmine and rose and everything that was Sam. “In our case, the phrase ‘We’ll always have Paris’ means something different than the norm, doesn’t it?”

With her face buried against his chest, her arms around his waist, she sighed. “Gosh. I’d love to have the cliché right now. Long strolls on grand avenues, roaming through museums, champagne in a sidewalk café, the romance of it all, and the shopping. Oh. And French macarons. Fresh, small, delicious bites of heaven.”

He chuckled. “Macarons?”

“My favorite cookies.”

“That, I can deliver. Even this week. We are in Paris, after all.”

Glancing up at him, she looked uncertain. “You’ll have to eat a bite out of each one.”

“Not a problem. As long as your favorite flavor isn’t pistachio.”

“Nope. Almond. Or coconut. Or strawberry. Even chocolate will do.” She drew a deep breath. “I was so scared for you. And so relieved”—she pushed slightly back from him—“when I knew you were fine. Jesus, Zeus. How can you put yourself in that much danger?”

“Just my job, Sam. It’s what I do.”

God
, he thought, grinding his teeth together as his body responded to being pressed against hers. Wanting to be nowhere else in the entire world at the moment, his only thought was simple and demanding.
This fucking day needs to end.

“You should try to get some sleep.”

She walked with him, hand in hand, to her bedroom. There, she turned to him. “Would you like to stay with me?”

More than I want my next breath. Or any of my tomorrows.

He pulled down the thick comforter of her bed. “Climb in.”

Standing beside him, a slender hand on his right arm, she shook her head. “Not without you.”

He turned to see her eyes searching his. Using his index finger, Zeus pushed wayward blonde strands behind her ear. “Given how we started the day, how you made it clear you’d prefer to sleep than have sex, I’m not sure I should be taking advantage of the situation—”

“You said you would, though. I think you said you’d be back at it, if given any opportunity.”

“Not now, Sam. You’re exhausted. Scared. Probably suffering from shock, and I’d feel like I was taking advantage of you. Aside from my threat to do so this morning, I don’t do that kind of shit. Don’t need sex that bad.”

She tiptoed fast, catching him by surprise as she threw her arms around his neck. “Don’t always take the high road, Hernandez. I’m asking you to stay and I’m not so exhausted that I don’t know what I’m doing. Please. Just stay.” Face pressed upwards to him, her beautiful lips bare and naturally moist, inviting his—regardless of whether she intended an invitation. “This isn’t about sex. I’d be surprised if you even had the inclination, given what you just went through. I want you to hold me. Please.”

Hell
. Hold her? Yeah—that was what he’d thought he wanted earlier in the day—like at five a.m. when he’d been satiated. But not now. Did she really expect him to get in bed with her and not have sex?

Fuckitall
.

Even though it was now technically Friday, his craptastic Thursday was never going to end. He unbuttoned his jeans and stepped out of them. Keeping his boxers on, he watched her strip off her sweatshirt and unpeel her leggings. She dropped them on the floor and climbed into bed wearing a black thong and camisole. Sliding in next to her, he reached for her and pulled her close, not bothering to hide the fact that he was now almost fully erect.

Her warm lips were in the hollow of his neck. “Didn’t think you’d have the energy for that.”

“He didn’t shoot my dick.”

“Mmmmm,” she said. “Thank God for that.”

“I’m taking that as an invitation.” From her, he’d never refuse it.

“We don’t have to,” she said, shimmying herself up so that her head was next to his on the pillow, his lips were almost touching his. “You’ve got to be exhausted.”

Yes. I am. Sure as hell doesn’t matter, though.

He bent his lips to hers, groaning as she opened her mouth to his. Sinking his tongue into her moist mouth, sliding it along her silken tongue, he reached between her legs, and pulled the silk panties to the side. Sliding his fingers through the soft folds that that led to her core, he dipped one into her moist heat, swallowing her moan with a deep kiss.

Wet and hot, she was ready for him. Energy at a premium, he removed his hand, pushed his boxers to mid-thigh as she pulled her panties down to her knees. Opening her legs just enough for him to enter her, he thrust up and deep, until he was buried to the hilt, his dick rejoicing with the power of the first good thing that had happened that day. As her walls welcomed him with pulsing, tight contractions, she folded her arms around his neck. They rocked together, both working their hips, so that their movements were minimal, but effective. They came together, fast and hard.

“I was so scared,” she whispered, when she could breathe.

“Don’t think about it.”

“And then so relieved.”

I love you.

Not anything she wanted to hear. Besides, she had to already know it. Knowing the words would not only be wasted, they would be a sure mood killer on a day when they had both had enough, he kept silent. Drawing in deep breaths, fatigue now coming over him in waves, he didn’t give her the opportunity to exhibit the after-sex remorse that had come immediately after their two prior times together. He kissed her on her cheek, shifted to the side of the bed, and pulled his boxers up. Standing, he said, “Get some sleep.”