Page 42 of Locked and Loaded

"Someone with reach,” Mick commented. “Someone who could find Kozlov in whatever hole he was hiding in, pluck Virtanen out of the frozen north, and put them all in the same room in Marrakech with a ghost running point."

Dragan’s gut tightened. "Someone with money."

"A lot of money," Mick agreed. "This isn't some local kingpin who got his feelings hurt. This is organized. Professional. International."

Dragan looked at the four faces on his screen. Three killers and a ghost. All of them in Marrakech for one woman. "Whoever's behind this," he said, "they want Lennox dead badly enough to burn real resources on it."

"Well, I don't know who," Mick said. "But I can tell you who it's not. It's not any of the usual players. No cartel connections. No organized crime flags. No terrorist watchlists. These guys are mercenaries, but whoever hired them isn't on any radar I can see."

Dragan’s mind swirled while his gut churned. "Keep looking."

"I always do," Mick claimed, “and I am still working on Rostov. Should have something soonish.” Then he ended the call.

Dragan sat back in his chair.

Through the open door, the courtyard had brightened. The palm fronds were golden now at the tips, and the pool had lost its glassy stillness; a faint ripple moved across the surface, stirred by air shifting through the galleries. Somewhere beyond the walls, a motorbike buzzed past, then faded.

He looked down at the cold coffee. He drank it anyway, the liquid sharp and bitter on his tongue.

Four faces on his screen. Names but no connection. Guns but no fingerprints. Someone had gone to considerable trouble to make sure that even if the shooters were identified, they couldn't be traced back to the person who'd sent them.

That kind of effort didn't come cheap. It meant the person who wanted Lennox dead had resources and patience and a very good reason to stay hidden. It also meant Lennox was in more danger than she knew.

He thought about the kiss again. The way she'd leaned into him, as if she meant it. The way a flush had crept up her neck when he'd caught her, and she'd tried to cover it with indignation. The way she'd stormed out of the office, bare feet silent on the tile, and climbed the stairs to the gallery without once looking back.

She was still up there now. Third door on the left. Probably already working on her third escape plan.

He could see it in the way she watched him, the way she filed away every detail of every room. The notes on his wall. The map of Marrakech with red circles. The photograph of Chloe he’d added after dinner. Katya had described her well; pretty, soft, the kind of girl who cried too much. Lennox had cataloged it all, even in the middle of a kiss she'd initiated as a distraction. He knew she had been memorizing everything she saw. Building a plan. Looking for the weak point.

If she got out, these four men would find her. Or more like… them. And next time, Dragan wouldn't be there to pull her out of the restaurant.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Dragan’s cell lit up and vibrated on the desk. He answered the call and then hit the video call button. “Armand,” he said as the other man’s face filled the screen. “Have you had a chance to read what I sent you?”

“Mon ami, it is most frightening. The information all seems legitimate. I have done some research and have found the same information as is in the file. The trail leads undisputedly to the Society.”

Damn, he was hoping for a different result. “I found the same thing. I thought the apartment in Madrid was an especially nice touch.”

“Ah, oui. Making it seem like the Society rented the apartment and then kept women there, it was well done. I can assure you we have no such property.”

Dragan shook his head. “You don’t have to convince me, Armand. I believe you. And even if I didn’t, something about the file just feels wrong. It’s just too…perfect. Just the right crumbs to follow to just the right address. The exact piece of information needed to get to the next step.”

“Oui,” Armand agreed and then sighed heavily. “If the wrong person gets their hands on this, it will be catastrophic for the Society.”

Dragan understood the other man’s distress. There was a lot riding on this. “Someone paid handsomely to create this trail.”

“It is very professional. Only a handful of people outside of the government agencies could do this.” On the video screen, Armand leaned back in his chair, pulled out a cigar, and lit it. “I have put out some feelers, but it will take time to identify the culprit. Time I’m not sure we have.”

“Agreed,” Dragan said and then glanced at his empty coffee cup. “Would it be okay if I get one of the staff at Callahan Security to take a stab at tracking this information?”

“Bien sûr. Please ask whomever you think can help. We are running out of time.”

“Have you made any progress on coming up with a list of people who might be behind this?” Dragan asked.

“I had a list, but this”—Armand pointed to the papers on his desk—“this makes that list moot. This takes a special kind of brain, no? Someone methodical, diabolical, and very organized. Someone very cold and calculating. No one on the list I have fits that criteria. I shall go back to the beginning and see what I can discover.”

“It’s too bad Archer isn’t here,” Dragan suggested. “He might have a better idea. He ran the Society for years. Whoever is behind this must be familiar with how the Society works in order to rent apartments and buy vans through companies that appear to be owned by the Society. Each entity has just enough layers to look like someone was trying to hide the ownership but not enough shell companies to make it impossible to find the owner. It’s a work of art really.” If it wasn’t so dangerous, it would be a thing of beauty.