Read Online The Devil's Banker by Christopher Reich - Free Book Online

that he’d been right to follow Mohammed al-Taleel, that his gamble had paid off, that they would capture Taleel, and maybe his associates as well, and that they —meaning the law enforcement communities of the Western nations allied against the new scourge of Islamic terrorism—stood a good chance of learning what Taleel was up to, and stopping it, then and there.
    He heard the first shrill notes of the siren, and at first, he didn’t understand. He thought it was an ambulance passing a few blocks behind them. Taleel checked over his shoulder, a little nervously. But the acoustics and the Doppler effect were playing tricks on both of them. The source of the siren was in front of them, not behind. The assonant wail grew louder. At the end of the street, a French police car hurtled into view, shrieking to a halt at the next cross street. A second car followed, then a third, doors flying open, uniformed officers forming a phalanx, weapons drawn. Incredibly, Taleel ran toward them.
    Chapel opened his door and jumped to the ground, even as he shot Santos Babtiste an uncomprehending glance. “You bastard,” he said. “You screwed me.”
    “Never,” protested Babtiste. “I swear it. I told nobody!”
    Chapel was running, Santini at his side, Gomez and Babtiste a step behind. Twenty yards ahead, Taleel cut across a strip of grass, the briefcase tucked under an arm, jaw pressed forward in divine concentration. He leaped a hedge, landed, and made toward the front entrance of an apartment building.
    The battered Renault flew past, turned hard onto the sidewalk, and slid to a halt inches from the dorm entry. Keck half fell out of the driver’s side, picked himself up, and dashed toward the door, in perfect position positioned to cut off Taleel. Steps away, a frightened bystander hurried to escape the scene, his Scotty barking madly.
    “Keck,” shouted Chapel. “Heads up!”
    “What?” One hand in his jacket going for his gun, Keck collided with the pedestrian full-force and the two tumbled to the ground, the terrier on Keck in an instant, growling and nipping at his arms.
    Taleel hurdled the two men, his foot catching Keck’s shoulder. Hitting the ground, he stumbled, his loafers slipping on the sidewalk, losing a second before he regained his balance and charged ahead.
    Skirting Keck, Chapel saw his chance. Five feet separated him from Taleel. He wanted the Saudi outside, on the ground, where he could be subdued without the force of arms. With a last terrific stride, he threw himself at the Arab. His outstretched hand found a hip but his fingers closed too early. The hand slipped to the calf, Taleel still running, looking behind him, grunting as he kicked off Chapel’s advance, a loafer coming free as Chapel skidded across the sidewalk.
    Flinging open the dormitory door, Taleel disappeared into a murky half dusk.
    Chapel was there a second later. Pulling open the door, he slowed a beat, checking to see who was behind him. He met a straight-arm that propelled him against the exterior wall. “Not you, Kreskin,” puffed Carmine Santini. “This is the real thing. No guessing this time.”
    “Fuck, man, you had him,” cursed Gomez, sliding in behind him.
    Babtiste and Keck ran inside. A gunshot rang out. Stunned, Chapel drew a breath, needing only a second to decide that Santini was wrong, that he was ready for the real thing, too, whatever that was. He was inside an instant later, taking the stairs two at a time, his eyes trained above him.
    “Arrêtez! Police!” Babtiste’s voice echoed through the stairwell.
    The abrasive sound of wood splintering crashed through the hall, then a tremendous thud. The door was down. Chapel crested the stairs and took off down the hallway.
    “Arrêtez! Bouge pas!”
    Christ, they had him, thought Chapel.
    “Jesus, man, shoot him! Kill the fucker!” said Ray Gomez.
    “Ne fais pas cela, mec.” Babtiste’s resonant baritone. Don’t do it.
    Reaching the door, Chapel had a clear