The Norse Directive (3 page)

He cursed himself for not bringing a gun with him. He had a conceal and carry permit, but he figured it wouldn’t be a necessity for a short trip to see his friend. A motto he’d learned long ago echoed in his mind:
always be prepared.

The tall man in the skin tight T-shirt suddenly smacked Charlie across the face with the barrel of a gun. The blow toppled him over sideways into the mud. Sean could see now that his friend’s hands had been tied behind his back with some plastic clips. Those weren’t readily available to the public and only reinforced Sean’s notion about the guy.

Sean had to act fast before anything else happened. He scanned the wet leaves and twigs around him for something, anything that could be used as a weapon. There were a few rocks lying around but nothing that would do enough damage. The other problem with using such a primitive weapon would be that he’d have to get close enough to hit the guy with it. By then, his target would have put four rounds into Sean’s chest.

There had to be something else.

His eyes drifted to the Cadillac idling between him and the two men. The driver’s side door had been left open, the man letting it rest against the frame instead of closing it completely. Sean had no idea why. At this point, he didn’t care. His idea was risky at best, but it was the only one that had a chance to work.

With the decision made, Sean darted out of his crouching spot and padded quietly along the grassy edge of the muddy road. He stayed low, trying to use as much of the car’s body as possible to keep out of sight. With every step, his feet made an ever-so-slight squishing sound on the soft ground below. He kept his eyes trained on the gunman, wary that the slightest noise could draw the man’s attention.

Thunder rumbled through the dark sky above, and the rain fell harder still. Sean was close enough to hear the low murmur of the car’s engine amid the sound of raindrops striking the wet earth and the tin roof of the nearby barn. He reached the back edge of the sedan and braced himself on the trunk with his right hand, risking just a peek around the front edge so he could see Charlie. His friend lay sideways in the mud, grimacing in pain. The old man’s eyes were open though, and caught a quick glimpse of Sean hiding behind the car. Sean hoped that was the case, at least.

The success of Sean’s plan hinged on the ability to stop the car on the slick surface; or Charlie’s ability to get out of the way. Sean was good with either, but not with the other possibility.

This was his only play, and he knew it.

Sean stayed low and crept toward the front driver’s side door. Rain splashed through the opening, soaking the expensive leather and wood trim.
The guy must have rented it.
He let go of the thought and eased the door open, inch by inch, to make sure no alarms or sudden noises would alert the gunman to his presence. What seemed like minutes later, but was only a few seconds, Sean slid into the plush leather driver’s seat. He gazed out the windshield, praying silently that the man standing over Charlie wouldn’t turn around and see him. His friend had pulled himself back up onto his knees again and spat a little blood out onto the ground.

Sean smirked. Defiant even in the face of death. “You’re not going to die today, Charlie,” Sean whispered to himself.

The gunman said something to the old man again, this time pointing the gun’s barrel straight at his face. Whoever the guy was, his patience had nearly run out. Sean had to make his move or watch his friend eat a bullet.

He gripped the gear shifter as gently as he could, as if the mere act of touching it would cause the car to lurch forward. With his foot firmly on the brake, Sean warily pulled back on the knob, putting the car in drive. He took a deep breath and jammed the gas.

Paris

Gerard Dufort stared through the one-way glass with an apathetic gaze. The three young women on the other side of the window wore nothing but plain white underwear. While each one wore makeup, their faces appeared weathered, as if they hadn’t slept in days.

Dufort didn’t show it, but he enjoyed seeing the young women tied to the aluminum poles in the other room. None of them struggled. They couldn’t. Most of them were so doped up that they barely knew what was going on. Their glassy eyes wandered the room, most of the time just staring at the mirror in front of them. Dufort’s men made sure the room remained mostly dark. The women were presented on a small stage against a backdrop of brown satin curtains. Dufort rubbed his chin with a thin index finger. His elbow rested on top of the other wrist.

“I’ll take all three of them,” he said in a heavy French accent.

He rubbed his nose for a moment before turning to his head of security, a brutish-looking man named Fabien Caron with a flat-top haircut that came to a point in the middle of his head. Caron easily stood five inches over his employer. Dufort wasn’t short, but standing a few inches under six feet made his head of security seem even taller.

“See them up to the holding rooms and get them cleaned up. We’ll need to make sure they’re ready before our guests arrive.” Dufort twisted his head slightly toward Caron as he finished the sentence.

Caron nodded and exited the viewing room.

Dufort reached down and plucked a glass of merlot from a small round table. He raised the wine to his lips and took a quick sniff before drawing a sip into his mouth. Many of his acquaintances disapproved of Dufort’s affinity for merlot, preferring other red wines. He didn’t care what they thought. He doubted many of them would approve of him running one of the largest human trafficking operations in the world either. That didn’t stop him.

Women were nothing but a commodity to Dufort. They served a purpose just like the slaves of old. To Dufort, it wasn’t just about business though, it was about the disdain he held for the fairer sex.

As a young man, Gerard grew up in a home of lavish luxury. While some people were born with a silver spoon in their mouths, his spoon was pure gold. His wealthy parents possessed a fortune that had been passed down from one generation to the next. The story his father told him was that their ancestors had been in the Marseiles shipping industry in the early nineteenth century. His grandfather was the last in a long line of Duforts to be involved with that particular business, something Gerard was fairly certain would have irritated the old man a great deal.

Gerard’s parents chose instead to spend their days frivolously spending the family fortune on expensive vacations, cars, and everything their wasteful imaginations could think of. Fortunately for Gerard, they could never spend it all, and when he collected his trust fund, he made a clean break from his familial ties.

There were, however, a few traits he kept from his lineage.

As a young man, Gerard watched his mother and father’s infidelities play out on an almost weekly basis. His mother flitted about with various men from the aristocracy in plain sight of her husband and son. Some of her lovers were high up in the French political chain, a fact that didn’t really hit Gerard until later on in life. His father treated all women like common streetwalkers. He had a stable of women on rotation that came through several times a week. Sometimes Gerard wondered why his parents kept up the ruse of staying married. He assumed his mother stuck around for the money, while his father must have needed someone on his arm for the galas and banquets he attended on occasion. It was all about keeping up appearances.

Gerard learned at an early age that women were nothing but objects; even his mother was no different. After she died in a violent car accident, Gerard rarely expressed any emotions for the woman. His father seemed somewhat regretful on the outside despite the fact that he continued his debauchery up until the point he jumped from a thirty-story building, ending his life in the same drunken haze in which he lived.

When the news of his father’s passing reached the younger Dufort, it felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. His parents had made a spectacle of themselves for too long, constantly drawing criticism in the public eye. Gerard had decided early on that he wanted to live a life closer to the shadows. With his familial inheritance fully in his possession, there was nothing to stop that from happening.

Over the last fifteen years, he’d built one of the largest human trafficking rings in the world with channels funneling new bodies to him on a weekly basis. Dufort provided outstanding quality and diversity with his product. His clients knew that he always had something for every appetite.

Although the business brought in hundreds of millions annually, Dufort didn't need the money. But it afforded him the luxury of remaining in the shadows, out of the public eye. His customers required that he remain a ghost to the world. From American politicians to some of the wealthiest businessmen on the planet, not one of them could afford to be implicated in what had evolved into the modern-day version of slavery.

Aside from his affinity for young women and expensive wine, Dufort had one other passion. His collection of ancient weapons, artifacts, and art was beyond significant. Few private galleries could compare to the rarity of his items. It was one of the things of which he was most proud. Nearly each piece within could only be deemed as priceless. He, however, knew the price. It had cost almost half a billion Euros, a number he never once regretted paying.

As a member of a highly exclusive collectors club, the sense of accomplishment and pride he gained from showing off his wares was beyond any gratification he got elsewhere. The other men in the club envied his collection. For the few dozen people who could afford entry, having the most impressive display of artifacts was a lifelong quest. They would spend entire fortunes on one or two pieces if it meant their status in the group could rise.

Dufort didn’t care about the status. For him, it was more about competition. Since he didn’t play any sports as a young man, he had to get his competitive exhilaration from something else. Collecting had become an addiction and an obsession.

When he’d initially been granted admission to the collectors club, he’d heard some of the other members gossiping about his parents and how vain their lives had been. He wasn’t offended by the comments. They were right. Dufort’s parents were worthless human beings. What bothered him was the hypocrisy. Not a one of them was innocent of the same crimes of which they accused his parents. Because of that, he made it his mission to become the envy of the entire organization.

There was one piece he’d been searching for that he believed would solidify his position in the club for the rest of his life.

Caron returned to the room and stood by the open door, awaiting further instruction.

Dufort set his empty glass on the table and crossed one arm over the other, resting his chin in his hand. “Any word from Petrov?” he asked his head of security.

Caron shook his head. “Not yet. Last we heard, he was heading out of the city with the man he believed had the piece you require.”

“I assume he will question the man and then eliminate him?”

A wicked grin crept onto Caron’s face. He needn’t say anything else. A simple nod sufficed.

“Good. It is imperative he locate that piece. It is likely the last link to my greatest discovery to date.” Dufort didn’t try to contain the excitement in his voice. Despite all the worldly pleasures he enjoyed, getting one over on all the snobby members of the collectors club was the thing he liked best. “Anything else I should know about?” he asked as he buttoned up his black suit jacket.

Caron cleared his throat. “One of the girls tried to escape. We’re dealing with that right now.”

“Take me to her,” Dufort said with only a fleck of irritation. “Anything else?”

His second in command paused for a few seconds. The momentary lapse told Dufort his bodyguard was holding something back. “Go on. What else do I need to know?”

The larger man took in a deep breath then spoke. “I believe the Americans are watching us.”

Dufort crossed his arms and frowned. His face expressed curiosity mingled with dissatisfaction. “Now why would they be watching us?”

Caron scratched the short hair on the back of his head. “Sir, we do hundreds of millions in Euros every year. You can’t pass around that kind of money and not think someone is going to notice.”

The boss smiled sarcastically. “That’s what I pay you and all the others for. Isn’t it? You take care of all those things.”

“We do, sir. And we believe your money is clean. You pay us generously, monsieur. It would appear that Marc has been throwing that money around a little too loosely. People have noticed: the wrong kind of people. And they’re starting to ask questions.”

Dufort raised his head slightly, telling his man to go on.

“I’m concerned he’s drawn police attention.”

“Police?” Dufort laughed. “We own the police. There isn’t a policeman in this town we can’t buy off or kill without repercussion.”

“It’s not the police,” Caron corrected carefully. “It’s an international threat.”

Dufort’s posture changed, and his face washed over with a hint of concern. “International?”

Caron nodded. “Americans, like I said before. There is no other local interest.”

“FBI? CIA?”

“We aren’t sure,” Caron said with a short twist of the head. “We’re working on that.”

“Very well. What about Marc?”

A thin smile stretched across Caron’s face. “I thought you would like to handle that personally, monsieur.”

Dufort grinned. “Take me to him.”