government organizations expressly for the purpose of preventing terrorist activities around the globe. This suspected bio-terror threat was the first of its kind for Sextant.
Identify, Infiltrate, Analyze and Eliminate. That first part, they had all had a hand in. The second and most difficult order of business was about to go down within the next few hours if all went as planned. The primary agent was about to insert.
Joe looked up at the peeling paint on the fancy plaster ceiling and—seriously lapsed Catholic that he was—uttered a devout prayer that they would all survive. He was known for his hunches, and he had a really bad feeling about this.
Chapter 1
Jack Mercier entered the hospital wing of Baumettes Prison with the barrel of a submachine gun resting at the base of his spine. While he loved humanity—in fact, had devoted his life to the protection of it—he had decided since coming to this place a week ago that he was not that crazy about people. Especially Claude Bujold, his least favorite guard.
Maybe he was rationalizing the fact that he wanted to kill the man, but he didn’t think so. Claude considered beatings a form of entertainment, the more helpless the victim, the greater the rush. Misuse of power really pushed Jack’s buttons.
Jack was supposed to be awaiting arraignment, accused of conspiring to ship illegal weapons into France. Bogus charges, of course, faked to get him into this place.
He had escaped most of the vicious harassment by bribing Claude. The promise of money from Jack’s attorney had gotten Jack the promise of medical attention today.
Jack waited until they entered the small ward, empty now except for one patient and the doctor attending him at the far end of the room. Today was the day.
The white-clad doctor who was bending over the patient stood and turned. Jack stopped in his tracks. Wrong doctor. Most definitely, wrong doctor.
Should he postpone? Too late. With everything else in place, it was now or never.
Claude prodded him down the aisle between the rows of beds. “Hey, Doc, this piece of filth has been complaining of chest pain. Would you—”
Jack whirled, grasped both of Claude’s wrists and pinched the nerves that controlled his fingers. He rammed the top of his head beneath Claude’s chin and heard a satisfying crack.
The machine gun fell, hitting the floor a split second after Jack’s knee connected with Claude’s groin.
The guard crumpled with a cry. Jack delivered a blow to the side of the head that would keep Claude unconscious for a while. Unfortunately, the bastard had to be left alive.
The doctor rushed him but he heard that coming. He waited, caught her upraised arm and easily removed the syringe, her impromptu weapon.
“Where is Dr. Micheaux?” he demanded.
She sputtered as she struggled to break free. Her small fists bounced off him, inflicting no pain. She was not very strong, he noted.
What the hell was this delicate little flower doing in a prison hospital? And what had happened to the doctor he had expected to find in here?
Now he would either have to incapacitate her like the guard, or take her along. Either way, she might be blamed for aiding the escape. Besides, he had to have a doctor along. She’d just have to do.
“Be still or I’ll have to kill you,” he snapped.
All motion ceased. Her wide blue gaze, full of fear and anger, settled on his. Every muscle in her body was alert and tensed for further action if he presented her a chance. Bold little thing.
“I admire bravery but not stupidity. Nod if you comprehend.” He spoke to her in French, assuming that she was.
Her chin remained raised, her glare defiant. But Jack could see she understood. She was pretty, he noticed. Blond, sky-blue eyes, skin untouched by the sun. This one didn’t spend her off days on the Riviera, that was for sure. Too busy saving lives, he guessed. He’d bet she worked here for nothing in her spare time. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Prepare your patient to leave the prison. Is he ambulatory?”
“No,” she said emphatically. “You are not taking him anywhere.”
Jack inclined his head toward the exit that led to the alley where a truck was waiting. “We are all leaving through that door in less than five minutes.” He glared at her. He had no time for her spitfire attitude, so he added, “Dead or alive. Your choice, lady.”
For a long moment she studied his eyes, then looked back at the bed where her patient lay sleeping. “You won’t hurt him?”
“No. Or you, either. Not if you behave and do exactly as I tell you.”
She exhaled the pent-up breath she was holding and nodded once, no doubt cursing the abominable lack of security in French prisons. This one was even more short-handed than usual today thanks to Will Griffin.
Jack released her and reached down to pick up Claude’s weapon. “Get to it, then, while I take care of the garbage. Do as I say and neither of you will be harmed. My word.”
He ignored her scoff. In seconds he had bound the unconscious Claude’s hands and feet and gagged him with a roll of gauze.
Jack regretted having to take the doctor along, but he really had no choice. Since the boy was drugged, someone would have to verify how he’d been rescued. Besides that, he obviously needed medical attention, and the kid’s father would hardly appreciate Jack’s getting the boy out of prison if the little fellow died in the process.
“You have the boy ready?” Jack demanded as he approached the sickbed where the prisoner lay.
“Yes. Why are you doing this?” she demanded.
Jack ignored the question. “Take as much of his medication as you have with you. Hand me your bag.”
“I am not coming,” she informed him.
“Poor choice.” He started raising the machine gun. She gasped.
“Change your mind?” Jack asked. Again she nodded, her eyes clenched in resignation.
“Then help him up. He’s small enough you should be able to manage. Is he really that hurt or just sedated?”
“Of course he is hurt. His injuries are numerous and he is on morphine.”
As she spoke, she raised the boy to a sitting position, eased his legs off the bed and tried to encourage him to stand up. She managed, but only just. The kid was pretty much out of it. He was very slightly built, almost delicate. Though he was seventeen, René Chari seemed younger. His sallow complexion and adolescent fuzz of a mustache only enhanced his look of vulnerability.
“Brace your shoulder beneath his and pull his arm around your neck,” Jack told her, grasping the boy beneath his other arm as they shuffled him to the door. “We have only a short way to go.”
“This door is kept locked,” she told him.
“Not today,” Jack replied as he reached for the handle and shoved the door open. “Go ahead of me. And if you run, I will shoot.”
She did as ordered and they were soon in the alley. No windows graced the inner walls that faced them between the wings. A heavy chain-link gate topped with concertina wire barred the only way out. “Hurry. Let’s get him inside the vehicle.”
The truck provided, a megaton monstrosity used for delivering supplies, would easily roll them to freedom. Several blocks away, a vintage sedan waited, souped up and ready to transport them to their eventual destination.
He placed the machine gun across his lap, cranked the starter, floored the accelerator and gunned it, ramming straight through the chain-link barrier.
The alarm was immediate and deafening. He sped away from it, taking side