Page 29 of Thorn

“That was Billy Watts driving with his middle finger raised,” Honey said.

“Sit tight,” Nutsbe said, “we have support almost to you.”

“Make it fast.” Thorn drummed impatient fingers on the steering wheel as the men in uniform eyed their car from across the street.

“Watts is circling the block,” Nutsbe said. “Right behind him, is our van. White van, man with a red bandana tied around his head. When he pulls flush, you dive in.”

“Copy,” they said in unison.

Billy Watts made his pass and pulled to a stop just ahead of them in a loading zone. The passenger door popped open. Two policemen headed over to flag them away.

Sure enough, here was the van.

“You give me any trouble, and I’m going to punch you in the jaw again,” Gage said, gathering a fist full of DuBois’s shirt collar. Dubois’s jaw was visibly swollen, and he was holding it shut with his hand. Thorn guessed it was probably broken. Either way, he had to be in a world of hurt, because he exited the car meekly and got into the van.

Thorn piled in behind him.

As he left the car, Honey tucked a wad of euros into the car’s glove compartment to pay for any repairs and to compensate the owner for the hassle along with the keys.

“In,” Honey breathed into his mic as the door slid shut, and they took off driving just as the police hailed them to stop. The driver smiled and waved as if he misunderstood the gesture.

“Where are we heading?” Thorn asked, his words were a breath over his windpipe. The computer would feed the sound to his teammates. They could speak in privacy even within the confines of the van, and the listening ears of that rat DuBois.

“Your driver is going to drop you off at the hotel just ahead,” Nutsbe advised. “The guy in a grey hoody and black sweats will hand you a key to room 601. Leave DuBois in the van.”

The van pulled flush with the curb.

The man stepped up and handed them the key. The team unloaded. The hoody guy climbed into the back of the van with DuBois and slammed the door shut.

Chapter Fifteen

THORN

Brussels, Belgium

Saturday, Eighteen Forty-four Hours

“Glad that’s over,” Gage said as the three walked into the hotel and right over to the elevator.

Thorn reached out and pressed the up arrow.

“We have someone meeting you with your duffels and passports that were secured from the safe house. The housekeeper sent it with their courier. Even though that leg of the trip is done. The mission is not over. We’re regrouping and reassigning.”

They stepped onto the elevator and waited for the door to shut before they all said, “Roger that.”

“Anything come of that message I passed you?” Thorn asked, tapping the number-six button.

“Our support team discovered your hotel room was not only under surveillance – it was basically a movie studio, it had so many cameras. I’d say at least one of them caught you at a good angle. I’ll let you know if you show up on YouTube in all your glory.”

“You do that, brother.” Thorn laughed.

They piled out of the elevator car and moved down to their room. Honey pulled up a video connection with the war room on his phone and placed it on the table, leaning against a potted silk plant.

“What glory is this?” It was a female voice, Lynx.

“Morning, Lynx,” Honey said, opening the door and moving into the nineteen-eighties-style room, done up in shades French blue and cranberry.

“We just edged passed noon here in DC. I was having lunch with Nutsbe and Margot and decided to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

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