David Morrell - Burnt Sienna

“Kick the smoke grenades out!”

The men got rid of the ones on the floor. As the air in the chopper cleared, they pulled the pins on other grenades and hurled them to the ground. But these were tear-gas grenades, their dense haze blossoming across lawns and gardens, forcing the guards to race even harder.

“Close the hatches!”

Malone sped from the estate, then swung to face it. He flicked four of the switches that had puzzled him earlier. En route from Nice, he had experimented, learning what did what.

Ports opened on each side of the chopper. Machine guns swung out. If they were anything like what Malone had been familiar with in the military, each was capable of firing six thousand 30-mm rounds a minute. Above them, launchers equipped with 2.75-inch folding-fin rockets emerged. Perfect for the dictator who loves to surprise his enemies, Malone thought.

Now it was time for Bellasar to get a surprise.

The haze from the tear gas obscured the grounds. It’ll also obscure the chopper, Malone thought. Firing both machine guns, he swooped down, unable to see the damage he was causing but knowing he was destroying everything in his path. Careful not to hit the château or the Cloister, where Sienna or the biological weapon might be, he launched a rocket. Another. Even with the roar of the chopper, he heard the rockets explode among the guards. When he turned to face the estate from the opposite direction, he saw flames amid the smoke and the tear gas.

“Potter!”

No answer.

“Damn it, Potter, you know what you’re supposed to do! Make the call!”

Malone attacked again. As the machine guns thundered, so many bullets streaked down at once, they became moving columns of devastation. Behind each, a line of dust and shredded wreckage flew into the air, mixing with the smoke and the gas. He must have hit a munitions area. The shock wave from a huge explosion shook the chopper, creating more smoke, a fireball rising from it.

“Potter!”

Still no answer.

“So help me God, Potter, if you don’t call him, we’ll throw you out!”

Muscles cramping with fury, Malone launched another rocket. It streaked toward an antiaircraft bunker. The fiery blast sent concrete and metal flying. Skirting smoke from the crater, spraying guards who aimed toward the chopper, he reached the far end of the estate, swung, and again faced his target.

Hovering, he glared back at Potter, whose cuffed hands held a cell phone awkwardly to his ear.

“Yes,” Potter said into the phone. “Six men, plus Malone and Ahmed.” Seeing the rage on Malone’s bruised face, Potter flinched, afraid of what Malone would do to him for telling Bellasar who was in the chopper. “Malone wants to talk to you. Derek, this couldn’t be helped. I’m sorry.” Whatever Bellasar said to him was so insulting that Potter looked like a dog that had been beaten. But humiliation wasn’t all his expression communicated as Dillon took the phone from him and gave it to Malone. Potter’s anger was unmistakable. His voice was strangled. “He shouldn’t talk to me that way. Kill the son of a bitch.”

Malone sent another rocket into the smoke, the explosion rumbling. Only then did he press the phone to his ear. “Have I got your attention?”

“Totally.” In the Cloister, Bellasar stared through a window at the smoke-obscured helicopter. Sienna, too dazed to know what he said, lay in a corner. “You’re supposed to be dead,” he said into his cell phone.

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Not at all. It gives me the pleasure of killing you a second time. I assume you’ve come for my wife?”

“She’d better still be alive.”

“Or?”

Through the haze outside, Bellasar saw the blur of a rocket spewing from the helicopter. In a fiery roar, it struck the château’s terrace, flagstones erupting.

“I’ll have it rebuilt,” Bellasar said into the phone. “I’m not over there, by the way. I’m at the Cloister. But think twice about launching another rocket. The love of your life is in here with me.”

“She’s alive?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

As Sienna struggled to her feet, Bellasar punched her, knocking her down. Her groan was loud enough to be heard through the phone.

“I want to talk to her!” Malone said.

“If she can.” Bellasar peered down at her. “Guess what, my dear? Your boyfriend’s on the phone.”

Sienna blinked up, dimly comprehending.

“That’s right. Your boyfriend. The famous artist. He’s come calling. Isn’t that thoughtful of him? Say a few words.” He lowered the phone.

Frowning as if afraid she was losing her mind, she took it.

“Hurry, don’t keep him waiting. He’s come quite a distance.”

She blinked in confusion. Apprehensive that this was a trick, she raised the phone to her ear. “Chase?”

“Are you all right?”

“My God, is it really you? I thought you were dead! I thought -”

Bellasar yanked the phone from her hand. “I said ‘a few words,’ not a speech. Satisfied?” he asked into the phone.

“Let her go.”

“I can’t think of a reason why I should.”

“I can. Do something for me. Call the following telephone number.” Malone recited it.

The number was so familiar, Bellasar felt uneasy. “What are you -”

“Just call that number in Paris. An associate of mine is with your next wife and her father.”

“What?”

“Unless you do what I want, my associate is going to show them a dossier about your three previous marriages and how you killed your wives. He’s going to tell them how you planned to kill your present wife. He’s going to tell them that you and your sister were lovers, that you murdered her, and that your wives all looked like her. He has photographs.”

Outrage made Bellasar speechless.

“Your fiancé won’t be able to bear the sight of you, let alone be married to you. Her father will be so furious about the danger you present to his daughter that he’ll stop supplying weapons to you. Of course, he’s only one of your manufacturers, but a father whose daughter’s honor has been assaulted will spread the word. You’re fanatical about your privacy. It’ll be destroyed. I’m willing to bet other suppliers will stop doing business with you, especially when they find out you’ve been compromised by the CIA.”

“The CIA?”

“If anything happens to Sienna, I’m going to spread the word that the CIA knows everything you’re doing, that your business is out of control. No one will trust you. If you want to keep being an arms merchant, you’ll have to sell cheap handguns to dope dealers on street corners.”

Bellasar glared.

“Once you lose your power,” Malone said, “everybody you stomped on, everybody who holds a grudge against you, will pay you back. You ruined my life. Now you’re going to find out what it feels like on the other side.”

“And if I do what you want, the conversations you’re threatening me with will never happen.” Bellasar’s voice was contemptuous.

“That’s right.”

“You expect me to believe you won’t tell the woman in Paris? To protect her from me?”

“You’ll protect her yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll break off the relationship. I won’t need to tell her anything.”

“And in exchange, you get Sienna. But how can I trust the men with you to keep the agreement? Since when does the CIA care about private arrangements?”

“This isn’t a sanctioned operation. These men work for me. They’ll do as I ask.”

“And that’ll be the end of it?”

“Not quite,” Malone said. “You’ve got a biological weapon. The pressure won’t be off you until I make sure it’s destroyed.”