Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

“I can’t, because you’re. .”

“Working?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

She took another sip of her wine and lit a cigarette. “You said that last time you came here.”

“And yet you’re still here.”

She laughed, then her voice trailed as her expression grew sad. “I feel secure, I guess. . comfortable in front of you.”

“I feel the same way about you.”

“Why is that?”

Will stayed silent.

She shrugged. “I got what you asked for.”

“Is your back covered?”

“Yes. I made sure of that.” She opened a clutch handbag and withdrew a leather parcel and a folded piece of paper. After handing Will the parcel, she stared at the paper, was about to give it to Will, then pressed it against her lips so that her lipstick mark was on it. “For you.” She held it at arm’s length toward him.

Will took it, looked at the mark of her lips, and smiled.

His smile faded as he gazed at the woman who called herself Katharyne but was really Johanna Kaps, a Dutch AIVD intelligence officer who’d infiltrated a brutal Turkish gang of human traffickers who were using underage eastern European girls as prostitutes in Holland. Eight months ago, she’d posed as an ex-prostitute turned madam who knew how to bribe local officials and thereby navigate local licensing laws for prostitutes. She’d lived deep cover ever since, risking execution every day if she were discovered. It was an incredible act of bravery, and one that was taking its toll on her.

“I will buy you that meal when you finish this job.”

“MI6 money?”

Will said softly, “My money.” He stroked the back of her hair. “MI6 doesn’t know about your work for me.”

Johanna’s eyes watered. “Good, because I never wanted to work for them, only you.”

Will kissed her on the cheek.

Her hand clutched his. “It’s a shame things weren’t different.”

“Even if they were, it wouldn’t. .”

“I know.”

They both knew. Johanna was too similar to him. They lived in a world where they had little in common with the people around them, and though they did extraordinary things, they recognized that their isolation from normality made them flawed individuals. Though it was highly unlikely they’d ever find them, they needed partners who could help them connect with ordinary people. If Johanna and Will had a relationship, neither would be able to help the other with that monumental task.

Two hours later, Will was standing under a streetlamp in the Wassenaar diplomatic district of The Hague. Wearing a stylish raincoat and expensive suit, he hoped he looked like an ambassador’s bodyguard to any observers. But aside from the occasional passing car, the area was deserted.

He withdrew from his overcoat the small leather parcel, unwrapped it, and took out a Benelli handgun, which he secreted in his pocket. Next to him was one of the district’s large residences. He jogged alongside the property’s ten-foot-high exterior wall. The side street he was on was empty and mostly dark, with rainwater running down the gutter. He stopped, jumped, grabbed the top of the wall, scanned the property, dropped back to the street, and ran to the north and east sides of the house where he repeated the drill. Silently, he cursed. There was CCTV on every side of the house. The cameras had been carefully positioned-no blind spots.

He’d also seen one bodyguard outside the front of the house and an older man inside, in the living room. He was silent, trying to establish what to do. The cameras would be working, so he’d be spotted the moment he entered the grounds. He pulled out a scarf and covered his face, deciding his only option was to go over the wall and do it fast.

He heard a noise, moved flush against the wall, and looked toward the end of the side street. A slow-moving limousine. It stopped by the electronic gates; a chauffeur got out and spoke into the intercom. The gates began to open as the chauffeur returned to his vehicle. Will moved along the wall, withdrew his handgun, and sprinted as the car moved forward.

He ducked low and moved at walking pace behind the car as it crawled up the driveway toward the front of the big house. He waited as doors opened, feet crunched over gravel, and a doorbell rang.

Voices.

Will instantly stood and raised his weapon.

The bodyguard and chauffeur were standing close to the vehicle. Will shouted, “Don’t!” as they reached toward their concealed handguns. They froze, and he took two steps toward the guards while keeping his gun trained on them. “Hands outstretched!”

As the men slowly extended their arms, Will glanced beyond them at the two older men who were standing close to the front door. Both had expressions of shock. “You two. Facedown on the ground.”

The men’s mouths were wide open, but they made no noise as they did what they were told.

Will walked cautiously toward the guards. “You both understand English?”

The men nodded.

“I’m not here to kill anyone, remove anyone, or steal anything. If you do exactly as I say, you’ll have protected your boss far better than if you try to resist me.” He trained his gun on one of the men. “You-remove your weapon with your thumb and forefinger and throw it away.”

The man hesitated, then moved his hand toward his gun.

“If you put three fingers on there, I’ll pull the trigger!”

The guard gripped the weapon’s handle as instructed, eased it out of its holster, and tossed it onto the driveway. His expression was angry.

“Hands out!” Will pointed his pistol at the other guard. “Now you.”

The man did the same, while saying in heavily accented English, “You’re making a big mistake.” He threw his gun away.

“Turn around.”

The men turned so that their backs were to Will, side by side.

Will took a step toward them. “On your knees.”

One of the men did as he was told.

“On your fucking knees!” He took another step, and as he did so, the man who was standing spun around and punched a fist through the air toward Will’s rib cage. Will stepped back, and the fist missed. He slammed the butt of his handgun into the guard’s throat, then shoulder blade, and as the man slumped down onto his knees, the back of his head. The guard crashed facedown onto the ground, unconscious. He pointed his gun at the other guard. “You want to try something similar?”

“No. No.” The fear in his voice was evident.

Will removed two short lengths of cord from his overcoat and tossed one of them in front of the guard. “Tie him up-facedown, throat to wrists to ankles. Do a very good job, or I’ll put bullets in the back of your knees.”

The guard set to work, sweat pouring down his face. He clearly knew what he was doing, as the cord was expertly knotted, and within twenty seconds the unconscious guard was tied up.

“Your turn.”

“Please, don’t. .”

“Get in position!”

The guard lay facedown and arched his back so that his hands and feet were touching.

Will jabbed his foot against the man’s genitals, warning him that he’d kick him there if he did anything reckless, yanked his head back, and used the second cord to truss him up. Will knew from experience that the position was agonizing-attempts to escape would cause the binds to choke the throat.

“You’ll be cut free in about fifteen minutes.” He ignored the guard’s moans as he picked up the guns and stuffed them in his coat.

Will strode up to the two older men. “Which one of you is Eric van Acker?”

Nobody answered.

“Van Acker!”

One of the men answered, “It’s me.”

“Stand.”

The chief prosecutor of the International Criminal Court got to his feet.