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“One of the guards. He killed el-Hashem. I saw it. He did it right in front of me. In that fucking glass house. It was like watching a movie.”
“I understand. But you—”
“The other guard’s dead, too! Part of his head was gone. I tripped over him.”
Moreau suddenly bolted straight up in his seat. “Oh my God. His blood. I think I have his blood on me!”
“Julien, stop talking and breathe, okay? I need you to go through with me exactly what happened.”
“Have you not been listening? Don’t ever call me again.” He disconnected and pulled onto a more heavily traveled street. For some reason the cars moving around him brought back a little of his calm. He glanced at the phone in the passenger seat but resisted reaching for it. After another minute he caved. How could he stay mad at such a magnificent woman?
Not surprisingly, it didn’t take her long to answer. “Are you all right, Julien? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.”
“Where are you now?”
“In the car. Headed back to the city center.”
“Okay. Good. Now tell me this. Were both men shot in the head?”
“Yes.”
“Could you see the kind of gun?”
“What the hell do I know about guns? I’ve never shot one in my life!”
“Because you know about everything,” came the soothing answer.
Flattery? Really? Did she think he was that easy? Shit. Of course she did. And she was right.
“I was pretty far away. It had a silencer for sure. If I had to guess, I’d say a Glock.”
“Did you leave anything behind? Were the cameras installed?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Good. I’ve tripled your fee. You’ll find the money in the account we discussed. I’d suggest you get out of France for a while. And that you forget you ever heard of me or Ahmed el-Hashem.”
CHAPTER 36
Over Algeria
RAPP fished around in the tiny refrigerator, finally finding a beer at the back. His plan had been to ease up on the drinking until he managed to pull his life together. But since things seemed to be rocketing in the other direction, fuck it.
The door to the cockpit was closed, but he glanced in that direction anyway. The man inside was another one of Claudia’s—a drug runner out of Colombia. Not Scott Coleman by a long shot, but a solid pilot with a set of torture scars that suggested he knew how to keep his mouth shut.
“Everyone’s back in Juba, but there seem to be some problems,” Claudia said as he sat down in a facing seat.
“What kind of problems?”
“The man you killed. Apparently, the rebel leader he works for wasn’t happy. He has people watching the church. According to Kent, it would be suicide to go back. They’ve rented an empty safari hotel outside of town and are holing up there until we arrive.”
“Fine.”
She leaned forward in her seat with a concerned expression. “We need to talk about what happened in Brussels and Paris.”
It wasn’t a subject that was going to improve his mood, but there was no getting around it. Aali Nassar was making his play, and it was a good one. A decision had to be made about what to do. The president had asked him to find the highly placed Saudis allied with ISIS and kill them. Rapp intended to carry out that request, but the question now was how. Did he try to get clever and save himself, or did he just move forward with the hammer?
