Chapter 33 - The Red Notice and the Black-Market Flight
The storm over the Atlantic was brutal, tossing our twin-engine military transport through waves of turbulence, but inside the cabin, the atmosphere was dead calm.
Master Sergeant Cruz and four senior operators from my special investigations unit sat checking their suppressed tactical sidearms, loading subsonic magazines, and reviewing satellite architectural layouts of the Hôtel des Bergues in central Geneva.
Across the cabin table, Catherine Vance sat on a secure laptop, her fingers flying over encrypted Swiss bank interfaces. She had flown via commercial intercept to meet us during our refueling stop in Ireland.
"Roth isn't just trying to escape," Catherine said, turning her screen toward me. "He’s executing a purge. The moment your mother’s death is reported, his legal team will file an emergency injunction in the Swiss Federal Supreme Court claiming the American civil forfeiture orders are vacated due to the demise of the primary trustee. If that happens, the five hundred million dollars transfers permanently into his private foundation in Dubai."
"He thinks money buys immunity from the United States Army," Cruz grunted, racking the slide of his tactical weapon with a lethal CLACK. "He hasn't met the Colonel yet."
"We are on sovereign Swiss territory," Catherine warned, her dark eyes darting between me and Cruz. "Swiss federal police are neutral. If we discharge weapons in downtown Geneva, we will ignite an international diplomatic incident that could spark sanctions."
"I am not interested in an incident, Catherine," I answered, adjusting my father’s silver dog tags beneath my black civilian jacket. "I am interested in my mother."
At 1400 hours local time, our aircraft touched down on the auxiliary runway at Geneva International Airport under gray, weeping skies.
The runway was lined with three black Mercedes vans bearing diplomatic plates arranged through our embassy. We piled in within forty seconds, our tires tearing across the wet tarmac toward the city center.
My encrypted satellite radio buzzed in my ear.
"Colonel Bennett! This is Diplomatic Security Detail Alpha at the hotel! We have lost primary power to the fourth floor! Emergency stairwells are compromised by armed men wearing civilian security badges! We are pinned inside Suite 410!"
"Hold the threshold, Agent Miller!" I yelled into the comms. "Do not let them breach that door! We are crossing the Mont-Blanc Bridge now!"
Through the rain-streaked windshield of our van, I saw the majestic spire of the Geneva Cathedral looming over the old city. But along the lakeside boulevard, smoke was already rising from the entrance of the luxury hotel.
Three black SUVs were idling near the service exit, their hazard lights blinking erratically in the mist.
Men with heavy duffel bags were running from the rear loading dock, tossing heavy Pelican cases into the trunks.
"Cruz!" I shouted. "Ram the lead SUV! Box them into the alley!"
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Our driver slammed his foot against the accelerator. The reinforced steel bumper of our lead Mercedes smashed into the side of the fleeing SUV with an earth-shattering crunch of tearing metal and bursting airbags.
The gunfight in Geneva had begun.
