Dead Run (Dangerous Ground 4)
The boys are back in town — and Paris is burning!
For Special Agents of the Department of Diplomatic Security, Taylor MacAllister and Will Brandt, the strain of a long distance relationship is beginning to tell after eleven months of separation. A romantic holiday could be just the thing to bridge the ever-growing distance, but when Taylor spots a terrorist from the 70s, long believed dead but very much alive, it's c'est la vie.
Now instead of sipping wine and seeing the sights, the boys are chasing a wily and deadly foe through the graveyards and catacombs of Paris.
Of course, it could always be worse — and soon it is.
DEAD RUN: Dangerous Ground 4
Smashwords Revised Edition September 2013, 2011
Copyright (c) 2013 by Josh Lanyon
Cover by L.C. Chase
Cover photos licensed through Shutterstock
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from Just Joshin Publications.
ISBN: 978-1-937909-20-8
Published in the United States of America
Just Joshin
3053 Rancho Vista Blvd.
Suite 116
Palmdale, CA 93551
www.joshlanyon.com
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Dead Run
Dangerous Ground 3
Josh Lanyon
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
DEAD RUN
Josh Lanyon
Chapter One
There was something familiar about the man at the airline ticket counter.
Taylor studied him for a moment. Medium height…slightly stooped…medium weight…aquiline features beneath the tweed cap. Nothing unique about an old man in a raincoat. In fact, the very ordinariness of him was part of what caught Taylor’s eye. It was like this old guy had taken inconspicuous to an art form.
“Next!” called one of the agents at the check-in desk. The couple in front of Taylor dragged their children and luggage to the next open space at the long desk. Taylor stepped forward. The serpentine line shuffled and scooted behind him.
Had he remembered the photos of Riley? Taylor double-checked quickly. No. He’d left them on the kitchen table. Damn. He knew how much Will missed that damn dog, and he’d meant the snapshots as a little surprise.
Oh well. If Will wanted to see Riley that much, he could always come home.
Taylor glanced up automatically as the old man ahead of him turned away from the ticket counter.
Dark eyes met his, held his gaze for an instant, then dismissed him. The back of Taylor’s neck prickled. No. No way. It couldn’t be.
But he couldn’t quite ignore that feeling of recognition.
Yann Helloco.
A few days ago he’d been reading an article in American Cop on the history of modern terrorism in Europe. That had to be why he was suddenly seeing a long-dead Breton separatist in the first senior citizen wearing a beret who crossed his path.
Okay, not a beret, but close enough to trigger the connection.
A ticket agent at the far end opened and nodded to Taylor. “Sir.”
The line behind Taylor breathed a collective sigh. One step closer to the prize.
Taylor hesitated.
“Next in line please,” the ticket agent encouraged when Taylor didn’t seem to be getting the hint.
Taylor groaned inwardly. He was probably wrong.
More importantly, he was on vacation. He had a plane to catch. A plane he had no intention of missing. It had been eleven months since he’d seen Will. Eleven months since they’d been together. No fucking way was he missing this plane.
But what if he wasn’t wrong? What if by some crazy coincidence he had just seen a ghost?
Oh, what the hell.
He moved instead to the agent who had assisted Helloco, if Helloco it was. She was busily putting a little CLOSED sign at her place, with the air of someone taking her break come hell or high water.
He sized her up fast. Cute and prim in her navy blue polyester. A girl in love with the rules and regulations. He looked for her name badge. Bridget Martinez.
“Bridget.” She did her best not to see him, but Taylor pasted on his most charming smile and pushed harder. “That guy you just gave a boarding pass to — where is he headed?”
Bridget looked as surprised as if her ticket machine had asked her to bring it back a cappuccino. “Sir?”
“Your last customer. I need his name and his flight number.” Taylor already had his DSS ID out. He was keeping his voice down, trying to avoid attention, but she was backing away from the counter, shaking her head, doing her best to separate herself from whatever situation he was trying to drag her into.
“I’m sorry but we can’t give out that information.”
Taylor pushed his ID toward her, hoping the problem was her vision. “I’m with the Diplomatic Security Service.”
Bridget stopped backing away, but her expression grew more skeptical. “I never heard of it.”
“It’s the law enforcement branch of the Bureau of Diplomatic Security. I’m with the State Department.”
“You just said you were with the Diplomacy Service. Anyway, that’s not what your badge says.”
“The hell it doesn’t.” Taylor jabbed his finger at the blue and gold ring around the seal on his badge. Department of State. Diplomatic Security Service. “It says it right here.”
Bridget didn’t exactly roll her eyes, but if he thought she’d been born yesterday, he clearly had another think coming. “Anyone can have one of those made.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“It doesn’t even look real.”
As much as Taylor hadn’t wanted to start this, her obstructive attitude hardened his resolve. “Get your manager.” He watched the luggage moving on the conveyor belt behind Bridget. “Did he check a bag?”
“Who?”
He smothered his exasperation. “The guy you just checked in. Do not let any of his luggage go through.”
Bridget was looking at Taylor as though he were a nut. In fairness, working at a ticket counter in an airport probably jaded you as fast as working in law enforcement.
Bridget waved to another airline employee in a navy suit. “Mr. Yousef! Mr. Yousef, can I see you please?”
Maybe she was trying for discretion, but the overall impression was cleanup on aisle three! Bored passengers were staring their way, and the man who might be — but probably was not — Yann Helloco was now a quickly disappearing tan raincoat in a crowd of tan raincoats heading for the security screening lines.
Mr. Yousef, big, black, and bald, with an unexpectedly charming smile, joined Bridget at the counter. He silently examined Taylor’s ID as Bridget filled him in on the details.
“This customer is trying to get personal information about another customer. He says he’s a secret agent.”
“What?” Taylor spared her a startled look before turning back to Yousef. “I’m with the DSS. That’s a division of the Bureau of Diplomatic Security.”
“Sure.” Yousef spoke in a deep and melodious bass. “You’re the guys who protect foreign bigwigs when they visit.”
“Right.” It was like the relief of finding someone who spoke English in a foreign country. “Among other things. Bridget here just processed a passenger who I believe might be wanted by Interpol.” He was trying very hard not to use the T word.
“Might,” Yousef repeated as the conveyor belt behind him lurched forward again.
“Please don’t let that bag go through without screening it,” Taylor told Bridget, who was waiting hopefully for Yousef to chop him into mincemeat. She ignored him.
“Bag? Every bag we checked is screened.”
Mr. Yousef turned to Bridget, who said with a tight little smile, “I tried to tell this gentleman that the other customer didn’t check any baggage.”
Taylor opened his mouth, but really…bigger fish to fry. He turned to Yousef.
Yousef said, “Bridget, did you not see this agent’s identification and badge?”
“Well, yes, but you can get those made anywhere. And it doesn’t look real.”
Mr. Yousef shook his head apologetically at Taylor. “Let’s get the information Special Agent MacAllister needs.”
Bridget returned to her computer and tapped the keys in quick, irritated strokes. She moved aside for Mr. Yousef, who read aloud, “Yannick Hinault. He’s on his way to Paris on Delta Flight DL67 departing from Gate 57.”
Yann Helloco and Yannick Hinault. Not exactly case closed but surely too similar for coincidence?
“I’m leaving my stuff with you.” Taylor unloaded his suitcase and carry-on bag, ignoring Bridget’s instinctive protest. “Can you call the gate and have them hold that flight? And have security meet me there.”
“I can try,” Yousef said. “But you better be sure this is your guy, or I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”
Taylor was already moving in that easy law enforcement lope that covered a lot of ground without giving the public the impression that there was cause for alarm. Even so he was moving way too fast for anyone in an airport, and security officers were moving to intercept him as he headed for the screening tables.
A quick survey of the lines of shoeless and coatless passengers confirmed there was no sign of Helloco or Hinault or whoever this asshole was who was already starting to interfere with Taylor’s much-needed vacation.
Then the unis blocked his view. Taylor flashed his tin, doing his best to explain the situation without triggering all the alarms in the place. It was his bitter experience that getting airport security involved was usually more trouble than it was worth, but there was no way around it. It was at times like these he missed Will. Will was so much better at finessing…well, everyone.
“Are you armed, Agent MacAllister?” a short, squat guy with a face like the Great Pumpkin questioned.
Taylor shook his head. “No. I’m on my annual leave. My weapon is secured at my place of residence.”
The rent-a-cops began to ask him the usual stuff: Had he been drinking? Was he on medication?
Did he look like a guy who had been drinking or was on medication?
In the back of his mind, Taylor could hear Will cautioning him to be cool, to play the game, so he bit back his immediate retort. He knew the ritual was partly departmental flexing of muscles and partly the fact that these jokers considered snagging a pair of nail scissors off an old lady a coup for law enforcement.
Another uniform joined the crowd surrounding Taylor. “He checks out.”
“Sorry for the hassle, but we have to follow procedure,” the Great Pumpkin told Taylor. “You know how it is.”
“Yeah. No problem. Can we move?”
To their credit, they did hustle their asses, leading the way through a complex maze of backdoor corridors until they reached Gate 57 where, by now, flight DL67 was boarding. Taylor strode quickly through the waiting area, scanning the seats and lines of bored passengers. There was no sign of Hinault.
He began studying body types and facial structure. If Hinault was Helloco, he was one cool and clever customer, so Taylor was putting no trick in the book past him.
The airline agent behind the customer service station spoke into the microphone. “Will passenger Yannick Hinault please report to the customer service desk? Passenger Yannick Hinault, please report to the customer service desk.”
Taylor moved to the edge of the waiting area and watched for anyone trying to slip away. No one came to the desk, and no one showed any interest in missing their flight.
Taylor swore inwardly. He turned to the milling security officers. The Great Pumpkin raised his arms in a beats me gesture.
Seriously?
Seriously?
Taylor took a couple of angry paces. What now? Nine passenger terminals were connected by a U-shaped two-level roadway. Los Angeles International Airport was one of the largest airports in the world.
He checked his iPhone. He was going to miss his flight. Shit. Where the hell did they even s —
“Uncle Taylor.” Skinny arms wrapped around Taylor’s waist. Taylor spun around.
A dark-haired boy of eight or so was smiling up at him in delight. Taylor experienced one of those worlds-colliding moments as he belatedly recognized his eight-year-old nephew, Jamie.
“What are you doing here?”
He must have sounded pretty sharp because Jamie’s face fell and he turned scarlet, suddenly aware of the armed and uniformed men surrounding him. He let go of Taylor and retreated.
Taylor spotted his sister, Tara, approaching. She carried her younger son Jase on her hip, and she was staring at Taylor as though an eyesore had appeared on her horizon. Looping an arm around Jamie, she pulled him close.
“Taylor? What’s going on?”
Taylor said at the same moment, “Are you on this flight?”
“We’re meeting James in Paris. What’s happening? Is there a problem?” Her gaze traveled from Taylor to the phalanx of security officers behind him.
James MacDonald, Tara’s husband, was an executive for Geo-Gulf Oil, one of the companies owned by Taylor’s and Tara’s stepfather. James worked and lived a large part of the year in Bahrain. Tara and the boys traveled back and forth from California.
“I don’t know if there’s a problem or not,” Taylor told her.
“You don’t know?”
That was the trouble being the youngest child. No matter how old you got, how good you were at your job, or what a well-known badass you turned out to be, you were always the nutty kid brother to your siblings.
Other passengers were watching them suspiciously. Taylor led Tara to the side. “I think they’re going to cancel the flight, but if they don’t, don’t get on that plane.”
“Cancel the flight?”
Taylor winced. Tara would never make a poker player.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Probably nothing. But just…I don’t want to take any chances.”
Jase reached out and tried to grab Tara’s hoop earring. She automatically shifted him to the other hip. “Taylor, you can’t just drop a bomb like that and not expect any questions.”
At the word bomb, a collective shudder went through the security people who were now watching brother and sister as much as the general boarding area.
Tara glanced back at them, did a double take, and turned to Taylor. She’d lost color. Her arms instinctively tightened around Jase. “Oh my God.”
Taylor said quickly, “Nothing’s been confirmed. Not even close. I’m probably way off base here. But let’s not take any chances.”
Tara stared at him. “You don’t think you’re wrong.”
He admitted wearily, “I have no idea if I’m wrong. All I know for sure is I just missed my own flight.”
“Where are you flying to?”
“Paris.”
“You’re kidding.”
He shook his head. “Different flight.”
Tara bit her lip, gazing at the crowded lounge area where the restless passengers were now beginning to openly share their irritation at the delay. “Maybe your guy took the o
ther flight?”
Taylor shook his head. “He can’t have boarded another Delta flight using that name. He’s been flagged. Or…at least…”
“What?” Tara was watching him closely.
Taylor shook his head again. “I’m not sure. It’s a long shot. I’ve got to go talk to these cowboys. Just wait here. They’ve got instructions to hold the plane.”
“For how long?”
“For however long it takes. They’re telling me no luggage was checked, so it’s probably fine. Even so, don’t board this flight.”
“What are you talking about, don’t board this flight? We can’t just waste these tickets. Do you have any idea how expensive it will be to try to —”
He wasn’t listening.
Was it possible that Hinault or Helloco or whoever this guy was had made him in the check-in queue?
If so, would Helloco have a backup plan? What would that backup plan be?
Will was always telling Taylor what a devious bastard he was. Okay, what would another devious bastard do in this situation? Assuming — and it was a big assumption, after all — that Taylor’s imagination wasn’t running away with him and that he had really seen Yann Helloco.
The more he thought about it, the more doubtful it seemed. The coincidence of the similar names and destination — Paris notwithstanding.
“We need to do a full sweep of the airport,” Taylor told the Great Pumpkin.
The Great Pumpkin laughed.
“I’m not kidding around. We need to conduct a full search of all the airport terminals.”
“If you’re not kidding, then I want whatever the hell it is you’re smoking. We can’t authorize that kind of operation based on your say-so. There are procedures. There are channels.”
“Fine. Let’s initiate whatever those procedures are through whatever channels necessary.”