Page 29 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)

The doors on each car swung open.

The vehicles’ eight occupants converged on the trio of musicians like an avalanche enveloping unsuspecting skiers. One moment the two guitarists and shaker player were happily making music. The next they were surrounded by broad-shouldered men.

Angry broad-shouldered men.

The lead operative, a man whose buzz cut, wide back, and narrow waist all but screamed military, said something to the man with the shaker and gestured toward his car.

The musician shook his head. In a blur of motion, Buzzcut snared the musician’s shoulder, arm-barred him, and face-planted him onto the ground.

One of the guitarists tried to intervene.

It did not go well.

The operative nearest the guitarist, a blond man whose rippling forearms belied his trim build, fired an open-handed strike into the musician’s throat using the webbing between his thumb and index finger.

Clutching his neck, the guitarist fell to his knees.

The second guitarist, a man with shoulder-length dreadlocks, appeared to ascribe to the philosophy of making love, not war.

In what looked like a practiced gesture, he lifted his hands above his head, allowing the guitar’s sling to catch the instrument.

Buzzcut and Blond searched the musicians with quick, efficient motions as the bystanders scattered.

While an amusing assortment of drug paraphernalia—several Ziploc bags filled with suspicious green leaves and a single knit hacky sack—were emptied onto the pavement, the items did not appear to be what the men were looking for.

After patting down each man twice, Buzzcut looked over his shoulder at the sedan parked on the pedestrian area and barked out something. Rapp was too far away to hear the words, but he could guess their meaning.

We didn’t find anything. What now?

The sedan’s rear passenger door swung open, revealing a pair of legs.

A pair of very shapely, very long legs. The woman who exited the car looked nothing like the brutes who had accosted the musicians.

Rapp’s first thought was of a kennel master and her hounds, but that didn’t quite capture the relationship either.

A queen surrounded by her royal guard might be a more apt description.

The woman’s auburn hair was cut short, not quite a bob but shorter than collar-length, and the style emphasized her hard, angular features.

A crown of fire.

Her gaze flitted from musician to musician and the men wilted beneath her glare.

Buzzcut gestured toward the pile of paraphernalia and then at the hapless trio.

The Queen crouched so that she was eye level with the man with dreadlocks.

Her lips moved and the man responded by shaking his head in a no motion that began slowly and increased with vigor the longer the Queen spoke.

Standing, the Queen turned back to Buzzcut.

She gestured at the captives while delivering what appeared to be a reprimand.

Buzzcut shook his head and withdrew something from his pocket.

His meaty fingers obscured most of the device, despite Rapp’s best efforts.

After fiddling with the object, he again shook his head.

The Queen held her hand out, palm up, fingers extended.

Buzzcut handed over the mystery device and Rapp saw that it was about the size of a pager.

A frown creased the woman’s porcelain features as she thumbed something on the front of the device.

Then she stepped toward the captives. After waving the device around the men as if she were blessing them with incense, the Queen consulted the object.

Moving past the musicians, she approached the bench, crouched, and withdrew the greasy sandwich wrapper.

Wrinkling her nose, she unfolded the paper and found Rapp’s cell.

Dropping the wrapper, the Queen tossed the phone to Buzzcut.

The mobile hit him in the chest and almost tumbled to the pavement before he caught it. The Queen was no longer paying attention. Instead, she turned away from the bench and looked southwest.

Southwest toward Rapp.

He focused the binoculars on her face, committing the Queen’s expression to memory. As if sensing his gaze, the woman gave three exaggerated claps. At first Rapp didn’t understand.

Then, he did.

She was applauding.

Turning, the Queen strode back to her sedan, settled into the rear seat, and closed the door. The vehicle pulled a U-turn and departed the same way it had arrived. As the car drove away, Rapp noticed a detail he’d overlooked earlier.

The sedan had diplomatic license plates.

Russian diplomatic license plates.