That Time in Paris, Logan Ryles [room on the broom read aloud TXT] 📗

“While you’re on the ground, you take operational orders from Megan, unless and until I override them. Is that clear?”

Wolfgang nodded again.

“Great. Let’s roll.”

Edric shuffled to the van, and Wolfgang moved to the bike at the end of the line.

“Can you ride, dum-dum?” Kevin asked.

Wolfgang looked down at the bike, taking a moment to trace his finger down the fuel tank’s smooth curve. It was a Triumph Street Triple RS, brand-new, shadow grey with red accidents. Identical to the others. He’d never driven a Triumph before but assumed it operated pretty much the same as his Kawasaki back home. “I can ride,” he said.

Kevin snorted, then slid his helmet on and flipped up the visor. He turned to Megan. “You good?” His tone was softer but still gruff and condescending.

Megan slapped her visor down without a word and kicked the starter. The bike roared to life, and a second later, she shot out of the hangar like a bullet.

Wolfgang hit the starter and gunned the motor as a shot of adrenaline raced into his blood. This was something new. Something different.

And it was starting right now.

Charles de Gaulle Airport, better known as Roissy Airport, sat twenty miles northeast of downtown Paris. It took them twenty minutes to get there, roaring amid tightly packed morning commuters as they circled the eastern side of the city and approached the airport.

Megan was difficult to keep up with. She pushed the Triumph hard, cutting in and out of trucks and taxis as if she were on a racetrack. Wolfgang was surprised—he would have assumed they would want to avoid attention, not attract it. But there were a lot of motorcycles on the road, many more than in America, and they all drove aggressively. He pushed himself to keep up, taking moderate gratification in Kevin’s obvious hesitation to push himself as hard. Apparently, his bark was worse than his bite. At least on a bike.

After reaching the airport, they deposited the Triumphs in short-term parking, leaving the helmets and venturing into the nearest terminal.

Megan spoke over the com. “Charlie One, assuming ground control. Com check.”

“Charlie Lead, roger ground control assumption. Coms clear.”

“Charlie Eye, I have you on satellite.” Lyle’s voice was squeaky over the earpiece, but at least Wolfgang could hear him clearly.

“Charlie Two, loud and clear.”

To Wolfgang’s surprise, the arrogance had left Kevin’s tone. He spoke with calm focus. Wolfgang shot him a look as he radioed in his own confirmation, and Kevin sneered at him.

“Moving into the terminal now,” Megan said. “Charlie Two, take international arrivals from Europe. Charlie Three, you’ve got North America.”

“Copy that.” Wolfgang resisted the urge to scratch his ear. Talking made the earpiece move, and it itched now. He feigned a yawn to adjust it, but it only helped a little.

The airport was nothing short of massive. Tourists and business travelers pressed in on all sides, dragging roll-around suitcases and shouting to each other over their own clamor. There was no dominant nationality. Wolfgang saw Asians, Arabs, South Americans, and Africans as frequently as Europeans. They crushed in on every side, frequently slamming into his shoulders.

How the hell was he supposed to find a single man in this melting pot? He couldn’t even see Kevin anymore. His fellow operator had faded like a ghost.

“Dammit, Charlie Three,” Megan said. “You’re sticking out like a clown. Relax and move to North America.”

Wolfgang cast a glance around him, but he couldn’t see her. She, too, had faded into the crowd and was now lost from view. He drew a deep breath, which morphed naturally into another yawn. He pretended to pop his neck, then shoved his hands into his pockets and followed the signs toward international arrivals from North America. Everything was written in English as well as French, making navigation easier than he expected.

Dozens of airlines lined up next to each other, pressed together with travelers flooding out of boarding tunnels. Wolfgang assumed a position at the edge of the room, then slid onto a bench and pulled out his phone, retrieving his digital copy of Raven’s image. He stared at it a moment, then scanned the room.

“Get me out of your pocket, Charlie Three,” Lyle said. “Let me have a look.”

Wolfgang frowned in confusion, then recalled the wristwatch. His left hand was still jammed in his pocket. He withdrew it and casually rested his hand against the armrest, exposing the undetectable camera lens to the main lobby of the terminal.

“That’s better,” Lyle said.

Wolfgang made a mental note to pay specific attention to the position of his left hand next time he went to take a piss, then returned to his surveillance of the lobby. Minutes dragged into half an hour, but he didn’t mind. He was used to operations like this. In three years as a lone operator, he’d spent hundreds of hours simply sitting and watching, waiting for something to happen or somebody to show up. It wasn’t difficult. It just took practice to remain alert for that long.

The coms remained silent, and Wolfgang twisted his left arm from time to time, panning the watch’s camera around the room and giving Lyle an opportunity to detect anything he might have missed. A flight attendant in a form-fitting skirt walked past, and Wolfgang had the momentary, immature urge to follow her with the camera. He recalled Lyle’s poor reaction to his last joke and decided against it.

What’s up with that, anyway? Why is he so stiff?

Maybe Lyle wasn’t stiff. Maybe he was just defensive of Megan. Everybody on the team seemed oddly defensive of Megan. Kevin obviously had a thing for her, which was fine. Wolfgang wasn’t threatened. But deeper than that, it was almost as if . . .

Wolfgang’s thoughts were interrupted by a new flood of travelers exiting a nearby gate. A tall man walking in the middle of the crowd, dressed in a black suit with a black overcoat and carrying a briefcase, caught his eye. Wolfgang checked the face against the image on