Read Online Critical Mass by David Hagberg - Free Book Online

nodded and they peeled off to the north as he contacted the tower and told them his intentions. Nothing commercial was taking off or landing at Orly, but other helicopters were streaming toward the crash site from city hospitals and morgues. The tower was directing their movements to avoid any further tragedies.
    â€œLieutenant Bellus, are you there?”
    Bellus wore a headset connected to the police frequency radio. He keyed the mike. “Here.”
    â€œThey’re dead, Jacques. All three of them.” It was Queneau. The man sounded shook up.
    â€œWhere are you?”

    â€œWe’re at the end of zero-eight. They’re all in the back of the Air Service Van. They’ve been shot to death.”
    â€œWho are you talking about?” Bellus shouted, although he knew exactly who was in the back of that van.
    â€œCapretz and Gallimard … and Christian. Merde. He was shot in the back of the head.”
    Bellus forced himself to calm down. “Is there anything else there, Phillipe? Anything we can use?”
    Queneau didn’t answer.
    â€œPhillipe!”
    â€œThe missile launcher is in the back of the truck as well. The American Stinger.”
    â€œSecure the area,” Bellus ordered. “No one is to touch anything. Anything at all, until the evidence team gets there. Do you understand?”
    â€œOui,” Queneau said.
    â€œDon’t worry, Phillipe, we’ll get the bastard!” Bellus said, and he pulled off the headset. Marie-Lure was watching out the windows, but her complexion had paled.
    â€œWe’re taking no chances,” Bellus told her.
    She looked up.
    â€œHe is a killer. So we will shoot to kill if necessary.”
    She nodded, and looked back out the windows as they came over the top of the big terminal building just above where the N7 emerged from the tunnel. She stiffened. “There!”
    Bellus followed her gaze. The jeep, its blue lights still flashing, was pulled up in front of the departing passenger entrances into the terminal. So far as he could tell it had been abandoned. The terrorist was either inside the terminal or someone had picked him up in front.
    â€œDown there,” he ordered the pilot, and as they descended he got back on the radio. “Security Central, Bellus.”
    â€œSecurity Central,” his dispatcher answered.
    â€œThe bastard may be inside the terminal. I want it sealed. Now!”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œAnd, Marc, did you hear Queneau?”

    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œSpread the word.”
    A Citröen taxicab pulled up behind the jeep, and a man jumped out, glanced up at their helicopter, and then raced across the sidewalk and entered the terminal.
    â€œWho the hell was that?” Bellus swore.
    Â 
    Boorsch knew that he was being followed, so he’d decided at the last moment to lose himself in the confusion in the terminal instead of trying to make his rendezvous outside Paris.
    It was the taxicab in the tunnel, in the wrong lane. The cabbie had made a U-turn and had come after him. So far as he’d been able to tell, there’d been just the driver, no passenger in the back seat. But he couldn’t be sure.
    He’d peeled off his coveralls. He was dressed in tan slacks and a light sweater, but he was conspicuous in the terminal for his lack of luggage, even a briefcase or small bag. And the big Sig-Sauer stuffed in the waistband of his trousers made a telltale bulge beneath his sweater, which he had to cover with one hand.
    Steeling himself to act normally, as if he was not on the run, as if he belonged here, Boorsch calmly made his way across the main passenger hall, past the ticket and checkin counters to the escalators leading up to the mezzanine level where the shops, restaurants, lounges and money changing booths were located. There were a lot of people in the terminal, and there seemed to be a general movement toward the windows that faced south, where the Airbus had