Chapter 72

CHAPTER 72

P ARIS

Scot Harvath was an asshole. That was the first thought that had gone through Ray Powell's mind when he was released from the trunk of his Citroen.

He had been left by the side of the road, two klicks away from the nearest suburban train station, with only his house keys and a ten-euro note in his pocket.

Technically, Harvath had kept his word, but only just barely. Powell, for whatever reason, had expected more.

At the very least, he had expected Harvath, upon his release, to give him back his false passports. And maybe, if Harvath was a halfway-decent human being, to also hand over the rest of the contents of the safe from his bedroom closet. Minus the gun, of course.

To his credit, Harvath, in his own sadistic way, had done just that, but not without making Powell jump through a few more flaming hoops.

Instead of allowing the CIA man to begin his life on the run by heading for the closest airport or seaport, Harvath had made it so that the station chief needed to return to his apartment in the center of Paris.

There, Harvath had informed him, wrapped in a garbage bag and tucked in his freezer, was everything Harvath had pulled from his safe. Minus the gun, of course.

Without his phone, there was no one Powell could call for help. The emergency numbers that field operatives were required to memorize were useless. There was no way he could phone the embassy or Langley for assistance. He was completely and totally on his own.

Taking the first available RER train, he had then transferred to the Métro, changing lines twice before resurfacing two blocks from his apartment.

He was burning extremely valuable time. If Harvath or, God forbid, the Russians were looking to screw him, resurfacing in Paris was the absolute last thing he wanted to do. In fact, part of him wondered if the journey was even worth it.

That was his self-preservation instinct talking. When his professional instincts kicked in, he knew the contents of that bag in his freezer were indispensable. Passports, cash, gold coins, and debit cards were crucial to his ability to disappear. Only once he was safely ensconced in another country could he partially let down his guard, breathe a little easier, and begin accessing the money he had hidden away in his multiple international bank accounts.

Walking up to his building, he maintained his vigilance, covertly keeping his eyes peeled for any signs of surveillance. Per his training, he had conducted multiple surveillance detection routes since boarding the RER. He had scanned every face on the Métro, had changed carriages multiple times, and had gone so far as to take the long way home once exiting the subway system. To his relief, he hadn't seen anything.

Entering his building, Powell couldn't be bothered to wait for the elevator. Instead he bounded up the stairs, taking them two and even three at a time.

When he arrived at his floor, he moved down the hall comforted by the fact that he didn't need to waste time packing. Prior to Harvath's arrival, his weekender bag had been fully prepped.

At his front door, he pulled out his keys, opened it wide, and hurried inside. His bag was right there where he'd left it. All he needed was the garbage bag fucking Harvath had shoved in his freezer.

Charging into the kitchen, he threw open the freezer, fully expecting to see it, but it wasn't there.

He was about to curse Harvath out when a woman's voice from the living room said, "Looking for this?"

Powell spun to see both Brunelle and Gibert sitting there, a garbage bag between them on the coffee table.

"God damn it," the station chief swore, pissed beyond measure that his apartment had been breached twice in one night.

"Raymond Alan Powell," Brunelle continued, reading the arrest warrant that had been signed off on by her boss, Director General Audrey de Vasselot, "By the power vested in me by the Republic of France, I hereby place you under arrest in connection with the killing of Jean-Jacques Jadot."

Pausing briefly, Brunelle then added, "We also want to discuss your possible involvement in the death of France's ambassador to Beirut."

The station chief looked at the bag on the table, looked at Brunelle, and then looked at Gibert.

For a fraction of a second, Powell weighed his options. But no sooner had he started thumbing his mental scale than he knew what he had to do.

Dropping his shoulders in resignation, he slowly moved out of the kitchen and stopped at the threshold of the living room. He was surrendering.

Brunelle and Gibert were finally able to let their guard down too. It had taken a tremendous amount of work to get to this point, and it was all but over. They could finally breathe a collective sigh of relief.

That was when Powell ran.

"Son of a bitch!" Gibert exclaimed as he scrambled for his radio.

Leaping off the couch, ignoring her colleague's shouts to wait, Brunelle pulled her pistol and gave chase.

For someone fifteen years–plus her senior, he was fast as hell. She yelled repeatedly for him to stop, but Powell ignored her.

As she ran, she was driven by the anger she had felt over the evidence MoMo had sent her. Using the AI software, he had been able to ascertain that Powell had been involved in both the theft of the Peugeot used in Jadot's killing, as well as the Renaults in the Bois de Boulogne shoot-out. The fact that he was attempting to flee only confirmed his guilt in her mind.

When he neared the stairs at the end of the hall, she realized she wasn't going to catch him. So, raising her weapon, she attempted to control her breathing, took careful aim, and fired.

The shot was dead-on, shattering a large, ornamental cap atop a newel post just in front of him, showering the CIA man with splintered pieces of wood.

He might have been able to outrun her, but outrunning her well-placed bullets was not going to happen. Coming to a full stop, he held his hands out at his sides where she could see them.

"I want them in the air," she demanded. "Over your head. Way up!"

The station chief complied.

Moving forward, she holstered her weapon, took out her handcuffs, and reached for Powell's right hand. But just as she did, he swung his left elbow behind him and hit her in the face so hard, she felt sure he had knocked a couple of her teeth out.

The pain radiated across her skull and for a second she thought she was going to black out. Refusing to lose consciousness, she shook it off and fought back.

She grappled with the station chief, trying to maneuver him into a joint lock or some other pain compliance technique, to subdue him and bring him under control.

Attempting an aikido wrist reversal, she lost her grip as Powell wrenched his arm free and violently pivoted to get away from her. But as he did, he lost his balance.

Brunelle lunged to catch him, but only caught the hem of his shirt, which tore from her grasp as he went over the railing and plunged six stories to the lobby below.

He landed with a sickening thud. Brunelle, too stunned to speak, peered over the railing at Powell, his arms and legs akimbo, as a crimson pool of blood began to spread out like a halo around his cracked head.

Looking from the corpse to the upper floor from which he had fallen were several of Gibert's officers who had been waiting outside but had rushed in when he had hailed them over the radio.

Her face ashen, she continued to stare down at the body. As she did, Gibert, who had just arrived at the railing, placed his hand on top of hers.

"I saw everything," he said. "It wasn't your fault."

She appreciated his words, but for several moments couldn't speak. When she finally recaptured her ability, she said, "He was a huge break in our case. Now he's dead."

"You got the list. That's the most important thing."

"I know, but I also want answers."

"Unfortunately, that's not always the way this business goes," he responded. "Sometimes you get nothing and your case doesn't even get solved. But you got something. Be grateful for it."

She knew he was right and was about to say as much when her phone vibrated. It was a text from Director General de Vasselot. With President Mercier's cooperation, everyone they had identified on Jadot's list as being on Russia's payroll had been assembled at the élysée Palace. They had each been told that an international incident was brewing and that their specific expertise was required. As they arrived, they were all kept separate from each other.

De Vasselot was ready to spring the trap. She wanted Brunelle there when it happened.