Massive Attack (A Guy Niava Thriller Book 1) by Dana Arama (diy ebook reader TXT) 📕

petrified, before I continued, “I want to know who this kid is, what he was looking for in my files and who helped him escape.” I glanced at my watch, “The time is eight fifteen. Today is a holiday, which means that you have less than two hours before the rush starts. Leave two people on the regular lookout and the rest of you start going over all the cameras from yesterday.” Another pause. And there was just a hint of a smile on my lips, “Whoever finds him and the person who helped him escape will receive a bonus.” I erased the smile off my face and added, “And when I talk about finding him, I mean his name, private address and whoever helped him on the way.”

I bet on the fact that it would take them an hour, maybe an hour and a half, enough time to sniff something out before blood started to spill. At around noon the action would start, and I wouldn’t have time to deal with it.

They were faster than I had expected. It made me wonder if someone from yesterday’s shift worked with her. If someone had recognized her and didn’t pass on the information. He should be a floating corpse in the river by now. On the low table before me was a mirrored surface with the remainder of white powder. I asked, “Who is she?”

“A hooker the casino works with from time to time.”

“So, do we have her telephone number?”

“We do.”

“And can we call and invite her to come over for a client without it looking strange?”

“Yes. Or send a car and drive her to a client. We do that as well, sometimes.”

“Excellent. Call her and tell her a car will pick her up in half an hour.”

“Which of the drivers should I send to pick her up?”

“I will send someone special. He has one of our cars and is always ready to take a drive.”

He left and I pulled out my cell phone to make a call. The familiar raspy voice answered, “Yes, boss.” His intonation sent a shiver of fear down my spine, maybe because I knew what he was capable of.

“Dubroshin, I need to investigate somebody.” I took a sip of my coffee and added, “And after you have gotten what you can out of her, she needs to be transferred to a very special client.”

“Ten minutes,” was his very short answer, then the call disconnected. I almost felt sorry for the girl.

Guy Niava,

November 11, 2015, 9:25 a.m.

The hour was still quite early when Jonathan peeked his head around the door. He signaled goodbye by waving his hand and was off. I shouted at him, “Hey! Where are you going?”

“To Jeremy,” he answered from the top of the stairs. “He can help me find Ashley’s father.”

“Come here a minute.”

Jonathan returned and peeked once again into the room. I put my cell phone down for a moment and warned him, “Even if he manages to trace him, don’t go to her on your own, okay? They may have already tracked her down and could be waiting for you to show up.”

“I spoke to her this morning. Everything is okay and she is on her way to work.” He stood there a second longer, as if wanting to say something but couldn’t bring himself to.

“All the information you find you can pass on to her by phone. You know that you don’t have to be there, right? If they suspect you did something to them, they will track her down and wait for you. Don’t go there!” I repeated.

Jonathan just murmured, “Yes… by phone,” and left. His black backpack hung on his shoulder. He never left the house without it. I knew his laptop was inside there as well. There was something about the look on his face that I didn’t like. Was he hoping to meet up with her again? Perhaps he thought of hiring her services? I went over the conversation I’d had earlier that morning, but my head was still wrapped around Jonathan. “Great information,” the man who was still officially my boss had said. He sounded satisfied, “I have already passed on the order to raise the level of alertness, but I ask you to please let this matter go. I have sent the information to the highest ranks, and it is distinctly in the Americans’ jurisdiction. The CIA and FBI definitely don’t need our help. You, on the other hand, have earned your vacation before you return to the office.” I heard Jonathan’s car drive away. “Understood and accepted,” I had answered my boss. “And have we done anything about the information I gathered in France? Something is cooking there, I’m sure of it.”

“We passed it on to the French authorities…” He had sounded hesitant. “But you know them. If it’s not tangible information about a specific object they won’t bother to check into it.”

“In a text that they sent me it was definitely said that there will be festivities in Paris at the end of the weekend. Huge amounts of the Captagon drug are flooding the markets, especially the black kind marked with Arabic. You know this means that ISIS is in the area,” I reminded him.

“It is not enough to bring the French police or their security forces to act on it. Apparently, it is not the first batch to hit the markets there. They relate the word ‘festivity’ to the excess use of the drugs.”

“So… That is exactly the problem, it is not just any drug. Captagon fuels ISIS members, especially before they go out on missions.”

“Yes. I know and you know, but they just passed on the information to the anti-drug division,” said my boss.

“Like February in Marseille, before the shooting of the prime minister. At least then they put the whole neighborhood under siege. Not only did they find the terrorists but also twenty kilograms of weed and seven Kalashnikov rifles.”

“They claimed it to have been an incidental