Connie Hall - Flashpoint

“So fall for a line.”

“I’m tired of one-night stands. I don’t think there’s anyone for me. Don’t you ever feel that way?”

“Sure, but I haven’t given up yet.” Lucy hadn’t really been on the prowl for a man. There’d been a few meaningless nights, when she hadn’t been able to face an empty bed and another night alone, with guys whose names she couldn’t even remember. But no one serious. And she wanted to keep it that way.

“Oh, you’re a hopeless romantic.” Val waved her empty glass at Lucy.

Lucy realized she might have been a romantic at one time. God, she wanted to feel that way again.

At Lucy’s silence, Val said, “Remember that time you made me watch An Affair to Remember six times?”

“You cried. I saw you. Admit it.”

Val rolled her eyes.

“Talk about tired movies. What about your Steven Segal fests?” Lucy pointed at Val.

“I thought you liked them, all the explosions.”

“Only my own explosions.” Lucy grinned. “Too much overkill and fallout in Hollywood.”

“You’re right. Let’s do an indie weekend, get in some serious angst and melancholy with a little black humor thrown in.” Val grinned at Lucy, then looked at her watch. “And we’d better plan it quick. One hour and fifty minutes and counting.”

Lucy gulped back the tightness that had suddenly swelled in her throat. She wanted more time with Val. She glanced at the envelope sitting on the counter, and it felt as if minutes were traveling at light speed. An overwhelming restlessness within her wanted to reach out and grab time, force it to be still. Suddenly a foreboding gripped her, one that told her she’d better enjoy this fleeting moment with Val because she might never get another one.

Cape Flats, Cape Town

Nolan fought the wind hitting his face and darted into the throng of an open air market. He weaved his way past farmers hawking melons, grapes, fava beans, coffee and spices from crates and wheelbarrows. He dodged sari-clad women, dragging packages and children behind them. He knew his height made him an easy target to follow, so he crossed to the market’s higher-end side and zigzagged his way through the covered stalls. Vendors sold everything from ostrich-skin wallets to zebra-hide cushions. The strong smell of body odor, animal hides and incense made him grimace. He could barely make out Viking’s footfalls over the market’s noise.

When he neared a rug seller, he darted in between several lines of hanging carpets. The vendor, a thin man wearing a turban, watched him with wary eyes as if street violence and people being chased was the norm.

The carpet line ended near an abandoned metal shack. Beside it, knee-high grass covered a small area. Nolan ducked beneath the last Karabakh carpet, and pressed his back against the metal, the heat of it burning his spine. He waited.

Viking’s footfalls grew closer.

Nolan watched his progress below the carpets. Viking’s feet came to the end of the line and halted.

A carpet wall separated them.

Nolan listened to Viking’s heavy breathing and could almost hear his indecision: lift the carpet or not. Make the leap or be safe. Be the clever intimidator or the wimpy sod. Nolan had learned early on in his life that muscle-bound thugs liked testing their strength on bigger chaps. And since he’d always been in the top percentile for height and weight, he’d fought every bully at school and in his neighborhood before he’d turned six. It was no different in his later life. He was actually looking forward to facing this sod.

Nolan didn’t move, breathing through an adrenaline rush.

As Nolan had planned, Viking stepped around the carpets, the barrel of his gun coming first. Nolan drop-kicked the gun from Viking’s hand.

It landed in the grass and discharged; the report seemed to echo for miles.

Viking faced him, pulled a switchblade, his face like that of a cat with its prey. “How you like this?”

“The question is, do you have the bollocks to use it?” Nolan circled him, his arms out in a wrestling stance.

Viking lashed out at him.

Nolan easily avoided the knife, grabbed Viking’s arm and twisted it behind his back. Nolan caught the man in a headlock. “Sorry, mate, you’ll have to do better than that.”

Viking cursed in Norwegian and struggled in Nolan’s arms. But Nolan was bigger, stronger and had the upper hand.

“Move again, and I’ll break your bloody neck.”

Viking growled in frustration and stopped struggling.

“Better. Now, who do you work for?” Nolan asked, his tone pleasantly composed.

No answer.

Nolan turned Viking’s head within a millimeter of snapping his neck. Color bled into Viking’s pale cheeks. The patient quality left Nolan’s voice. “I’ll ask again, but this is the last time.”

“Myself,” Viking ground out.

“What have I ever done to you?”

“My job…”

“Your job?” Nolan narrowed his brows at him.

“She gave you my job. It should have been mine.”

“You work at Pincer?”

Viking ground out, “Yes.”

“It’s all very clear now.” Relief washed over Nolan. At least the terrorists hadn’t discovered his whereabouts—if this bloke was telling the truth.

Instead of breaking Viking’s neck, Nolan applied pressure to his carotid artery. Too long and the lack of oxygen to his brain would kill him. Just enough and he’d be out for a while and wake up with a bloody headache. Nolan chose the headache.

Viking went limp in his arms. He patted the sod down, pulled out his PDA. He pocketed the handheld computer, then grabbed Viking’s arms and pulled him toward the abandoned building. He wasn’t certain Viking had been telling the truth. Jealousy could make a person do just about anything, and Viking seemed like the type to even scores at any cost. Nolan hoped the PDA might contain information that could confirm Viking’s story.

Fish Hoek Village, False Bay, South Africa

“Plus Suisse Worldwide Depository is our target?” Cao asked, frowning at Lucy across the dining table. He sat nearest the open balcony doors, and a breeze rustled the shaggy black hair protruding from beneath his black sun visor. He wore a black matching warm-up suit.

“Yes.” Lucy squinted at the schematic on the computer screen. It was part of the info Delphi had sent her on a flash key. She’d also received the history of the PSWD, a twenty-four-hour, fully automated Geldschrank bank. They maintained offices not only in Switzerland, but all over the world. Criminals and terrorists could hide stolen bonds, accounts, art treasures, passports. Just about anything they wanted to keep from law enforcement. Ambiguity was PSWD’s ultimate profit source: electronically untraceable computer source code escrow accounts. Anonyme lager, otherwise known as anonymous drop storage boxes. Digitized international transferable accounts. All high-tech blankets of privacy. Accounts were by numbers only. No names. No faces. The bank’s very anonymity policy could be its downfall. It might be its only one.

She studied the building’s twelve floors, six of which were underground bank vaults, buried beneath thousands of tons of concrete and steel. It really looked like a rat-maze fortress.

“You say there are three electronic readers we have to get through to get inside?” Betsy asked, reaching for the bag of potato chips. She chomped one down, then chased it with a sip of sangria. Betsy had on red biker shorts that looked poured over her small hips. The straps of her sports bra peeked out from the top of a red sweater that hugged her flat stomach.

“Yes.” Lucy peered at the schematic Delphi had supplied for them. “One in the underground parking deck. Two on each vault floor.”