Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) (2 page)

The world splintered, speeding outward from the bomber and the core of the blast trajectory. Whatever was left behind disappeared in plumes of fire and smoke.

She was thrown to the ground, her head slapping stone, nothing but shards of light and a great howling silence inside her skull.

Seconds later? Minutes?
Head pounding, half blinded by smoke, eyes and nose stinging from caustic chemical smells, she stared out at a scene of utter destruction and chaos. People were running, some covered with blood, their faces contorted, but she couldn’t hear their cries through the painful ringing in her ears. The courtyard in front of her was littered with glass, metal, and debris—and bodies. Many of them were moving, but some were horribly still.

How many people lay between her and the spot where the bomber had blown himself up? Twenty? More? Where was Jack? Had he been far enough away to avoid injury? She tried to remember events just before the explosion, but her mind fought focus, thoughts fractured.

Closest to Vanessa, a young woman, a teenager, stared back at her
with bewildered eyes. The girl reached out one hand before collapsing back in a pool of her own blood.

Vanessa tried to rise but she couldn’t seem to balance or find her footing. She began inching forward across slick courtyard bricks where ribbons of rain and blood ran through the cracks and seams. She thought she called out to the girl.

But she could barely hear her own voice and the girl’s eyes closed.

She tried again. Dizzy, but she made it to standing this time. She fought her instinct to run away from the horror. Instead, she stumbled toward the girl, who kept trying to push herself up.

When Vanessa reached her side, she knelt down beside her. The girl didn’t seem to be aware that her left leg had severe lacerations just below the knee. Blood spurted—arterial destruction—and she would bleed out within minutes without some kind of tourniquet. Vanessa gave quick, silent thanks for the first-aid courses she’d been through at the Farm. At the time the class had used black humor to ward off the very real possibility they would have to deal with the aftermath of violence. Still, they had internalized the vital training.

She pulled off the soft belt of her Burberry. The girl was speaking rapidly now in French. Although Vanessa couldn’t quite hear the words, she responded in French, asking the girl her name, offering her own, talking—all while she slipped her belt under the girl’s thigh just above the knee and began wrapping it tightly. She had to keep swallowing to suppress the internal waves of nausea—
she would not be sick.

Where were the emergency responders? Where were the police?

When she was satisfied the makeshift tourniquet had temporarily eased the worst of the flow, she smoothed the girl’s forehead, trying to calm her and keep her conscious.

Her senses were beginning to kick back in—no doubt due in equal parts to instinct and training—knocking her out of her shocked
stupor so she could identify the shrill sirens and car alarms, the incessant throbbing pulse of a crisis.

Finally, she heard the voices—as if the volume of a movie soundtrack were suddenly turned on but kept low and garbled—the weeping and screaming, the cries for help.

A man wandered past, dazed, calling out in French, calling for someone.

She saw the dark uniform of police about ten meters away, and one of them, a woman, seemed to be coordinating with other responders.

Vanessa raised one arm to flag her, calling out:
“Nous avons besoin d’aide!”

Just as someone grabbed her shoulders roughly from above and wrenched her to her feet, pain bolted from her head and shot down her left side. A male voice demanded,
“Vous êtes américaine?”

It happened so quickly Vanessa twisted against his forceful grip, barely getting out the words:
“J’ai besoin d’aide!”

But there were two men and she was caught between them—one man ordering the policewoman to take over with the girl, the other effectively detaining Vanessa. At once she felt exposed, vulnerable, outraged—and afraid.

They almost lifted Vanessa off her feet, turning toward the Place du Carrousel, forcibly escorting her away from the site of the blast. They were French, plain clothes, and from their tone and sense of command, she guessed French intelligence or military.

Still, she would try to protect her identity; as a NOC, she was a covert operative with nonofficial cover. She couldn’t count on official government protection if an operation went south.

I’m a Canadian tourist,
she protested in French,
just trying to help that girl. She was so hurt. Where are you taking me?

One of the men responded curtly,
“Nous savons qui vous êtes.” We know who you are.

Of course the French had been aware of this operation. It should have all gone smoothly. She shook her head. Everything was coming too fast.

Then the possibility that she was at the center of this destruction hit her like a tidal wave. This was no random suicide bombing—this was timed exactly with a CIA operation. Someone had gone to great trouble to target her op. How had something so bad happened again? She staggered under the feelings of anger and guilt pressing down on her . . .

She shook her arms free, but she didn’t attempt to resist the men; she caught traction and moved with them. Almost at a jog they paralleled the Place du Carrousel, under the arch and onto Quai François Mitterrand.

Horns blaring, traffic was at a standstill, quickly backing up into the distance. Breathing hard, Vanessa worked to keep her balance on the slick surface.

Suddenly, for an instant, she felt absolutely alone. Was Hays still tracking her? She reached up, touching her ear, realizing for the first time that she’d lost the earpiece, probably when she was knocked down by the blast force.

She heard footsteps, shouting, and suddenly more men were rushing at them. One was calling out to her, his voice familiar, his Panhandle twang bleeding through beneath the strain—
Jack!

“You okay?” he called out.

“Yeah. You? Tell me that’s not your blood,” Vanessa said, taking in his spattered clothing.

He shook his head grimly. “I tried to help.”

She was so grateful to see him alive she would have hugged him if she hadn’t been strong-armed toward the gray waters of the Seine.

Kilometers away from the heart of the city and the Louvre, where the Champs-Élysées became A14, in the section of Paris known as La Défense, three men emerged from the main entrance of a six-story metal-and-glass building. Although no sign advertised the location of SARIT—Société Anonyme de Recherche en Ingénierie et Technologie—the firm occupied all floors of the building.

The men wore dark slickers embossed with bold white lettering:
SÉCURITÉ
. They had disabled the cameras within the building, but additional security cameras were posted along the walkways of La Défense. The men kept their brimmed caps pulled low over their faces. Less than five minutes 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 in
different 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.

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 she missed whatever it was. Jack passed her and jumped aboard the boat. Vanessa was almost to the boat when the man in black leather reached out, yanking her on board.

She’d held it together through the chaotic aftermath of the bombing, but now she felt something break loose inside. She spun around,
thrusting her face toward his, sputtering, “Son of a bitch, don’t touch me!” She lurched toward him, but Jack grabbed her before she connected.

She heard Jack’s hoarse admonition to stop, but she stood inches from the man and her fear and rage had let loose and she was yelling, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

His deep-set dark eyes locked on hers, thick, dark bristles of a day-old beard shading his face, and he barked back in accented English, “I’m the son of a bitch getting you out of here before something else blows up.”

Now Jack restrained her as the man jumped off the boat with a shouted order to the pilot:
“Allez-y!”

As the boat took off with engines roaring and a rush of spray, Jack put his mouth to her ear so she could hear his exclamation. “Jesus, you almost whacked Marcel Fournier, the head of DCRI Ops!”

She opened her mouth, but any words she might have conjured failed against the roar of wind. She grasped Jack’s arm and squeezed her eyes shut. The pain inside her skull had intensified over the past minutes. Had she hit the ground hard enough to do damage? Didn’t matter, she’d live. She had to push her thoughts away from the bomber’s victims; right now her feelings would only distract her from her job—stopping another attack, and then getting the bastards who were responsible.

They were speeding upriver in the direction of the safe house. The world momentarily reduced to the walls encasing the Seine, the boat’s driving force creating a spray that mixed with spitting rain until they were soaked through and numb.

Vanessa shivered in the Paris gloom, and her fingers brushed the blood on her clothes. Her ops training and her field experience had done nothing to lessen the horror of the bombing. And the events of the past months threatened to overwhelm her now, so she focused on questions to help her regain some semblance of control.

Would the girl survive? How many others injured? How many dead?

Who was behind the bombing? Iran? Bhoot?

Those questions would be answered soon enough.

One question haunted her and refused to go away even for a few moments.

Did Farid betray me?