Escape from Destruction (Wesson and Sloan FBI Thriller Book 2), page 1
ESCAPE FROM DESTRUCTION
Wesson and Sloan FBI Thriller
Book 2
Linsey Lanier
Copyright © 2022 Linsey Lanier
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Felicity Books
978-1-941191-73-6
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ESCAPE FROM DESTRUCTION
Who is Kazan?
When they left Buenos Aires, Simon Sloan and Janelle Wesson were running for their lives.
Now in Athens, Greece, they’re hunting for a man named Kazan.
A man who could be the new leader of Group 141, Donavan Santana’s criminal empire. The man who gave the order to kill Simon’s boss at the FBI and pin the murder on him.
But in Athens, nothing is as it seems, and soon the pair are embroiled in a fight against a deadly drug trafficking operation.
Can they win this battle before the man sent to kill them succeeds in his mission?
Proofread by Donna Rich
Books by Linsey Lanier
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THE MIRANDA’S RIGHTS MYSTERY SERIES
Someone Else’s Daughter
Delicious Torment
Forever Mine
Fire Dancer
Thin Ice
THE MIRANDA AND PARKER MYSTERY SERIES
All Eyes on Me
Heart Wounds
Clowns and Cowboys
The Watcher
Zero Dark Chocolate
Trial by Fire
Smoke Screen
The Boy
Snakebit
Mind Bender
Roses from My Killer
The Stolen Girl
Vanishing Act
Predator
Retribution
Most Likely to Die
Sonata for a Killer
Fatal Fall
Girl in the Park
(more to come)
WESSON AND SLOAN FBI THRILLER SERIES
Escape from Danger
Escape from Destruction
(more to come)
MAGGIE DELANEY POLICE THRILLER SERIES
Chicago Cop
Good Cop Bad Cop
OTHER SUSPENSE BOOKS BY LINSEY LANIER:
Steal My Heart (A Romantic Suspense)
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Copyright
Chapter One
In the balcony of the fourth story flat about three kilometers from the Acropolis, she sat on the concrete floor attaching the sound suppressor of the SSG rifle in her lap. A light-weight, bolt-action weapon known for its accuracy, it was her preference.
Her hair was wrapped in a pale blue-and-white scarf, the colors of Greece, to blend in with the building. Her clothes were loose, her hands were gloved.
Above her the sky was a bright cerulean blue. The air was cool, and there was a pleasant breeze coming in from the Aegean. She could just see the top floor of the light ochre-colored government building across the street with its Gothic arches and neoclassical facade that were so typical of this ancient city.
She looked at her cell phone. Almost two.
It was time.
She took her sunglasses from her pocket, slipped them on, then shoved the magazine of her rifle into place. Rising, she placed the barrel over the balcony’s stone enclosure and trained her scope on the street below.
It was busy, as it usually was at this time of day. Pedestrians, motorcycles, bicyclists, vehicles, everyone coming from work or heading to lunch, all moving along, unaware of what was about to happen.
The range was shorter than usual. Just over twenty meters. That had its disadvantages, but to her mind it only meant her bullet would be more deadly.
At last, the familiar black Renault appeared in the distance.
Patiently she watched it pull up to the Administration building across the street as it did every Tuesday at this time. Each time, the target would get out and head for the tobacco shop on Stadiou Street. Five minutes later, he would emerge and head to the corner where he would be picked up by another vehicle.
A vehicle that would take him to a meeting with some of the most notorious criminals in Greece.
Not today.
During the three months she’d been in Athens, she’d studied her target’s every move.
His activity was limited, but predictable. Far less than ideal, this was the best position she could hope for.
She would execute her orders.
And when she did, she could retire from this god-forsaken job and go to London to get her daughter from her mother.
The Renault slowed and pulled over to the sidewalk. Young people scurried past the graffiti covered wall. A woman with a small child strolled behind them.
The car’s rear door opened.
Her back stiffened.
It wasn’t the door nearest the sidewalk, as before. Today it was the door behind the driver. Someone was with him this time.
The man who was known as The Swede stepped out onto the pavement.
Removing her sunglasses, she peered at him, her nerves spiking. He looked as he always had. Tall, well-conditioned body. Dressed in a dark suit and tie, his fair hair hugging his head with short loose curls.
Then he did something else he’d never done before.
He turned around and looked up.
She locked gazes with the shamrock green eyes she’d seen so often in the photos she had taken of him. Suddenly, their color reminded her of Ireland and her father. That was ridiculous. Her father was long gone. Perhaps that was why she hated this criminal so much.
Seconds passed. They seemed like a lifetime.
Words from her long ago training echoed in her head.
Take the shot.
But she couldn’t. Despite all her years of experience, she couldn’t.
Not when the target was looking straight at her.
And then he started across the street.
Toward her apartment building.
Her heart pounding, she slid down to the floor, dismantled her weapon, and packed it into its case in record time. She stuffed it into her backpack, slung the pack over her shoulder, and ran.
Across the flat she flew. Through the door and down the corridor.
The back way, she decided. The Swede and his men would enter at the front.
Deciding to avoid the service elevator, she scrambled down the rear stairwell and pushed out the exit and into the deserted alleyway behind the apartment building.
Squeezed between the two five-story structures, she stood for a moment, her chest heaving. Which way?
Before she could decide, voices rang out on her left.
“There she is,” someone said in Greek.
She turned her head and saw The Swede with a large dark-skinned man with long black hair and a beard beside him. They hadn’t gone in at the front. They’d guess she’d go to the back. The Swede had good instincts.
The men started for her.
She spun around and headed for the street. When she got to the intersection, she stood blinking in the bright sunlight, taking in the noisy motorcycles and pedestrians flowing past the tall buildings like a mighty river.
She tried to cross to the other side.
A blaring red sports car stopped her, forcing her back to the curb.
She glanced behind her and saw the black Renault hadn’t moved.
Stick to the sidewalk, she told herself.
She turned and hurried down the walkway, trying to blend in with the pedestrians, hoping the shadows of the canopies on the buildings would hide her.
Near a row of columns, she passed a cluster of young men in dark shorts and shirts discussing something in Arabic. She trotted around an older couple she took to be Americans on vacation. When she passed a younger couple with a boy, she dared to look over her shoulder.
The Swede and his escort were on the corner. It took only a moment for the large man to spot her. He gestured in her direction and started her way, pushing past pedestrians.
She sped up.
She rushed past a woman browsing in front of a jewelry store, and raced around the corner cafe where people were dining under colorful awnings.
Here the street was narrow and filled with cars heading for the main road. The tall buildings hemmed her in, giving her a claustrophobic feel.
No shops here. Nothing but the familiar graffiti-covered walls.
Nowhere to hide.
She raced down the walkway, the sun burning down on her. There were no pedestrians for cover here, either.
She could hear the men’s footsteps behind her. Just as she dared to look back, a shot rang out.
She squealed and leapt closer to the building.
“Stop,” the big man commanded in Greek.
She ignored him.
The bullet hadn’t hit her. That was intentional. It was meant only to frighten her, to stop her. They wanted to capture her alive. Her training told her what they would do to her if they did.
She would not let that happen.
Around the next corner she flew, and ran straight into the open air market.
She came to a halt and took in the scene as she removed the blue-and-white scarf from her head and once more attempted to blend into the crowd. Slowly she moved past the myriad of carts with countless wares on display.
The smell of fresh fish mingled with grilling beef imbued the air. Wagons and carts and cloth-covered tables crowded the edges of the square as customers made selections and vendors bickered with them over prices. There were baskets of apricots and strawberries and nuts. On a cart near the center of the square, was a display of exotic herbs and spices. In the middle of them sat a large basket of pomegranates. The symbol of prosperity and luck. She could use some luck right now.
In the chatter of the crowd, she listened for the sound of The Greek’s voice.
And she heard it. Closer than it should be.
Once more, she dared to glance over her shoulder.
The Swede and The Greek were at the other side of the square, pretending to sample apricots.
And then The Swede tapped his partner on the arm and pointed her way.
She did the only thing she could think of.
As she hurried past a vendor’s cart, she grabbed the basket of pomegranates by its handle and turned it over.
The fruit spilled onto the square, rolling everywhere and sending shoppers every which way. People began to yell. Children reached for the bulbs, while the vendor screeched at her in Greek at the top of her voice.
But she could barely hear her. She was already at the far end of the square. She slipped between another set of buildings and found herself in a familiar area where the street forked around a tall rounded-edge structure on the corner.
Which way now?
Along the street on her left, a large red tour bus idled at the curb. Hop on, hop off. That was it.
She hurried across the intersection and up the sidewalk.
As she reached the bus, she felt her pursuers following, despite the obstacle she’d created between them.
She realized she was still holding onto her blue-and-white scarf. It wasn’t hiding her now. It was giving her away.
There was a queue of passengers boarding the bus one by one.
Her heart pounding, she took her place at the end of the line and waited.
But they were coming. As soon as they reached the sidewalk, they would see her. She would be trapped.
And then she had an idea.
As the passenger in front of her stepped aboard, she dropped her scarf in front of the door and hurried behind a nearby column.
Pressing herself hard against the stone, she listened.
She heard the bus door close, its engine rev. Then came The Swede’s voice. “Stop,” he ordered in Greek.
She heard him pound on the bus door. And The Greek yelling at the driver.
The bus door opened, shut, and the bus drove off.
Slowly she dared to peek around the column.
They were gone.
And so was her scarf.
Tears of relief formed in her eyes, but she couldn’t let herself cry. This wasn’t over. They would be hunting her now. And so would her handler when he learned she had failed in her mission.
He would send someone to eliminate her.
And so she would have to be ready for all of them.
Chapter Two
Brushing her hair, Janelle Wesson stood at the cheap mirror in the tiny flat overlooking Aiolou Street. She had on jeans and a silky white top under a plum jersey fleece collared jacket.
Not her best look, but good enough for an evening of covert bar hopping. And the jacket was long enough to hide the weapon at her waistband. Plus it would give her some warmth.
They were north of the equator now, and it was spring, but the weather in Athens could turn a bit nippy after dark.
She looked at the time on her phone. Almost midnight. Time to hunt.
Taking another glance in the mirror, she scowled. She didn’t like her hair. Fed up with dealing with wigs, she’d cut it chin-length and bleached it an icy blond shade that didn’t really suit her complexion. But she’d had to.
She was wanted by the FBI now, too.
She put the brush down and turned to Simon, who was sitting at the tiny white desk near the glass doors that led to the patio, staring at his laptop.
Again.
It had been ten days since their shootout in a park in Buenos Aires, and she still felt shaky from it.
Buenos Aires.
Where everything had gone so wrong. They were supposed to have gotten help from FBI Agent Julian Knox there, but an enemy had found him first. Instead of being taken to a safe house, they’d had to run for their lives through the dark city streets, chased by two relentless men who had tried to kill them.
The chase had come to an end in the park. Simon had nearly come to an end, as well.
But he hadn’t. And so they’d fled the country.
It had taken them over a day and a half to get to Athens. Their flight from Argentina had several connections with long layovers. During the four hours they’d spent in the Zurich airport, Simon had visited an ATM and had surreptitiously withdrawn funds from some secret bank account he had, she surmised.
If he hadn’t, they’d be sleeping on the street now. She only hoped that transaction couldn’t be traced. It was in Zurich where she’d seen their photos flashed on the screen of a newscast. They both were wanted now.
When at last they’d reached Athens, they’d taken a taxi to the cheap flat Simon had rented, and they’d slept for two days.
And then they began their hunt for Kazan.
Kazan.
The man they believed was now the head of Group 141, the international crime organization Donavan Santana used to run.
Kazan. The new man in Athens.
If they could find him, if they could prove he was the one who ordered the hit on Simon’s boss, they’d be free.
On Simon’s laptop was a spreadsheet of names. A list of thugs that Mr. Parker and Steele had stolen from a criminal training site in Kyiv. One of the first things they’d done after checking the place for bugs was to fire up the laptop and do a search.
Kazan’s name was not on the list.
But it wouldn’t be if he was the new head of the organization. Staring at that list wouldn’t make his name appear.
Not daring to startle him out of his reverie, Janelle moved over to Simon and peered over his shoulder to see what was on his screen.
It wasn’t the spreadsheet. It was the photo from Patagonia.
He had shown it to her in Buenos Aires. It was taken over ten years ago. After a rousing soccer game, eight healthy men in cutoffs and sweatpants had posed for it. Simon’s teammates who had built the cabin and the underground escape tunnel there.
