The Final Cut (A Brit in the FBI 1)

91

Gagny Neuf-trois, Paris

Lanighan’s warehouse

Saturday night

Kitsune went over the fence at the back of the warehouse and climbed to the roof of the next building in the compound.

She could see the gate to the grounds, the parking lot, and half of the building proper.

She knew Mulvaney was inside, knew Lanighan had hurt him. He was probably in pain, wondering where she was, if she had a plan to save him. All she knew for sure was that she was going to destroy Saleem Lanighan tonight.

Lanighan’s Mercedes came into the warehouse parking lot at ten minutes to ten. She trained her monocle on the car, watched Lanighan get out and hurry inside the warehouse. He shouted something to his driver, but she couldn’t make out his words. She could tell, however, he was mad. At her? Good. Mad meant off balance, and that would make her job easier.

The warehouse had windows high up on the second floor and she could get only an idea of where people were from the shadowy movements behind the lights.

She counted off until she saw him again on the second floor. Thirty seconds. There was probably a single stairwell and hallway. She’d loaded the blueprints for the space, and knew the building was divided into two areas—an open bottom floor, where large paintings and sculptures were kept, the space large enough for a decent-size truck to drive in and out. She knew the setup was sophisticated and fully automated, knew hundreds of paintings were kept on racks electronically programmed to slide out from the wall for easy access and storage.

The second floor had a very large office where the manager of the warehouse worked and where occasional buyers came to see art Lanighan was selling. She was convinced this was wher

e they were holding Mulvaney.

She saw the guards patrolling the grounds were only casually alert. They weren’t expecting the show—namely, her—until later, which was the reason she was hitting them now.

With her left hand, she screwed the suppressor into the threaded barrel of the H&K MP23. She hated guns, always had, after the long ago incident, as she often thought of it, with her parents, but she wasn’t about to go in without one. The H&K fit her hand nicely, the suppressor giving it only a few ounces of additional weight. She tucked it into the custom-made leather holster, felt for the two tear-gas canisters she had placed in the pockets of her black cargo pants. Four knives were in place, two strapped to her outer thighs, two to her stomach in a cross-handed pull.

She did square breathing, in for four counts, hold for four, out for four, hold for four; when she felt the familiar clean emptiness, she started down off the rooftop.

She went silent as a cat through the night, her eyes adjusted to the darkness, the moon guiding her steps, sure and quick. Five hundred feet to the warehouse. Three hundred. Two. She swallowed and slowed, listening for the guards in case they circled around the back of the warehouse.

Nothing. She was clear.

She drew her gun, walked forward, watching for the metal staircase she needed to climb to the second-floor window.

A voice spoke from the darkness: “Stop, right there.”

She whipped around, crouched, gun pointed, finger already putting pressure on the trigger, but she realized she couldn’t risk firing yet, not outside. Even suppressed, it might bring the guards.

Decision made in a split second, her movements quick and sure, she holstered the gun and whipped a K-Bar knife out of its sheath on her thigh. The weapon made a vicious whisper as it left the webbing, and she readied it, sharp edge out.

A man took a step from the darkness and said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Drummond!

She lashed out at him, and he danced back, away from her lunge, back arched and stomach drawn in. Close, but she didn’t get him.

She pulled out the second K-Bar and sliced back the other way, forcing her way forward, balancing her weight on the balls of her feet. He stepped back just as a cloud floated in front of the moon, effectively blacking out the scene.

Knives poised and blind, she went for him again, a shadow in the dark. His fist shot out and hit her face. Pain radiated out from her cheek, and she gasped, ducked, and swung out her leg to trip him, but he was gone, fast as lightning. He was behind her, his hand in her hair, jerking her head back, exposing her throat. She jabbed one knife backward, but he twisted in time and she missed again.

He wrapped his hand hard around her right wrist and pulled her toward him. A mistake, that. She could throw him now. Leg forward, balanced on her toes and ready to spin, knowing the move would drive him over her shoulder, but she froze at the touch of hard metal against her temple.

“Drop the knives now, or I’ll take great pleasure in dropping you where you stand.”

It was Mike Caine.

Time stopped for a moment. She heard her own heavy breathing, felt the blood dripping from her nose, and wondered if Drummond had broken her wrist.