The Paris Betrayal by James Hannibal (the dot read aloud .txt) 📗

“I wouldn’t worry. They’d still need a big rig to move a bomb that size. And frankly, CRTX shouldn’t concern you.” Hale shifted on the bench, stretching out an arm to touch Ben’s shoulder. “C4 is more your speed—the kind found in a standard Company demolition package.”

“So you know about Giselle?”

“Word travels fast when a team lead kills one of his people.”

“I didn’t kill her.” Of all the sins Ben’s friends forced him to deny committing, Giselle’s murder hurt him the most. But with Hale, he swallowed his anger. He needed to keep this civil. “Talk to Dylan.”

Hale drew his arm back and snorted. “You’re saying Dylan—little Dylan who doesn’t carry a gun and can barely talk to a woman like Giselle without stammering—turned into a cold-blooded killer and blew up her house.”

“Cottage.”

“Whatever. Let’s talk about that, and feel free to stop me when I run out of actual-no-kidding facts.” Hale counted each statement on his fingers. “You start a relationship with a teammate, a gross violation of Company rules. Your girlfriend buys a safe house off the books. You check out a demolition package, which goes missing. And not long after, the safe house blows up with said girlfriend inside.” He lowered his hand. “What’s the Director supposed to think?”

“He should give me a chance to tell my side of the story. I passed my demolition package to Dylan in Rome.” Ben showed him the detonator fragment. “And I found this at the scene. Either Dylan wanted to frame me, or the Company took her out with a similar package as part of my severance.” Ben tucked the fragment away. “Prove me wrong.”

“Not my job. I’m not the Company’s PR man. And the Director’s not the one on trial here.”

On trial. Ben should have laughed. He never saw a trial—never had the chance to stand in his own defense. The trial ended days ago, relegating him to the world’s longest and most painful execution. He needed a stay in view of an appeal. “Ask the Director to meet me, let me plead my case.”

“I’m not a messenger boy either.” Hale folded his arms and crossed one leg over the other, a false relaxed posture that Ben knew would put his right hand closer to his gun. “Look, kid. There are two reasons for a severance, and two reasons only. Either you turned traitor or botched something huge. You tell me which case this is.”

“I’m no traitor.”

“Okay. Say I believe you—”

“Say you believe me?”

Hale held up a hand. “Stick with me, kid. If you’re no traitor, then you must be an epic failure. In that case, think of this as getting fired. All you need to do is list your failures. I’ll document them as your intermediary, and everything’ll be fine.” He pulled an imaginary slip of paper from his inside pocket and offered it to Ben. “Here’s your pink slip. Sad. Sure. But not the end of the world. Try starting over. New city. New job. You’ve always had quick hands. I bet you could flip burgers with the best of ’em.”

“Pink slip? The Director sent a sniper to shoot at me. He froze accounts.” Ben pointed with both hands at his frostbitten face. “Look at me. We inflict this kind of punishment on petty dictators and drug lords—the truly wicked. I’m one of the good guys.”

“You were one of the good guys. So you say. But now, good or bad, you’re out. Take the severance and walk.”

Rain came pouring down in torrents. Ben looked up through half-closed eyelids to see streams of water shooting from sprayers near the dome’s peak. Rapid droplets pelted his face, unchecked by the wood pergola above the bench.

He heard the pop of an umbrella—felt the handle pressed into his hand. Hale tilted it into place to protect them both. “It rains on the just and the unjust, kid. And that’s no joke. I want to believe you’re not a traitor. But either way, you made some big mistakes. Unforgivable mistakes.”

“No.” Ben rubbed the rain from his eyes. It smelled of steel instead of clouds—unreal. None of this was real. He shook his head and repeated the denial with more force to make himself heard over the fake storm. “No. I made mistakes. We all do. But I don’t deserve this.”

Hale laughed. “Then why is it happening?” He pressed himself up to leave, stepping out from under the umbrella’s protection, as if an operative of his caliber didn’t need it. He snapped his wet fingers in Ben’s face—as good as spitting. “Wake up, kid. It’s over.”

Ben stood and grabbed his arm. “We’re not done.”

The colonel spun, landing a blow to Ben’s solar plexus with the heel of his palm, hard enough to drop him back against the bench. “I said it’s over.”

“But . . .” Ben wheezed, fighting to recapture his breath. “Leviathan . . . I have . . . new intel.”

Hale cocked his head. “What intel?”

Ben never got the chance to answer. They were interrupted by a cry from the rainforest. Not a macaw or a monkey cry, but a human voice—a woman’s voice, shouting a clear name. “Ben!”

43

Ben fought through his shortness of breath to regain his feet. He joined the colonel at the platform’s oak railing. Below, Clara ran up the path, amber hair matted to her head and shoulders by the downpour. Her head turned frantically left and right. “Ben! Where are you?”

Three men converged on her position. The young zoo guide in the blue shirt hurried in from a side path carrying two umbrellas, perhaps thinking this woman had freaked out after wandering into a man-made storm. Two others burst through the hanging vinyl strips at the entrance.

Ben recognized Duval and his partner. He cupped a hand to his mouth. “Clara. Watch out!”

She looked up, shielding her eyes against the rain. “You watch out. Sensen is here!”

As if he hadn’t seen that coming. Part of him had expected to die the moment he