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

“I’m glad.” Duval dropped his gaze to the rocks at the cliff base far below. “I . . . uh . . . could use a new position, so to speak. My pursuit of Calix cost me my job.”

The woman nodded, signaling she already knew this. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

A good sign. Duval breathed a little easier. He liked Spain. Warm winters. Cheap housing. Better beaches than France. Things were looking up. “So, what’s our next move. When do we grab Calix?”

“He’s on his way. But you shouldn’t worry about that either.” She turned to face him again, now holding a gun. Duval hadn’t seen her reach for it.

What was she playing at? He laughed—nervous. “I see. A joke for the new guy. Very funny.”

But she didn’t laugh, or even smile. The woman walked around him, putting herself between Duval and the path.

He backed up, heels at the cliff’s edge. “I don’t understand. What is this?”

“Why, Mr. Duval, this is the end.” She put the barrel to his head and fired.

50

Ben ran and hopped over the giant blocks of stone piled against the seaside walls of the Port of Valencia’s channel barriers. A paved access road topped each barrier, but he needed to stay clear of the light during his approach to the main piers. He saw too many eyes up there.

From what he could tell, Sea Titan dominated the port. The big shipping corporation owned half the piers, and five looked custom built, all secured by one big perimeter fence. The sign above the primary gate read SEA TITAN MAIN—as in the tallest mast on a ship or the Spanish Main. The killer running this place had a decent sense of humor.

Most cargo docks were shared. Gaining extra time and space over the competition took serious political maneuvering. Ben had to wonder how many truckloads of cash it took for Sea Titan to convince Valencia to let them have their own private section—an ideal arrangement for a large-scale criminal enterprise.

The sheer number of craft with the Sea Titan serpent emblazoned on their hulls might have seemed daunting in a search for a specific vessel, but Ben had no trouble finding his target. The Behemoth, the largest container ship on earth, rested proudly against the seaward side of Sea Titan Main’s giant outer pier. He crawled up the stone blocks to the spot where the container stacks sat closest to the chain-link fence and settled in to watch the guards make their rounds.

No wires ran along the fence. Not surprising. Sensors and electrification required too much maintenance so close to salt water. He dug a set of wire cutters out of his pack.

Two security guards patrolled the stacks. No dogs. Good. And the guards kept mostly to the landward side, watching the road running down the pier’s center between the cranes and a six-story office building. While clipping the links, Ben counted the seconds between his sightings of each guard. A rhythm emerged. He picked his moment and pushed through.

What he saw as he crept to the edge of the stacks made his heart sink.

Everything Ben had learned so far left him convinced Leviathan had developed a weaponized version of the plague and planned to use the Behemoth to deliver that weapon to its target—most likely the United States. He needed to get on board, not just to prove his theory, but to gain hard evidence he could pass to authorities. But Ben saw no viable path onto the Behemoth.

Sea Titan ran a tight ship, so to speak.

A security man checked IDs and faces at the gangplank’s foot. Another stood watch above him at the ship’s rail. In his current state, and after the stunt he’d tried to pull in Rotterdam, he’d never get past them. The cranes were no help either, loading tanks set in rectangular steel frames the size of shipping containers. The open frames offered Ben no place to stow away without being seen. He considered hanging on to the outside of one, but only for a moment. Each of the six active cranes had two spotters with high-powered flashlights. He’d never make it from the dock to the ship without being seen.

Climbing the mooring lines, scaling the hull from the seaward side—none of it looked remotely possible, thanks to the vessel’s sheer size. If Ben had special equipment and a Company team, maybe he could make a reasonable covert assault. But he had no equipment, and his team had abandoned him.

The pier’s administrative offices looked more accessible, especially with the day staff gone for the night.

Armed guards and a ten-foot fence topped with concertina wire look scary, but a smart field operative always prefers a remote, guarded compound over a downtown corporate headquarters. Single-building facilities use compressed security—lobby guards, cameras, and motion sensors, all within a confined space. Compounds with a long perimeter fence are forced to spread their security thin, and once you’re inside, the structures and offices rarely have defenses beyond keypad locks or swipe cards.

Ben hoped Sea Titan Main followed the usual security pattern.

Two men argued in the corner office on the top floor, backlit by bright fluorescents. Ben’s best bet for finding incriminating evidence or a way onto the ship lay in there, but he’d need management to clear out first. He looked around for options.

A forklift sat idle and unused only fifteen meters away.

He bobbled his head. It might work.

One guard strolled out of sight at the far end of the stacks. The other walked past Ben’s hiding spot, so close he could’ve reached out and tapped his shoulder. He didn’t. Ben let the man walk on several more paces, then made a silent run for his target.

The diesel engine cranking up blended nicely with the other sounds of industry on the pier. But an instant later, a metallic crash sounded behind Ben—way behind, from the heavy equipment lot. The guard turned to look, gaze settling on Ben. Ben held his breath, trying not to show it, and moved his