Page 62 of The 9th Man

Thursday — March 26

LUKE AND JILLIAN LEFT GENAPPE A LITTLE AFTER DAWN ON A BUSthat took them about a hundred miles east. They arrived in Francorchamps around 7:00A.M., a rural area of Belgium surrounded by an array of small storefront shops. Its big claim to fame was the motor-racing Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps. Seven kilometers of twisting track that tested some of the finest Formula One cars in the world. Luke loved Formula One motor racing. True, the individual behind the wheel controlled everything, but no matter how good a driver you were you could not win without a team. A lot like the Rangers.

And the Magellan Billet.

The heliport sat just outside of town, not far from the racetrack. Despite its high-end reputation the facility was small and unassuming. A single, whitewashed building and three hangars, all behind a tall chain-link fence. One gate led in, and was open. They stepped through, and followed a short gravel path to an acre-sized grass clearing at whose center sat three empty concrete pads, each emblazoned with the traditionalH. If the helo Persik had used to hunt them was here it was likely in one of the hangars. The back side of the property was encircled by a fence and tall hedges. They hunkered down at the corner of the office building, watching and listening until satisfied no one was about. He saw no cameras. Both of them were armed with the guns from the hangar.

“Which first, hangars or the office?” she asked.

“Office. Even if the helo is here, it won’t give us anything useful.”

They crept along the back side of the building until they reached a door. He checked for signs of an alarm system, found nothing, then had Jillian do the same. Two pair of eyes were always better than one.

She shook her head.

Nothing.

As expected they found the door locked. Lacking any tools to pick it, he decided on blunt force. A nearby softball-sized stone worked perfectly to knock the knob off the door. He nudged the metal panel open a few inches with the toe of his boot, then led Jillian across the grass clearing where they huddled in the shadows along the fence.

“What are we doing?” she asked.

“Waiting to see if we’ll get a party crasher. If we missed an alarm or camera, or the noise woke somebody, we’ll know shortly.”

Ten minutes passed.

All quiet.

“I hate this,” she murmured. “The anticipation.”

“Patience, marine.”

He gave it another five minutes.

Still quiet.

They returned to the back door and entered.

He shut the door behind them.

“Check those filing cabinets,” he said. “Use your sleeve when you touch things. No prints. I’ll see about the computer.”

Using a pencil from a nearby cup as a makeshift finger, he powered up the desktop and waited for the login menu to appear.

None did.

“Hallelujah,” he muttered.

No password.

He started punching keys, starting with a search for the helicopter’s tail number.

Jillian appeared over his shoulder. “The files are just personnel records, maintenance reports, and advertising documents. No rental records. Have you got anything?”

“We’re about to find out.”

A phone vibrated.

Which startled him.

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