Mason's Law (Alex Mason Book 3) by David Archer & Blake Banner

Author:David Archer & Blake Banner [Archer, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Right House
Published: 2022-01-23T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

The next morning I was in the lobby at five fifty-five, and at six on the button a large man in a badly cut blue suit pushed through the glass doors. He had a black beard the size of his head, a nose like a talon and eyes so black you could lose your soul in them. He stood at the door and looked around. He saw me sitting and watching him and approached me.

“You are Dr. Bassett.”

It wasn’t a question but I said, “I am.”

“Come. I have car for you.”

Like Dr. Dana Zamanian, he was not here to make me comfortable. He turned and walked away. I carried my cases after him into the black morning. He opened the trunk of a large, dark Mercedes and I slung my cases in. He slammed it shut and it sounded uncomfortably like a gunshot in the predawn. I climbed in the back and before I could close the door he was making the wheels complain as we took off into the silent city.

We fishtailed into Versal Shirazi Street, a broad avenue with five-storey blocks that had been modern in the ’70s. It was dark and empty and we did at least sixty all the way to the intersection with Enghelab Street. The lights were red, but he didn’t care. He didn’t so much brake as play footsie with the pedal for a second and skid round the corner into the four-lane avenue.

A few of the grocery stores were pulling up their blinds, spilling dull light onto the street. But aside from that the road was empty and dark. Now it was a straight line for over three miles to the huge circus called Azadi Square, with the grotesque Azadi Tower at its center. He put his foot down and the car surged. We hit the circus and drifted, screaming, for almost half a mile around the broad bend, then rocketed out through Meraj Boulevard where he braked by dropping down through the gears and suddenly we were at the Mehrabad Domestic Airport.

He said, “You come.”

I followed him into the main concourse, through security—where he showed a pass and said something guttural—and down a long, tiled passage out onto the tarmac. There a Dassault Falcon 7X was waiting with the steps lowered and the cabin lights reflect on the black asphalt. Grumpy pointed and wagged his huge beard as he said, “You go.”

I smiled. “But Rick,” I said, “what about us?”

He scowled darkly, jerked his head at the plane and insisted, “You go, now!”

“I guess we’ll always have Paris, huh?” I tightened my grip on my cases and made for the plane. “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid!” I called back, but he was already disappearing back through the security doors.

The jet was not what I had expected. It was furnished with leather armchairs, a sofa and fold-down, highly polished walnut tables. I stowed my luggage by the door and sat at one of those tables. I thought maybe a pretty hostess might come and offer me coffee and croissants, but nothing like that happened.

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