The Paris Betrayal James Hannibal (free ereaders TXT) 📖

be in the building. He turned toward the desk but stopped when movement caught his eye. What Ben saw sent a bolt of electricity through his chest.

Two men in coveralls dragged a woman through the parking lot—a woman with amber hair.

51

Keep your emotions in check.

How many times had Hale spoken those words during Ben’s time at the schoolhouse? Spoken, whispered, shouted, screamed. Keep your emotions in check, recruit. Hale beat that drum in the field every time Ben showed a hint of frustration with a teammate, and in his interrogation resistance training the instant a bead of sweat mixed with a tear.

No matter how much pain you’re in, or if an enemy interrogator just emptied a full magazine into your best friend. A good operative waits until the mission is done to lick his wounds. Wipe the blood off your face tomorrow. Mourn later. Emotions have no place in the field. Emotions cause mistakes.

With Hale’s voice fresh in his ear from their Zürich meeting, Ben heard it again.

Keep your emotions in check.

The swell in his chest at the sight of her with those men—the urge to shout her name through the window—almost overwhelmed him. So many emotions. Hale’s voice shoved them all back into their box and shut the lid.

Instead of shouting, he returned the envelope to the desk, careful to match the angle to the way he’d found it, and moved to the hall. The elevator dinged. With the New York kid’s angry voice growing louder, Ben slipped into the stairwell and eased the door closed behind him.

Descending the stairs without jumping whole landings at a time took all of Ben’s self-control. Making a racket—getting caught—wouldn’t help her. And he knew without a doubt who he’d seen. Amber hair. A sweatshirt and jeans like those she’d worn in Zürich.

“Clara.” The name escaped his lips as he checked the yard from the building exit. “You’re alive.”

The men had dragged her toward the parking lot’s rear. Ben used a rolling truck as cover to conceal him from the guards and crane spotters on the other side of the road and jogged along the edge, Glock held low. Where had they gone?

There. Brake lights from a blue Sea Titan cargo van. Before the driver could shift into reverse, Ben raced up to his door and threw it open, pressing the Glock to his cheek. “Shut it down.”

Whether the man spoke English or not, he got the drift and turned the key.

“Out.” Ben backed up to give him room and motioned to the man in the passenger seat, shorter and younger than the other. “You too. Hands where I can see them. Move around the hood.”

He maneuvered both men until their backs were against the van’s side, out of view of the dockworkers and guards across the road. “Where’s the girl?”

The driver didn’t answer. Neither did his buddy, but the shorter man’s darting eyes told Ben what he needed to know. “In the back, huh? For your sake, I hope she’s healthy.”

A bundle of zip cuffs peeked out from the right breast pocket of the driver’s coveralls. Ben tapped the same spot on his own chest and pointed to the cuffs with two fingers. “Cuff each other.” He waited for them to do as they were told, then whirled a finger in the air. “Now turn around.”

He couldn’t have them following him or crying out, and bashing their heads against the van might make too much noise. Ben reached into his go-bag and dug the cattle prod baton Hagen had used against him at the flat. He jammed it into each man’s spine, and they both fell, convulsing, and then went still. He regarded the weapon with new appreciation. “I’ve been lugging you around since Paris. ’Bout time you made yourself useful.”

With one more set of zip cuffs, Ben bound one man to the other, then removed their boots and made gags from their shoelaces and sweaty socks. He waved a hand in front of his nose as he stood to assess his work. “Wow, that stinks.”

He’d kept his emotions in check, done his job, been thorough, accounted for the threats. Now he hoped his patience would pay off. Maybe they’d shoved her in the back of the van alive. Maybe not.

He readied his Glock and pulled open both doors. “Clar—”

The face staring back at him shocked him into a long silence. Finally, he cocked his head. “Giselle?”

52

Giselle sat with her back against the front wall of the van’s cargo bay in a sweatshirt and jeans, hands and feet bound with zip cuffs, sneakers lying on the floor beside her. “Ben? You’re alive.”

He laughed—a quiet, almost giddy laugh. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“How so?”

Were they really having this conversation? “Because you’re the one who’s supposed to be dead. The cottage blew up.”

One side of her mouth curled into the smirk he used to adore so much. “So did your flat.”

She had a decent point, but then Ben shook the Glock. “No, no. My face was all over the news.”

“As if I’ve had time to watch TV. And you must admit, you no longer look like yourself—to put it mildly. Perhaps try to look a little more happy than mad, yes?”

“Sorry, I . . .” He let his voice fade. What could he say? How much had he wished for this in the hours after he watched the cottage burn? He should feel elation at Giselle’s survival, not disappointment that he hadn’t found Clara. “How did you get out? I saw the light come on in the kitchen before the explosion.”

“Think, Ben. I use automated lights to deter intrusions in my absence. You know this. I was never there. But let’s talk the cottage later. Mission first. We are in a Sea Titan parking lot, after all.” Giselle inched forward and rolled up to her knees, holding out her wrists. “Do you mind?”

“Right. Mission first.” Ben recovered his go-bag and found the wire cutters.

When he tried to clip the flexicuffs, she