Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) Read Free Page A

remained before the building’s precision security system would go back online.
    They moved with almost lock-step precision toward the Grande Arche, where groups of office workers had gathered, drawn by the sound of the distant blast audible from La Défense. The workers looked on helplessly as military helicopters circled over central Paris.
    When the three men passed beneath the arch, they fanned out indifferent directions. Thirty seconds later, a fourth man emerged from the same six-story building. He walked briskly
away
from the arch toward an aboveground parking area in the distance. In addition to the dark
SÉCURITÉ
slicker, he wore reflective sunglasses and a black baseball cap. A two-day-old beard masked the rash of tiny scars on the left side of his face.
    He carried a high-security portable sixteen-gauge steel-body briefcase safe designed for military and law enforcement professionals. The case was locked—keyed biometrically—attached to a shoulder strap, and lashed to his wrist with a steel cable.
    Inside the case was an innocuous-looking spool-shaped electrical device the size of a soup can—the final piece necessary to unleash chaos and havoc.
    When he reached the motorcycle in the parking lot, he would send off a photograph of the briefcase via Snapchat. That photo would serve as a confirmation to his employer and mentor that the target item was secure and in his possession, completing the initial phase of his operation.

4
     
    Vanessa’s boots slid against pavement as she raced to keep up with her French escorts across Quai François Mitterrand. The mix of steady drizzling rain and smoke had turned the air into a gray, stinking haze.
    A helicopter was tracking overhead and a new and shrill round of sirens split the air.
    They had almost reached the slippery stone steps leading down to the Seine and the Port des Tuileries, where a French jet boat bobbed, dual engines whining, spitting up oily water.
    Now her two minders moved off to the side, and Jack, who had been at her back, stepped forward, pushing his mouth so close Vanessa could feel his breath on her ear. “Those guys are DCRI.”
    DCRI—the acronym for Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur, the Central Directorate of Internal Intelligence.
    French intelligence had known about today’s op; they had supplied the safe house, and Jack worked out of the CIA’s Paris Station.
    “Friends of yours?”
    “Frenemies,” Jack quipped tightly. “But I can’t make out who’s on the jet boat—”
    “You mean the biker?” Vanessa finished, staring at the profile of a rough-featured man in a black leather jacket, black jeans, and heavy leather boots. He stood about fifteen meters from them, balancing with one leg on the stone landing, one on the boat. Incredible—did he think he was in some sort of Dior cologne ad?
    At that moment he turned his back on them and he was gesturing vigorously to the boat’s pilot, a wide man in a blue cap and dark slicker stenciled with large white letters:
POLICE
.
    A stabbing pain shot through Vanessa’s temple; she hesitated mid-step, and Jack’s grip tightened on her arm. Could she have a concussion?
    “He’s dressed like one of those bad-boy actors my wife likes,” Jack said, using a stage whisper.
    “Your wife likes bad boys?” Vanessa joked back a little shakily; Jack was squeaky clean and about as far from bad boy as they came.
    But to her, the man in black leather looked more like a cop than an actor. He was not tall, but he was well proportioned and he looked fit, street-savvy, with his dark hair brushing the collar of his jacket.
    “Keep that to yourself, okay?” Jack said, his smile reaching his eyes.
    As they covered the final meters to the restless boat, bracing their way down the last steps to the mooring, the man turned toward them, snapping—“
Dépêchez-vous!”
Hurry up.
    Vanessa thought Jack said something under his breath, but her ears were still ringing from the explosion and