The Paris Betrayal by James Hannibal (beach read .TXT) 📕

through his system. His mind and vision cleared beyond any level he’d ever experienced. He sprang forward, going for Jupiter’s detonator.

Jupiter backed into the rail. “Shoot him!” His finger clamped down on the trigger, but Ben had him by the wrist, and he had a thumb over the toggle. As the trigger closed, Ben flipped the switch and swept Jupiter’s legs out from under him.

The LED went green.

Gunfire cracked.

The two fell sideways together.

Ben held his breath until their shoulders hit the grass. He felt something snap under his hip, heard the crunch of breaking glass. The antidote. So, that was that. In minutes, he’d be dead.

At least he’d been spared the sight of thousands dying in the explosion.

During the fall, he’d noted four rapid shots from Giselle and the guards. One slug fragged off the railing, slicing his cheek. But with the kick numbing the pain, he didn’t care.

The shock of hitting the ground had loosened Jupiter’s hold on the remote. Ben wrenched it from his hand and rolled, using his would-be boss as cover.

Jupiter writhed in his grasp. “Let . . . go.”

Ben didn’t bother answering. Out on the channel, the Behemoth continued maneuvering for its berth. He’d bought the world some time, but not much. If he could survive long enough to call in the Company—alert them to the Behemoth’s location—maybe they’d stop the cranes before they pulled the first tank clear and activated the aerosol release.

Unlikely.

With senses heightened by the kick, Ben became aware of men and women in black armor appearing over the garden walls. The elevator doors opened to reveal more grunts in suits. Jupiter had more guards. Of course. Men like him had whole armies at their disposal. Ben’s desperate play had been hopeless from the start.

Another burst of gunfire erupted across the garden. Ben hunkered down as best he could behind Jupiter and raised the remote to smash it against the concrete base of a railing post.

“Don’t!”

He froze. Ben knew that voice.

I don’t owe you a thing.

Cautiously, he lifted his head. “Sir?”

The Director walked through the topiaries, ignoring the path and tromping down the Zoysia grass, with an armored escort and dead grunts in suits lying all around. An agent at his shoulder turned and fired. Another body fell.

What was happening?

The Director reached Ben and plucked the remote from his fingers. “Smashing it might trigger the bomb, son. That’s remote device 101.” He passed the device to a waiting agent who locked it in a padded case. “I thought Hale taught you better.”

“Yes, sir . . . He did.”

Was this a dream, or was Ben dead? He replayed the last burst of gunfire. A bullet must’ve found his head. Yes. Shot through the skull before the disease could get him. Weird.

Three agents fought to pry an angry, bellowing Jupiter from Ben’s one-armed hold.

“Let him go,” the Director said. “We’ve got him now.”

Ben nodded absently and relaxed. As they stood Jupiter up, he saw blood staining the white shirt under that ridiculous Mandarin jacket—a stomach wound. Looked bad. An agent shoved an injector into Jupiter’s neck and the screaming stopped. Jupiter went limp.

Ben felt limp too. His legs refused to respond to his commands until the Director bent down and helped him to his feet. His bones ached. His cheek burned. He touched it. Blood. The bullet fragment wound. Not a dream.

I’m not dead. Not yet.

Across the lawn, an agent sat at the table with the Chinese mosaic tiles. Another kneeled beside her, treating an arm wound. She smiled at Ben from under her helmet, giving him a nod.

Ice-blue eyes. So familiar. If only he could remember why.

His thoughts failed him. With the kick fading, the fog of the disease crept back in. The blue eyes drifted away from him, and Ben followed their lead until his gaze settled on a blonde woman. He knew this one, even by the back of her head. Giselle lay facedown in the grass. No one tended to her. They all seemed busy with other things.

The Director had Ben’s whole weight now, holding him up. Ben’s muscles had nothing left. His heartbeat slowed. The kick was gone.

Not yet. He had things to say.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know, son. I know.”

“The Behemoth. There’s a manual switch for the bomb.”

“Don’t worry. We’ve been watching—listening.” The Director peeled something from Ben’s sleeve and held it close enough for his failing vision to bring it into focus. “Remember this? An echo, like the one you used in Rome. Passive. Undetectable. I planted it on you when I shoulder-bumped you at the cemetery.” He grinned. “I like to kick it old school.”

“You followed me.”

“Every step of the way. By sacrificing you, we drew Jupiter into the open. We’ve got him, Ben. And with the intelligence we extract, we’ll take down Leviathan and all the organizations tied to their operations.”

A low hum sounded from above, so much stronger than Ben’s fading pulse. A FLUTR medevac craft. The Company needed to get their wounded prisoner to a hospital before he died. Ben saw the dark shape against a darker sky—four ducted rotors, swiveling into position for a soft and stealthy landing. He smiled. “I’ve never been this close to one. For Jupiter?”

“No, son. Jupiter can take the next flight. I called this one in for you. Before you go, please understand that I’m proud of you—so very proud.”

They were the last words Ben heard.

71

Ben woke to the irritating nip of a finger flicking his nose.

“Hey, wake up.”

A hand lingered over his face, backlit by white fluorescents, ready to flick him again.

He made a groggy swat at the target and didn’t get anywhere close. “Clara, you really have to stop that.”

She’d been there like an angel at his side since he first woke on the gurney with an IV bag of cloudy white fluid pouring into his veins, rolling across the hospital roof. He’d tilted his head back to see the FLUTR craft lifting off, already banking away. A real FLUTR medevac—like the ones the Company reserved for the