Deliver Us From Evil

19

THE NEXT DAY Shaw traveled fifteen kilometers and met up with Amy Crawford near the ruins of an old fort set high on top of a hill, as old forts often were for strategic reasons. Crawford was petite, barely up to Shaw’s chest. But he knew she was proficient in several martial arts, was a marathon runner, and could kill or disable with either her hands or her feet. Yet while her physical prowess was superb, it was her coolness in the field that had attracted Shaw’s attention and caused him to select her for the team.

They drove separately to the old quarry where the caves at Les Baux were located and took the tour. Shaw had a pinhole camera in his shirt and videotaped everything for later analysis.

Walking back to their cars, Crawford said, “Good to be working with you again.”

“Same here.”

“Based on the floor plan in there, extraction should go smoothly. Guy couldn’t have picked a more convenient place for us to do it.”

“And he probably knows that too. So he and his guards will be on high alert. We’ll have two seconds of surprise. It’s incredibly rare we have this sort of detailed intel on a target. We have to hit our marks perfectly.”

“Understood.”

Shaw motioned for her to get in her car, a two-door Audi. He climbed in the passenger seat. “Give me the extract from A to Z; make sure we’re on the same page.”

Crawford fingered the steering wheel. “Private tour starts at oh-ten hundred. His past experience shows he’ll travel with a minimum of four and a max of six muscle, holsters and Glocks. They hit the entrance. The tour guide is our plant. He’s got hair-follicle audio feed and a pinhole video on his guide badge that’ll give us their movements in real time. He’ll make sure the flow matches the timetable as close as possible. All attendants have been previously removed from the scene. Five minutes to read the orientation materials on the walls, plus listening to the recorded introductory spot, puts us at oh ten-ten tops. First room goes in five minutes. Second in two. Third in four. That puts our time mark at twenty-one minutes past oh-ten hundred. Fourth room is ground zero. Sixty meters by sixty meters, good cover on front and left sidewalls. Extraction team is already in position. Power is scheduled to be yanked sixty seconds after they hit ground zero. Seven shooters with flex optics and laser-guided dart rifles. Aim points are neck, arm, or thigh in case of body armor. Our guy in the power room commences his five-second countdown as soon as the video feed shows the last muscle in the party cross Room Four threshold. Code word ‘red’ comes over our headsets one second before power is cut. Fire to commence on that one-second mark to prevent any reaction that might foul the shots. You take out main target while I drop the guy on his hip, with the other shooters dropping the man in their prescribed sectors, flowing outward from main target. All muscle and main target down in two seconds.”

“Exit?”

“Two passages branch off east and west from that cave. West circles back to the entrance. East passage is two hundred meters long and empties to an emergency exit that takes us to the other side of the quarry. There’s an egress road at that point. Wheels waiting in the form of an ambulance. Gurney is stowed in the east passage. Target loaded on; that’ll take no more than thirty seconds. The same to get him down the passage. Wheels roll as soon as the ambulance doors clunk shut. Private airstrip is forty minutes south of here. Wheels up as soon as the aircraft door closes. Target and extraction team are out of French airspace before his muscle wakes up in a dark cave and wonders what the hell just happened.”

He nodded appreciatively. “Then on to the next job,” said Shaw.

“Story of my life too.” She hesitated, glancing at him.

“What?” he asked, noting her trepidation.

“Just scuttlebutt. Always wondered if it was true.”

Shaw looked at her inquiringly. “What?” he said again.

“Did you really shoot Mr. Wells in the head?”

“We had a little misunderstanding.”

She smiled. “I like your style.”

“Frank’s actually not a bad guy once you get past the two hundred pounds of anger and dysfunction.”

“Really?”

“No, not really.”