Rules of Vengeance

Jonathan turned and stared out the window. The police had come back down out of the building and he watched as someone was stretchered through the front door. He recognized a familiar face and looked closer. It was Graves, and behind him, DCI Ford. Jonathan had come so far. And now to learn this…

Jonathan caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun in time to see Shvets leveling a pistol at him. He threw himself to the floor, raising his own pistol and firing. He saw a spit of flame and felt something cut the air close to his ear. Landing on his side, he cried out as his injured shoulder gave way, but somehow he kept pulling the trigger, the pistol bucking in his hand, the shots wild, undisciplined. Rolling to his feet, he brought the gun to bear, the sight centered squarely on Shvets’s chest. He pulled the trigger, but the clip was empty. He fired dry.

Sergei Shvets sat on the couch, one hand clutching his stomach. The other hand still held the gun, but it lay limp in his lap. “Bravo,” he said, in the same dull, unflappable tone. “I didn’t know marksmanship was one of your skills.”

Jonathan eyed the Russian warily. Approaching with caution, he knelt and pried his fingers off the pistol, then tossed it onto the floor out of reach. “Let me take a look.”

Reluctantly, Shvets lifted his hand. “And so? Will I live?”

Jonathan unbuttoned the shirt. The bullet had struck below the liver. Very little blood came from the wound. “How’s this? Tell me about La Reine and Emma, and I’ll save your life.”

“You’re not so mercenary.”

“No,” admitted Jonathan. “I’m not.” He retrieved some towels from the bathroom and wiped away the blood. “Lean forward,” he said.

Shvets grunted and did as instructed.

“Hold these firmly against your stomach and don’t move. I’m going to call an ambulance. I’ll let them save you.”

“Not necessary,” came a dry British voice. “We’ll take it from here.”

Charles Graves stood in the doorway, flanked by a squad of men in black assault gear.

“Ransom? What in the… How can you …?” Kate Ford slipped from behind Graves and walked into the apartment, bewilderment and anger playing across her sharp features.

“Stay where you are,” commanded Graves, a pistol leveled at Jonathan. “Your run’s over.” He motioned to one of the men at his side. “Arrest him,” he said. “And make sure the cuffs are tight.”

72

Exiting from the central processing facility, Emma walked down a protected passageway across a broad courtyard and into the main administration building. Again there was a guard desk. She showed her site badge and passed through a man-trap, a floor-to-ceiling turnstile that regulated entry into the main reactor complex. On the other side of the man-trap, she cleared a metal detector for the second time. Her purse was checked again, and she was led into an explosives detection booth. A puff of air dusted her body. A green light flashed, and she was waved through. Another man-trap waited. Emma passed through it, then crossed a small lobby toward a set of glass doors leading outside. She swiped her key card, waited for the lock to disengage, then walked through the doors into the morning sunshine.

She stood for a moment, looking at the administration building behind her and the fence topped with razor wire that ran the perimeter of the reactor complex.

Getting in was the easy part.

The reactor building stood in front of her, a gargantuan, windowless four-story block of concrete. Inside it were the reactor control room and the reactor vessel itself. But Emma did not go inside. She had no interest in getting anywhere near the control room. Instead she drew up a map of the complex on her phone. Skirting the reactor building, she crossed a wide storage area and headed toward an immense warehouse the length of a football field. The walk took five minutes, and in all that time she saw only three or four men. No one paid her the slightest attention.

Swiping her key card, she gained entry to the warehouse. Massive lights hung from the ceiling. Shipping containers stacked three high were divided into neat rows. A forklift drove past her, searching for cargo. Halfway down the warehouse to her left, giant doors stood open, and she could see the blunt snout of a locomotive advancing slowly inside.

Every twelve months it was necessary for the reactor to power down and temporarily cease operation. During this time, spent fuel rods were replaced with “hot” new rods, aging equipment was changed out, and a general maintenance of the facility lasting four to six weeks was carried out. The upkeep required that nearly one hundred containers of new equipment be ferried into the plant.

The last power-down had been completed two weeks earlier.

Emma made her way through the maze of containers to an isolated area far to the north side of the warehouse. Instead of containers, there were pipes. Hundreds and hundreds of sixteen-inch-diameter lead pipes stacked upon one another. She continued to the wall. She checked her phone and registered her current GPS position. A red dot appeared on the map. She sca

Pulling back the sleeve of her jacket, she pushed her arm into the pipe, feeling for a package wrapped in wax paper. Her fingers touched only air. A frisson of panic welled up inside her.

Start over.

Emma counted down four pipes from the length of tape. This time she checked the pipes to her left and right. Again there was nothing.

She lowered herself to one knee and began looking into all the pipes in the vicinity, pushing her hand into each, searching, to no avail. She wondered if somehow the pipe had been taken already, but didn’t see how it was possible, given that the green tape was still in place. Then she stopped. If it wasn’t below, it might be above. Standing on her tiptoes, she counted the fourth pipe above the green tape and felt inside it.

Her fingers scraped cold lead. Another false lead. Yet she knew the package had to be here somewhere. Papi had confirmed it, and his word was enough for her. Perching a foot on one of the lower pipes, she stood and thrust her arm deeper inside. Her fingers touched something firm and slick. Clawing with her nails, she inched the package out of the pipe until it fell into her arms.

She looked around. The aisle was deserted. She noted that she was breathing harder than her exertion demanded. She took a moment, then carefully unwrapped the box. Inside were two explosive devices, each measuring 6 inches by 6 inches and 3 inches thick, packaged in glossy black electrical tape. On top was a paper-thin LED readout and keys to program the time and initiate the detonation sequence. She set the first device to thirty minutes and the second to six, then put them inside a pipe at eye level. Once more she consulted her phone to study the layout of the complex, ru

“What do you have there?”

Emma spun. Three meters away stood Alain Royale, the plant’s deputy director of security. She studied his expression but could not tell if he had seen her program the explosives. She selected one of the bombs and said, “M. Royale, I’m happy to see you. Do you have any idea who put these here?”

Royale took a step closer, then stopped. “There’s nothing for you to inspect in the warehouse.”

“Not usually, but today’s an exception. Did you place this green tag on the pipe?”

“Of course not.”

“I didn’t think so. You have a smuggling problem. Drugs, I’d say.” Emma held out the bomb. “Take a look. Maybe you can tell me what it is.”