Good Deed Bad Deed, Marcia Morgan [summer beach reads TXT] 📗

had been taken then assured her they would get a taxi and be there as fast as possible. As he handed the phone back to the concierge, Paris looked hard into his eyes, her expression beseeching him for more information. “I’ll tell you everything in the taxi,” he said, grabbing her hand and heading out of the hotel. Several taxis were waiting for fares near the entrance. Within moments they were on their way to Hospital de Navarra.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Agent Mosi Azikiwe waved his team forward. Weapons at the ready, the six men followed him into the warehouse where the crates from Spain would be offloaded. He directed them to secure hiding places behind other cargo waiting to be picked up. Once everyone was in place, he pulled out his mobile phone and contacted his superior. He confirmed the team was ready and asked if the plane carrying the fake cargo was on schedule. It was due to arrive within the next half hour.

After just a few years at Scotland Yard, and although he was only thirty-five, Azikiwe had advanced rapidly in Interpol, having received commendations for several major arrests made under his command. His team was loyal and had observed both his bravery and his concern for their safety.

He had been shown the manifest naming the security firm whose supposed armored trucks were scheduled to transport the gold. An identifying mark had been made on two of the crates to be unloaded, specifying to the agents that each contained just enough gold to qualify the heist as a major crime. Once the crooks had touched, moved or opened even one, the arrest could be made.

The agents passed the time without conversing, each with his private thoughts. Agent Azikiwe was no different as he contemplated the possible outcomes of the confrontation to come. It was his habit to create a backup plan for any unknowns he could imagine. Although his agency policed the world, so to speak, he felt his work carried an element of patriotism to England, his adopted country. He was an idealistic man who had not allowed himself to become jaded by his early exposure to the sordid side of life. Having come from Africa with his parents at a very young age, he was by all counts an Englishman. Yet he still remembered the poverty and violence he saw before his family fled to the UK.

Agent Azikiwe checked his watch again and saw that a half hour had passed. He called to the men, telling them to be alert, that it wouldn’t be long. Just as he finished speaking he heard the sound of a plane engine approaching. Keeping his eyes on the entrance he carefully stepped backward toward where his men were hiding.

“Showtime, lads! Look smart!” he shouted as he joined a pair of agents behind several pallets stacked high with bags of mortar.

The plane taxied to a stop just inside the hangar, one of several at Heathrow where arriving cargo was warehoused after being processed. Before the passenger-crew door opened, the large cargo-hold door dropped open slowly. Workers jogged into the hangar and pushed over a mobile staircase to rest against the plane. The crew opened the door and disembarked. Agent Azikiwe came out from behind the pallets and told the crew to exit quickly toward the closest terminal for their own safety. Those flying the plane had been told at takeoff there would likely be an attempted crime and to follow whatever instructions they were given. The three men and two women making up the crew obeyed the agent’s order immediately and were soon out of sight. The workers left the mobile stairs against the plane and followed the crew outside and toward the terminal.

The Interpol team waited silently for the whole thing to play out. Within a few minutes an airport worker, driving what looked like an electric baggage carrier, approached the warehouse entrance from the vehicle side. Two slow moving trucks followed, both chassis either perfect imitations of armored trucks or reclaimed versions of the real thing. The company name appeared on the sides: An ornate silver logo with black letters stated ‘Security First.’

The truck being driven by Linus Finch pulled up to the opening and stopped. He gave the once-over to the whole area, intent on spotting anyone who might be working there and thus able to observe his actions. The second truck paused slightly behind, leaving Linus to take the lead. He turned the vehicle in a way that enabled him to back into the building, all the way through to the plane’s cargo door. The other driver positioned his truck in the same way, and within a couple of minutes they were climbing out, ready to take possession of the crates. Linus looked around, expecting someone to appear with a clipboard, demanding signatures—something. And some help would have been nice. He wondered where everyone was, why the cargo door was left open with such a valuable cargo inside. But that was fine with him, and all the easier. Maybe they wouldn’t have to shoot anyone.

Linus motioned to Fergus McDonald and the two drivers to get out. Azikiwe’s team watched as the four men got out of the trucks and stood in a group to assess the situation. Two of the men were wearing some sort of uniform, but the two younger men were shabbily dressed in jeans and hoodies. Although the team couldn’t hear what was being said, the body language was easy to read. One of the uniformed men was clearly in charge. He was giving orders and motioning the three others to get up into the cargo hold and begin to unload the crates marked for the museum. The Interpol team was chomping at the bit and anxious to leave their hiding places to apprehend the motley crew, but their superior signaled them to hang back. He knew that unless they were caught in the act of opening the crates and handling the gold,