asked.
“No,” he said.
“You don’t believe we’ll be helpful?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t believe in coincidence, and for the second time in twenty-four hours I’m staring one in the face.”
Danielle nodded. She didn’t much believe in coincidence, either, but the fact was, Claudia Gonzales had worked for the public division of the NRI, as had several hundred thousand other people over the last decade. Many of them had gone on to important careers in corporate America, politics, and other government agencies. Gonzales had no connection with the operations division, would not even know its real purpose, and certainly, having left ten years ago, knew nothing about Hawker’s role with the NRI.
If ever there was a coincidence, this was one.
“Does it change your mind?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Nothing on earth could change my mind right now.”
Danielle nodded and pressed her intercom switch, buzzing the pilot.
“We’re ready for takeoff,” the pilot said.
“Good,” she replied. “As soon as we’re over international waters, I want you to amend the flight plan.”
“Where to?”
“Paris?” she said, looking over at Hawker.
He nodded.
“Direct to Paris,” she said, speaking to the pilot.
Hawker leaned back in his seat. He offered a halfhearted smile. “Wish it was under better circumstances,” he said. “But it’s nice to be working with you again.”
CHAPTER 7
La Courneuve, France
H is name was Marko. A sullen face, a square jaw, and a large bony brow gave him the look of a giant. He was only six feet tall but thick as a tree, with hands like the paws of a bear. He was first beneath the Master and within the group he was known as the Killer, or as
Cruor
, the Man of Blood, for it was he who put the blades into those the Master marked. It was he who had strangled the life out of the officers from the French police force.
He would do all that the Master requested, because it was his purpose.
Today he waited at the end of the boulevard in a dilapidated shelter that had once been a bus stop and watched as a young man in ratty jeans, boots, and an oversized hoodie walked the trash-littered sidewalk toward him. Rusting cars and graffiti marked the youth’s progress—even a van that had burned in the last riots and had yet to be removed.
La Courneuve was a suburb of Paris and one of the toughest slums in Western Europe. Poor French and waves of immigrants settled here, piled in together, jobless, hopeless, soaked in the stench of despair.
The riots of 2005 had begun here after two youths hiding from police were accidentally electrocuted. Media claims pegged the riot on ethnic tensions, but Markoknew better. There were many ethnicities here, many creeds and colors. All of them shared the anger and frustration of being forgotten, hated, and ignored.
Citizens claimed police brutality on a regular basis, and the police, having been attacked and ambushed so often in La Courneuve, considered it a red zone, where entry was not recommended without heavy support.
Whatever the normal course of action might have been, the police were out in force now. As Marko watched, a small convoy of two cars and an armored SUV cruised slowly down the street. The bodies of the slain policemen had been discovered here and the French police were intent on doling out a reprisal and perhaps even making arrests.
The convoy passed the youth, who did not look up. He knew better than to eye the cops. He continued on, finally joining Marko on the scarred and weathered bench.
“You did as I asked,” Marko noted. “I am pleased. The Master is pleased.”
“The police have found the bodies.”
“Yes,” Marko said. “It was planned.”
The young man, whose name was Yousef, seemed sick at the notion.
“Why did we want them to be found?”
Marko ignored the question. “Do you feel sorry for them?”
“I hate what they do to us,” Yousef said.
“Then they got what they deserved,” Marko
“No,” he said.
“You don’t believe we’ll be helpful?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t believe in coincidence, and for the second time in twenty-four hours I’m staring one in the face.”
Danielle nodded. She didn’t much believe in coincidence, either, but the fact was, Claudia Gonzales had worked for the public division of the NRI, as had several hundred thousand other people over the last decade. Many of them had gone on to important careers in corporate America, politics, and other government agencies. Gonzales had no connection with the operations division, would not even know its real purpose, and certainly, having left ten years ago, knew nothing about Hawker’s role with the NRI.
If ever there was a coincidence, this was one.
“Does it change your mind?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Nothing on earth could change my mind right now.”
Danielle nodded and pressed her intercom switch, buzzing the pilot.
“We’re ready for takeoff,” the pilot said.
“Good,” she replied. “As soon as we’re over international waters, I want you to amend the flight plan.”
“Where to?”
“Paris?” she said, looking over at Hawker.
He nodded.
“Direct to Paris,” she said, speaking to the pilot.
Hawker leaned back in his seat. He offered a halfhearted smile. “Wish it was under better circumstances,” he said. “But it’s nice to be working with you again.”
CHAPTER 7
La Courneuve, France
H is name was Marko. A sullen face, a square jaw, and a large bony brow gave him the look of a giant. He was only six feet tall but thick as a tree, with hands like the paws of a bear. He was first beneath the Master and within the group he was known as the Killer, or as
Cruor
, the Man of Blood, for it was he who put the blades into those the Master marked. It was he who had strangled the life out of the officers from the French police force.
He would do all that the Master requested, because it was his purpose.
Today he waited at the end of the boulevard in a dilapidated shelter that had once been a bus stop and watched as a young man in ratty jeans, boots, and an oversized hoodie walked the trash-littered sidewalk toward him. Rusting cars and graffiti marked the youth’s progress—even a van that had burned in the last riots and had yet to be removed.
La Courneuve was a suburb of Paris and one of the toughest slums in Western Europe. Poor French and waves of immigrants settled here, piled in together, jobless, hopeless, soaked in the stench of despair.
The riots of 2005 had begun here after two youths hiding from police were accidentally electrocuted. Media claims pegged the riot on ethnic tensions, but Markoknew better. There were many ethnicities here, many creeds and colors. All of them shared the anger and frustration of being forgotten, hated, and ignored.
Citizens claimed police brutality on a regular basis, and the police, having been attacked and ambushed so often in La Courneuve, considered it a red zone, where entry was not recommended without heavy support.
Whatever the normal course of action might have been, the police were out in force now. As Marko watched, a small convoy of two cars and an armored SUV cruised slowly down the street. The bodies of the slain policemen had been discovered here and the French police were intent on doling out a reprisal and perhaps even making arrests.
The convoy passed the youth, who did not look up. He knew better than to eye the cops. He continued on, finally joining Marko on the scarred and weathered bench.
“You did as I asked,” Marko noted. “I am pleased. The Master is pleased.”
“The police have found the bodies.”
“Yes,” Marko said. “It was planned.”
The young man, whose name was Yousef, seemed sick at the notion.
“Why did we want them to be found?”
Marko ignored the question. “Do you feel sorry for them?”
“I hate what they do to us,” Yousef said.
“Then they got what they deserved,” Marko
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