Kidnapping
Dieter Schwarz
Ready.
Go.
Dieter sat in the back of a white delivery van, his hands clasped between his spread legs, waiting. Two other men from Rogue Security waited in the back with him, operators whom Dieter had known for years and trusted. Aaron Savoie was driving again.
Flicka sat in the passenger seat. Her baseball cap bobbed over the back of the seat, and when she turned, he could see the edge of her blond hair glint in the sunlight under the arm of her sunglasses.
Outside, Monday mid-morning traffic stopped and started, and pedestrians streamed over the sidewalks. Clouds intermittently blotted out the sun, turning the van darker.
Dieter breathed slowly in through his nose and out his mouth, like a sniper dampening the adrenaline response.
This was the problem: Dieter wasn’t nervous. As always, before an op, excitement ran through his veins like an electric charge.
Soon.
Flicka said, “That’s him. Blue suit, briefcase in left hand.”
The lawyer walked along the sidewalk, obviously the same auburn-haired, white guy as in the photo on the firm’s website. Flicka had identified that particular lawyer as the man who had put together the final draft of her prenuptial agreement, so he could explain exactly what she needed for an annulment or a divorce.
Dieter didn’t much care how he got Flicka out of the marriage to Pierre Grimaldi, although making her a widow held a certain charm that the others lacked, preferably by some moderately slow method where Pierre could see Dieter grinning while he did it.
But an annulment would suffice for now.
Dieter had never killed anyone for personal revenge before, but there’s a first time for everything.
The lawyer walked along the sidewalk, not even glancing at the white van with the sliding door idling at the curb as he approached.
Men were easier to kidnap than women. Women look for kidnappers and rapists around them all the time, checking the back seats of their cars and not walking beside large, idling vans. All that vigilance made things more difficult.
Men?Meh.Male targets were a piece of cake.
One of the other Rogue Security operators slid the door open.
The other two stepped onto the sidewalk, shielding the operation with their bodies.
Dieter reached out, grabbed the man, and fell backward, using his own momentum to toss the guy in the van. The other two operators shoved the lawyer from behind.
Everyone piled in.
The door ground shut like metal dragging on concrete.
The van lurched forward.
The lawyer scrambled backward on the floor of the van, holding his briefcase in front of his chest as if paperwork and leather might stop a bullet.
Only civilians thought professionals would shoot them in the heart.
Dieter said in French, “Monsieur Blanchard, you’re three minutes early for your meeting with Rogue Security. Thank you for your punctuality.”
Flicka turned around and hung over the arm of the passenger seat. “Hey, Joachim! I need to know what’s in that damn prenup!”
Joachim Blanchard scrambled back farther, staring at her in shock.“Prinzessin von Hannover?”
“You betcha, Joachim. We’re going somewhere where we can speak privately. Now, if you’ll hand the nice man your phone so he can make sure no one follows us, we’ll have you back at your office in an hour.”
Flicka practically sparkled with energy, and Dieter thought he’d never seen her look so beautiful.
