The Fractured, page 11
part #12 of Jonathan Quinn Series
After failing to obtain any useful information from the courier, he and his team had intensified their hunt, finally turning up a clue from a low-level numbers guy with a grudge against his employer. That employer was one Carlo Bianchi, a bastard with a small-time smuggling operation that he thought was more important that it was. Apparently Bianchi had designs on growing his business, and thought he could hasten his expansion by cutting into St. Amand’s interests. Taking the package from the courier had been the first step toward that goal.
Bianchi’s problem was that he was aware of only a small fraction of St. Amand’s business, and thought St. Amand was just a slightly bigger smuggler whom Bianchi—if he played his cards right—could absorb.
St. Amand glanced out the window at the building behind Drake. It was one of a dozen similar warehouse buildings in the area. According to Drake’s sources, this particular structure served as Bianchi’s main distribution center.
The numbers guy said St. Amand’s missing package was being kept in a safe in a second-floor office, and that Bianchi was planning on going directly there upon returning from a trip to America. Drake had three cars waiting at Fiumicino International Airport when Bianchi arrived ninety minutes ago. Working in tag-team fashion, the vehicles had followed the smuggler to make sure his plan hadn’t changed, while St. Amand, Drake, and the rest of their men waited near the warehouse.
“Do it,” St. Amand said.
Drake lifted a radio to his mouth. “Go.”
*
Carlo Bianchi was feeling pretty damn good. His meetings in the States had gone better than he could have hoped, and he’d come home with a new business partnership that would increase his income by nearly a third. Even better, while he’d been gone, his subordinates had gotten their hands on one of St. Amand’s messengers, and obtained a package containing a data stick and a hundred thousand euros in one-hundred euro notes.
He’d ordered no one to look at the stick until his return. Some people might call him paranoid, but he knew the biggest threats to success often came from the inside.
He was in the middle of a business call when his car arrived at its destination.
“I don’t care,” he said, wanting the conversation to be over. “We have an arrangement. One which I have lived up to. You, so far, have not.”
The customer on the other end said, “But—”
“My representative will be there at noon tomorrow, which gives you over sixteen hours to get this situation fixed.”
“But—”
Bianchi disconnected the call. He exited the sedan and headed into the warehouse, in the company of his first lieutenant, Luca. Inside, three more of his inner circle were waiting.
“Good evening, Mr. Bianchi,” Salvador Necci said.
“Good evening.”
“Welcome back. Sounds like it was a successful trip?”
Bianchi grunted. “I want to see that data stick.”
“Of course,” Elia Vicoli said. “It’s in your office.”
*
The first of Bianchi’s men to fall were the six watchers situated around the building, all receiving bullets to the head within a heartbeat of one another. Drake’s team proceeded to the main door, where they used a key from one of the downed guards to disengage the lock. When everyone was ready again, one man pulled the door open and two others rushed in, shooting the pair of guards stationed in the hallway.
Six team members split off to deal with any other threats on the lower level, while Drake and the rest of his men headed upstairs.
The second-floor hallway was empty. According to the snitch, Bianchi’s office was located at the far end, and the safe containing the data stick was inside.
They were about seven meters from the door when it opened and one of Bianchi’s men walked out. Before he could raise an alarm, Drake pulled the trigger of his suppressor-equipped pistol and delivered a bullet to the center of the man’s forehead.
The man hit the floor with a noticeable thump. Drake and his men rushed forward, ready to fire again if anyone came to check.
*
Bianchi let Luca open the safe and retrieve the package.
The wooden box was about the length and width of a banker’s box and half the height.
Bianchi lifted the lid and smiled at the stacks of euros inside. “You’re sure it’s a hundred thousand?”
“Counted it myself,” Necci said.
Bianchi picked up one of the bundles. The bills were crisp and unused. “You’re sure they’re not counterfeit.”
“Yes, sir,” Vicoli said.
Bianchi flipped through it, the sound of money fluttering against itself one of his all-time favorites. Looking back in the box, he spotted an opaque plastic container about the size of three smartphones stacked on top of one another. He pulled it out and flipped open the top. The data stick sat inside, snug in a slot in the black packing foam.
He removed the stick and set the container on the desk.
Thump.
Everyone turned toward the office door.
“What was that?” Bianchi asked.
Luca pulled out his gun and said to Necci and Vicoli, “Check it out.”
The two men drew their weapons and crossed to the door. It flew inward before they reached it.
Thup, thup, thup, thup.
Necci and Vicoli went down immediately, while Luca dove at his boss, knocking Bianchi to the floor and covering him with his body.
The sound of gunfire was replaced by that of pounding steps hurrying into the room.
A pair stopped a meter away, then—
Thup.
As Luca’s body went slack, Bianchi felt something drip onto the back of his neck.
Someone grabbed Luca and pulled him aside. More hands latched on to the back of Bianchi’s jacket and yanked him to his feet.
Nearly a dozen black-dressed men were crowded into the room, all but one holding assault rifles. The last man was the biggest of the bunch, at least a decade older, and holding a pistol at his side. He took a hard look at Bianchi before he unclipped a radio from his belt.
“Got him,” he said.
A reply came over the radio. “On my way.”
The man with the pistol motioned at two of the others, and said something to them in a language Bianchi didn’t know. Something Slavic, perhaps.
The two men lifted the smuggler to his feet and shoved him into the desk chair.
Bianchi knew if he didn’t find a way out of this soon, he’d be screwed. “Hey, there’s over a hundred thousand euros in there,” he said, nodding at the box. “Take it. It’s yours. Let me go and I’ll forget all about it.”
The big man snorted but said nothing.
“I’m serious! Look for yourself.”
The big man pointed his pistol at Bianchi’s forehead. “Shut up.”
“What’s the harm in making a deal? We both win.”
The man walked up to him and shoved the suppressor against Bianchi’s cheek. “Do you not understand what shut up means?”
Bianchi swallowed with difficulty and nodded.
The big man pulled the gun back, but left it pointed at Bianchi’s head.
From out in the hallway came the sound of someone approaching. A man entered, wearing sunglasses and a black scarf covering the rest of his face and most of his head. Though Bianchi couldn’t see the man’s face, the man’s disguise was ID enough.
Whatever hope he had of getting out alive vanished.
*
St. Amand grimaced at Bianchi.
For all the trouble the upstart had caused, St. Amand had hoped the man would have at least some sense of defiance, perhaps even a little entitlement. But all the jiggling pile of meat could muster was the stink of fear and despair.
St. Amand opened the wooden box. “Has anyone counted this?” he asked in Italian.
“Not yet,” Drake said.
“It’s all there, Mr. St. Amand,” Bianchi said. “I swear.”
“I’m sure you’ll forgive me for not trusting you.” St. Amand signaled for Drake to have a few of the men make sure no money was missing, then he picked up the plastic container and opened it. The data stick was missing. “And this?” He tilted the container so Bianchi could see inside. “Is it here, too? Because I don’t see it.”
“Uh…” Bianchi scanned the floor. “It’s around here somewhere. It fell in the confusion.”
“Fell out of its box?”
Bianchi hesitated, then said in a contrite voice, “I…was holding it.”
“I’m sorry. Did you say you were holding it?”
A gulp. “Yes.”
“That is…disappointing.”
St. Amand walked around the desk, his gaze sweeping the carpet. When he didn’t see the stick, he hooked a shoe under the dead man lying next to the desk and flipped him over. The stick fell from a fold in the man’s jacket.
St. Amand picked it up and examined it. “You’re lucky. It looks undamaged. Of course, we won’t know for sure until we check the data.” He slipped the stick into his pocket, and leaned against the desk in front of the smuggler. “Now, tell me. What made you think you could steal something from me and not face the consequences?”
“We-we weren’t the ones who stole it. We, um, found it. When I, uh, uh, realized what we had, I knew we had to get it back to you right away.”
St. Amand raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Yes. You see, I just returned from America. I came straight here so my men could show it to me. I’d literally just realized it was yours when your men…came in.”
“Just now.”
“That’s right.”
“And how, exactly, did you realize it was mine? I don’t believe my name is written on any of the banknotes. It’s certainly not on the data stick.”
Bianchi’s expression cracked. “It was what one of my men said. They-they told me the person who had it before them said he’d taken it from you.”
“So, what you’re saying is that you didn’t just realize it was mine. You knew it was all along.”
“Well, I…I mean, I didn’t want to presume.”
“You’re contradicting yourself.”
“No. It’s…um…”
Over at the box, one of the money counters said, “It’s short three thousand.”
The shock on Bianchi’s face was genuine. “That can’t be right. It was supposed to be all there! I was told it was!”
“Search the bodies,” St. Amand said.
His men came up with 2,486 euros, over two grand of which from a single man.
“You owe me five hundred and fourteen euros,” St. Amand told Bianchi.
“My wallet’s in my jacket pocket. You can have everything that’s there.”
“Yes, we can.”
The wallet was where Bianchi said it would be. In it was six hundred and forty euros.
St. Amand counted out exactly five hundred and fourteen and put the money in the box with what was collected from the dead men. The rest he set in a pile in front of Bianchi.
“This is yours.”
“You can have it. I…insist.”
“I’m not a thief, Mr. Bianchi. I’m a businessman. The box you stole contained one hundred thousand euros when it was sent to me, so one hundred thousand is what I will take with me.”
“I didn’t steal anything.”
St. Amand pulled out the data stick again. “And let’s not forget this. It’s what you were really after, isn’t it? Probably thought it might help you take over my business.”
“What? I would never even dream—”
“What do you think is on here?”
“I…I don’t know.” That was one of the first honest things the man had said.
“Of course you don’t know. But I’ll tell you. On this are schedules for upcoming weapons shipments being made by dozens of different manufacturers and military operations, from all over the world.”
Bianchi brow furrowed. “Weapons?”
“Handguns, rifles, rocket launchers, drones, tanks.” St. Amand chuffed at the man’s look of surprise. “What did you think I do? Smuggle only mundane nonsense like you? I am at a whole different level.”
“I…I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Another honest answer.
“I accept your apology. But we still have a problem.”
“If you think I’ll say anything, I won’t. I promise. No one will ever hear anything about you from me.”
St. Amand patted the man on the cheek. “I appreciate that, but it’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Whatever it is, I’m sure we can find a solution.”
“I already know the solution. But perhaps you’d like to know what the problem is first.”
“Yes, of course. What, uh, what’s the problem?”
“I can’t have people who’ve seen my face walking around.”
“But I haven’t seen your face!”
St. Amand pulled his scarf down and removed his sunglasses. “Now you have.”
Bianchi stared for a second, then squeezed his eyes shut as if he could erase what he’d just witnessed.
St. Amand held out a hand to Drake, who slapped a pistol into it.
“Stealing from others is a very nasty habit,” St. Amand said.
He shoved the suppressor into Bianchi’s mouth and pulled the trigger.
The smuggler fell off the chair. St. Amand handed Drake the weapon and the data stick. Drake would analyze the information and identify the shipments containing equipment St. Amand’s clients needed. He would determine vulnerable points along the shipping routes where the equipment could find its way into their hands. Their American clients were champing at the bit for their orders and wouldn’t wait forever. Something big was about to happen soon in the States, and St. Amand wanted to get as much money out of them as possible before it did.
St. Amand picked up the euro-stuffed box and headed for the door, leaving the money he’d set aside for Bianchi on the table.
He was a principled man, after all.
Chapter Eleven
SAN FRANCISCO
If anyone knew where Nate was, Daeng would, Quinn thought.
Daeng had returned to Bangkok after the events in the UK for a much deserved vacation. Quinn tried his friend’s mobile phone but was sent directly to voicemail. When the beep sounded, instead of allowing him to record a message, a prerecorded female voice spoke in Thai and the line disconnected.
“Great,” he muttered. Daeng’s mailbox was full.
“What?” Orlando asked. She was sitting at her computer, searching for any digital trails Nate might have left.
“Not answering.”
If he couldn’t reach Daeng, maybe Jar knew where Nate was.
She picked up on the first ring. “Yes?”
“It’s Quinn.”
“I know that.”
“Do you know where Daeng is? I’m trying to get ahold of him.”
“If you want Daeng, you should call his number, not mine.” Jar was not like most people. Hers was a nearly black and white world, based on logic. Casual conversation was lost on her.
“I have called him. But he’s not answering and his mailbox is full.”
Jar said nothing.
“Do you know where he is?”
“Yes.”
“Can you please tell me?”
“He did not say it was a secret.”
Realizing his mistake, Quinn rephrased the question, “Jar, please tell me where Daeng is.”
“He is at the temple.”
“Wat Doi Thong?”
“Correct.”
Wat Doi Thong was the same temple Quinn had gone to a few years earlier when he was recovering from an injury. It was the same temple where Nate had come looking for Quinn and met Daeng for the first time. Quinn had the number of the man who helped maintain the place.
“Thanks, Jar.” He was about to say goodbye, but stopped. “You haven’t been in contact with Nate since we all left England, have you?”
Silence.
“Jar?”
Another few seconds, then, “Yes.”
“When?”
“Fourteen days ago.”
“You contacted him, or he contacted you?”
“I feel very uncomfortable talking about this.”
“Did he tell you not to tell me?”
A beat. “Not this time.”
“This time? You’ve been in contact before?”
“I would not have said it like that if I had not been.”
Quinn took a breath. Jar was a brilliant information specialist, and not bad in the field, either, but talking with her could be exhausting. “I need to get ahold of him. I know he doesn’t want to talk to me right now, but it’s important. If it makes it any easier for you, Orlando can be the one who talks to him. Do you know where he is?”
“He needs time. He is still in pain.”
“We’re both still in pain.”
