Page 44 of France Face-Off
Striker ran down the steps and across the street to where a large group of men and women stood staring back at Hotel Le Negresco.
He found the German quickly and hurried toward him. “Do you speak English?” he asked.
The man nodded. “Ja.”
“Your interpreter…where is she?”
The man shrugged and glanced around. “She was moving into the hotel when everyone else was leaving. I do not know where she is now.”
For the next couple of minutes, Striker wove through the people standing on the sidewalk, waiting to hear the all-clear announcement so that they could return to their discussions. He searched for Baranovsky, knowing Alex would take any opportunity to get him alone to find out if he was the one who’d put the hit out on her parents.
Baranovsky was missing from the crowd of delegates, and so was Natalya Zotin.
Striker’s gut knotted. He had a bad feeling about this and wished he had equipped Alex with some kind of communications device. He needed help finding her.
He touched the earbud in his ear. “Lucie, if you’re listening, I could use a little help here.”
“I’m here,” she said.
“Alex is missing.”
“I know.”
“How the hell do you already know when I just figured it out?” Worry sparked irritation. Lucie seemed to know everything. It was creepy but might prove useful if she could help him find Alex.
“We had Maksim, one of our contacts drop a tracking disc in her pocket. She left the hotel a few minutes ago. She was traveling too fast to be on foot. I’d hoped she was with you.”
“As you know, she’s not.” Striker’s jaw tightened. “How am I supposed to get to her?”
“We’re tracking her, but don’t know exactly where she’s headed. The man who tagged her with the tracking device went to get a car. He’ll pick you up two blocks east of your hotel in three minutes. We’ll feed you directions to where Alex is heading. Go.”
Striker ran out to the street in front of the hotel and turned east. He sprinted the two blocks, arriving just as a black SUV pulled up to the curb. He jumped into the front passenger seat and turned to the driver. “Who sent you?”
“My cousin, Dmytro,” he answered with a Russian accent. As he drove east, he adjusted the volume on a radio affixed to the dashboard. Dmytro’s voice sounded over the radio. “Striker, my cousin Maksim. Maksim, this is Striker. Stay on the Prom. Des Anglais, the main road following the coastline. They could be headed for the airport.”
Why would Alex be going to the airport? Had she found the information she’d been after? Was she going back to Russia to finish what she’d started? If so, why hadn’t she come back to his room to get her backpack first—and to say goodbye to him?
His chest was tight, and his pulse thrummed through his veins. Either she’d left without saying goodbye or someone had abducted her. Since she’d left her backpack and laptop, Strike leaned toward the abduction theory.
“She’s at the airport,” the voice said on the radio. “What’s your ETA?”
“Fifteen minutes in this traffic,” the driver replied.
“Make it sooner.”
They were approaching a traffic light that was turning red.
The driver slammed his foot on the accelerator and swerved around a vehicle stopping at the light and swerved again to miss the little black sports car pulling through the green light on his side.
Striker braced for impact, sure the sports car was going to T-bone his side of the SUV. The sports car’s driver slammed on his brakes and slid sideways, barely missing the SUV.
Striker’s driver didn’t blink an eye. He zigzagged through traffic, blowing through stoplights and scaring the shit out of Striker. He’d rather have been the one doing the driving, then he would know what to expect and go even faster.
“Striker, she’s on the taxiway,” Lucie said into his ear. “She must be in an airplane, waiting to take off.”
Striker leaned forward as if it would get them there sooner. “Can’t you get the ATC to stop the plane?”
“We’re working on identifying the tail number,” Lucie said. “We can’t stop the plane without cause.”
