Chris Kuzneski - The Prophecy

‘François!’ the guy shouted. ‘François Dubois! He lives in Bruges!’

Payne smirked. The ruse worked every time. ‘What was your mission?’

‘To kill you and your friends.’

‘What else?’ Payne demanded.

‘Nothing! That’s all we were supposed to do!’

‘What about the letter?’

‘What letter? I don’t know anything about a letter!’

Payne stared at him. He seemed to be telling the truth. ‘Your only goal was to kill us?’

‘I don’t know what you did, but François wants you dead!’

58

Jones remained in his perch until he heard the squawking of police sirens in front of the Beau-Rivage. Only then was he willing to stand and survey the scene. The front half of the lobby had been heavily damaged by the HELLHOUND. Not quite obliterated — because it was still structurally sound — but several levels beyond scarred. It would take more than a paint crew to whip it back into shape. The same thing with the atrium. Everywhere he looked, Jones saw blood and bodies, not to mention dozens of bullet holes and a few stray limbs.

Simply put, the housekeepers were going to be pissed.

‘Hey Jon,’ Jones called from above. ‘I don’t want to pay for this shit. Let’s blame the grenade on them.’

Payne nodded and looked down at their prisoner. ‘You got that, Lefty?’

‘It was François!’ he shouted. ‘François did it!’

‘That’s the spirit. Keep saying that, and we’ll get along fine.’

‘Speaking of cops,’ Payne said, ‘we should have Nick back our story. Can I borrow your phone? Mine’s kind of wet.’

Jones shook his head as the Geneva police stormed through the front entrance. ‘ I’ll call Dial. You handle the cops. For some reason, they always blame the black guy.’

Payne laughed. ‘In this case, they’d be right!’

Jones ducked into the stairwell and went up to the fifth floor. He figured the higher he was in the hotel, the more time he’d have to make his call before the cops found him.

Sitting in his office at Interpol, Dial answered on the third ring. He was pleasantly surprised to hear Jones’s voice. ‘It’s about time you guys called me at a decent hour. Did you finally figure out the time difference?’

‘Nope. We’re actually in Geneva.’

‘Switzerland? I thought you were in Philly.’

‘We were, until someone tried to kill us. So we snuck over here.’

‘Define snuck .’

Dial sighed. ‘Fine. Then why are you calling?’

‘Why? Because they just attacked us again. And this time, we hit back.’

‘How hard?’

Jones did the maths in his head. ‘Eleven dead, one captured.’

‘You killed eleven ? Any civilians?’

‘None that I know of. But I haven’t checked the wreckage yet.’

‘Wreckage? What wreckage?’

Jones didn’t want to lie to Dial about the grenade, so he skirted the question. ‘Let’s just say the Beau-Rivage is no longer a five-star hotel.’

Dial took a deep breath and tried to remain calm, but it was tough since he knew he was about to be pulled into this mess. He just wasn’t sure how. ‘What do you want?’

‘Surprisingly, not much. Maybe a few kind words to the Swiss police if they don’t believe our story. Other than that, I think Petr Ulster will be the only character witness we need. He’s considered royalty in these parts.’

‘Petr was there? Is he all right?’

Jones feigned anger. ‘I can’t believe you! I spent the last minute telling you about a major firefight with eleven casualties, yet you never

‘Fine. Are you guys all right?’

‘Actually, Jon got a small cut on his cheek. It might require a bandage. Oh, and his phone got soaked. It might not make it.’

Dial smiled. ‘And Petr?’

‘I think he’s fine. I’m not sure, though. Jon got pissed and locked him in a safe.’

‘Did you say safe ?’

Jones grunted. ‘Damn, I hope there’s air in that thing. If not, we might need—’

‘DJ,’ he said, cutting him off. ‘Why are you calling?’

‘Why? Because we got the name of the asshole who keeps trying to kill us.’

Dial picked up a pen. ‘Great! Who is it?’

‘Some dude in Bruges named François Dubois.’

‘You’re shitting me!’

Jones noticed his excitement. ‘I take it you know the guy.’

Dial nodded. ‘Know him? We’ve been after him for years. Murder, weapons, drugs, you name it. Don’t let his fancy French name fool you. That guy is bad news. His nickname on the street is Frankie Death.’

‘Hold on,’ Dial said as he closed his office door. He didn’t want anyone in his office to hear what he was about to say. ‘You don’t want me to do that.’

Jones smiled. ‘Relax, I was kidding about the hooker. I can get my own hooker.’

‘Knock it off! I’m not talking about a hooker. I’m talking about Dubois. Trust me, you don’t want me to arrest him. That’s the wrong move.’

‘How so?’

Dial explained. ‘Do you know how he got the name Frankie Death? Every time he was arrested — and it happened a lot when he was younger — everyone involved with the case ended up dead. I’m talking witnesses, cops, their families, everyone . He even took out a few reporters who had covered his story. After a while, people stopped messing with him.’

Jones shook his head in disgust. ‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You’re scared of the guy. Too scared to arrest his ass.’

Dial was offended by the insinuation. ‘Fuck

‘Then what are you saying?’

Dial lowered his voice. ‘Do I have to spell it out for you?’

‘I guess so, because I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’

Dial growled in frustration, not wanting to say anything illegal. ‘Arresting him won’t save your ass. In fact, it’ll do the opposite. If you think he’s coming after you now, you just wait. He’ll put a bounty on your head so large every thug in Europe will fly to Pittsburgh to take you out. And if you’re not there when they arrive, they’ll burn down your building for bonus points before they slaughter everyone you know. And I mean everyone . Frankie Death even kills pets.’

Jones grunted in understanding.

Once they were done in Switzerland, they’d be forced to visit Bruges.

Payne talked to the first officers on the scene. He explained who he was and whom he was with. As soon as he mentioned Petr Ulster, the Swiss police treated Payne like he was one of their own. In Switzerland, few surnames were held in higher

‘Where is Monsieur Ulster?’ asked the ranking officer.

‘I secured him in the vault at Sotheby’s.’

‘Good thinking,’ he said and he grabbed Payne’s arm and pulled him towards the section of the hotel where the vault was located. ‘He is a treasure to my country.’

A few minutes later, the door to the massive vault swung open, and several people came streaming out. One of the first was Megan, who ran over to Payne and gave him a big hug.

‘Are you okay?’ she demanded. ‘We heard the explosion and assumed the worst.’

‘We’re fine. Both of us are fine.’

‘No, you’re not,’ she said as she pulled out a tissue from her pocket. Then, ever so carefully, she dabbed the cut on his cheek. ‘What happened here?’

He shrugged, not really sure. ‘Bullet, shrapnel, who knows? It doesn’t hurt.’

She lowered her voice. ‘Then why are you sweating like a pig?’

Ulster trudged forward like a schoolboy heading to the principal’s office. ‘Jonathon, I am so sorry for disobeying your instructions. If you had been hurt or killed, I don’t know what—’