Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller Read online

  RUN,

  GIRL,

  RUN

  A THRILLER

  ALEX C.

  FRANKLIN

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 Alex C. Franklin

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Perago Press

  Visit the author’s website to sign up for news of the next release and lots of other cool, free stuff: www.AlexCFrankin.com.

  For Bhim & Otta

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART I Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Chapter 34 |

  PART II Chapter 35 | Chapter 36 | Chapter 37 | Chapter 38 | Chapter 39 | Chapter 40 | Chapter 41 | Chapter 42 | Chapter 43 | Chapter 44 | Chapter 45 | Chapter 46 | Chapter 47 | Chapter 48 | Chapter 49 | Chapter 50 | Chapter 51 | Chapter 52 | Chapter 53 | Chapter 54 | Chapter 55 | Chapter 56 | Chapter 57 | Chapter 58 | Chapter 59 | Chapter 60 | Chapter 61 | Chapter 62 | Chapter 63 | Chapter 64 | Chapter 65 | Chapter 66 | Chapter 67 | Chapter 68 | Chapter 69 | Chapter 70 | Chapter 71 | Chapter 72 | Chapter 73 | Chapter 74 | Chapter 75 | Chapter 76 | Chapter 77 | Chapter 78 |

  PART III Chapter 79 | Chapter 80 | Chapter 81 | Chapter 82 | Chapter 83 | Chapter 84 | Chapter 85 | Chapter 86 | Chapter 87 | Chapter 88 | Chapter 89 | Chapter 90 | Chapter 91 | Chapter 92 | Chapter 93 | Chapter 94 | Chapter 95 | Chapter 96 | Chapter 97 | Chapter 98 | Chapter 99 | Chapter 100 |

  PART IV Chapter 101 | Chapter 102 | Chapter 103 | Chapter 104 | Chapter 105 | Chapter 106 | Chapter 107 | Chapter 108 | Chapter 109 | Chapter 110 | Chapter 111 | Chapter 112 | Chapter 113 | Chapter 114 |

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Prologue

  JOURNAL ENTRY:

  Friday, March 11

  My mother fled the confinement of a religious and deeply dysfunctional home, shortly after turning seventeen, and her shadow never crossed the threshold of a church, ever again. Nevertheless, I still think of her as a profoundly spiritual person.

  She saw the operation of a divine hand at work in everything around her, from the rising and setting of the sun, to the ebb and flow of the tides, and the birth and death of every living creature.

  So many years after she’s gone, I remember two of her observations as particularly astute.

  The first concerned destiny. In her understanding of life, a divine will offered each one of us a greater and a lesser destiny. She would say that what may seem to small, finite minds as chaos in an irrational world is often the spiritual alignment of people and circumstances in a manner that manifests destiny.

  “There’s no such thing as luck, neither good, nor bad,” she would tell me. “There’s only Life presenting a moment of opportunity and asking you whether you have prepared yourself to make good on your greater destiny.”

  The second observation my mother made was that the world has a habit of underestimating women.

  Many men, and even some women, fail to appreciate the ambition to a greater destiny that may throb in the heart of a woman. They do not see a woman’s potential because they look at all women through the lens of the limitations they place on the female of our species.

  “A smart woman will use this to her advantage,” my mother would often tell me.

  People’s lower expectations allow such a woman to fly under the radar, quietly growing in wisdom and strength, until the moment arrives when she can strike, and claim her higher destiny….

  PART I

  Seven months earlier

  Chapter 1

  The hit job — if it was to happen at all — was just over forty-eight hours away.

  The Russian assassin wound his way on foot through the narrow streets of Beausoleil, France, down toward Monaco. It was late August, the last Thursday of the month, and dusk had brought the cooler temperatures that suited him. He kept his gaze on the precise spot where he knew the rooftop of Villa St Eustace was. He couldn’t see it. The leafy branches of a giant jacaranda blocked the building completely from view.

  That pleased him.

  His eyes were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses and his appearance was distorted by a latex nose and a false beard. He pulled his New York Yankees baseball cap lower down on his brow and crossed the street which marked the border between France and the micro-state.

  The avenue descended behind a tall retaining wall and took him to Villa St Eustace, a yellow, five-story building with a typical Mediterranean roof of terracotta tiles. It was the headquarters of the privately-held international mining giant Magrelma Mines, and home on the Riviera to its American principals.

  The killer-for-hire walked on briskly, surveying the villa’s service entrance as he went. This narrow annex stood in the shadow of the windowless rear of two taller commercial buildings.

  In his mind, he went over the blueprint of the villa, the security measures in place, and the routine he had worked out that would give him entry.

  Getting in would be the easy part. The job, itself, would be a hell of a challenge.

  No weapons were to be used. The chic, ultra-wealthy principality was not the kind of place where you went around gunning people down, or slashing their throats.

  If the order eventually came, the client wanted this to look like an accidental death.

  The Russian followed the quiet avenue around a bend and found himself suddenly in the bustling heart of Monte Carlo. He bristled at the thought of the security cameras pointing down onto the streets from every angle in this section of the principality.

  He paced his steps behind the throngs of tourists in their summer shorts and broad-rimmed hats, ducking and weaving so that their bodies shielded him from the electronic stare. He hated being recorded, even when in disguise.

  “Can you believe this place?” said the male half of a slow-moving couple in front of him.

  “Like a Disneyland for adults,” the woman said.

  He had no time for gawking and paid no attention to the window displays of dresses that cost more than cars, and wristwatches priced higher than four-bedroom houses. Spending money was far from his thoughts. Making it — using his particular skills — was all that occupied him.

  He had already received the promised fifteen grand just for showing up. If the job fell through, he would walk away with the free money. But if his services were indeed needed, and if the job were accomplished cleanly, a million dollars would be wired to his Swiss bank account.

  He wanted this gig.

  The Russian cut through the Casino gardens. He walked past the brasserie of the Café de Paris and ignored the perfumed and trendily-coiffed diners who stationed themselves under broad, white umbrellas to watch the tourists parading the Casino Square, and, more p
ointedly, to be watched by them. He stopped only when he arrived at the foot of the staircase of the famous Casino de Monte Carlo.

  He looked back up the hill from where he had come. All that showed of Villa St Eustace was a small, yellow rectangle consisting of the far right corner of the top two stories, and one skylight of the red-tiled mansard. The service annex was completely hidden behind taller buildings.

  This pleased him.

  He had seen all that he needed to see, but he would linger a few moments.

  As he pretended to merge with a cluster of day-trippers from the cruise ship in the harbor, he looked at his watch. He expected William Mahler, the owner of the top floor apartment, to show up at Le Bar Américain just about then, as was Mahler’s custom almost every summer evening.

  Mahler did not disappoint.

  His silver Maybach, which would have made a one-minute journey from the garage of Villa St Eustace, crawled to a stop in front of the Belle Epoch confection known as the Hôtel de Paris, just yards away from the Casino.

  On cue, a liveried doorman trotted down the steps of the hotel and removed a red, velvet cordon from a pair of bollards. The Maybach eased into the now free parking space closest to the hotel entrance.

  The chauffeur — in all black, from cap to glistening shoes — emerged and removed a wheelchair from the trunk, which the doorman promptly whisked away to the top of the staircase. A stocky man dressed in a white, short-sleeved uniform — evidently a male nurse — exited the front passenger side.

  With much deference and obvious pride at being part of the spectacle, the two men eased their silver-haired and slightly portly employer from his place in the backseat. This took some time as there were two legs in plaster casts to fuss about. Each man draped one of Mahler’s arms over his shoulders, and they ferried their precious cargo up the stairs.

  Tanned, wearing a cream, bespoke suit and carrying the air of a man of enormous means, Mahler settled into the wheelchair with a smile. The doorman unlocked a rarely-used glass door and the nurse wheeled Mahler’s chair through it. They paused at the statue of Louis XIV mounted on a horse, and then disappeared in the direction of Le Bar Américain.

  “Was that some old movie star or something?” a middle-aged man among the cruise ship passengers said.

  “Heck if I know,” someone replied.

  “If ever I become wheelchair-bound, that is the way I want to go,” the first man said.

  “Sure, Gary; all you have to do is win the lottery first,” a voice rang out, and the clutch of passengers erupted in laughter.

  The Russian circled around to the back of the casino. The dark blue Mediterranean stretched for miles before him. A dozen triangular, white sails bobbed in the distance, but his eyes focused only on the Monte Carlo Bay Hotel, which practically squatted in the sea on a plot of reclaimed land at the farthest southeastern edge of the principality.

  Fran Mahler, William Mahler’s wife, was there now. She had spent the previous day in Milan, and, to the casual observer, it would have appeared that she had been preoccupied there with meeting the Milanese event management firm she had hired for the gala dinner she was to host at the Monte Carlo Bay on the coming Saturday. The Russian, however, had arranged for her to be watched; word had got back to him that a beefy, young Italian male model had trailed a discreet distance behind Mrs Mahler, and had eventually entered her Milan hotel room.

  Carmela Greene, the owner of the apartment below Mahler’s, was off on a luxury cruise in the South Seas and was not expected back for several weeks. Daniel Greene, her son, who lived in London, would have landed in Nice a short time ago. Mrs Greene’s chauffeur had taken her late husband’s Lamborghini out to the airport. The Russian expected Daniel Greene to arrive behind its wheel for a meeting with Mahler at the bar in about twenty minutes.

  To the right, in the harbor below, sat the massive, white cruise ship which had disgorged the hordes of tourists who scurried about the principality. Ironically, it dwarfed the scores of boats lining the marina, the irony being that among them were some of the largest superyachts on the planet.

  The last of the occupants of Villa St Eustace, Henry Maitland, was a guest aboard one of those boats, the dark blue one with the canary yellow deck chairs, which belonged to a New York media mogul. No doubt Maitland was somewhere close to the bar on the lower deck getting himself completely hammered, as was his daily habit.

  From not far off, came the sound of a roaring engine. The beast-like growl was unmistakable to the Russian’s ears. He strode back to the Casino Square, and arrived in time to see the red Murciélago crawl by a wall of admiring spectators. It found a place at the lawn-covered traffic circle in front of the Hôtel de Paris.

  The scissor door rose and the driver emerged. Tall, lean, clean-shaven, and in his early thirties, he cut a striking figure in his denim jeans and a crisp, white shirt. Without making eye contact with anyone, he shut the door, slipped on a navy blue jacket, and bounded up the stairs to the hotel.

  The Russian checked his watch. Daniel Greene had arrived fifteen minutes earlier than expected.

  Either his flight had landed early, or, more likely, the Lambo had zipped like a bat out of hell along the rugged and treacherous cliff-hugging road known as the Moyen Corniche, which was Greene’s preferred route into the principality.

  The Russian pictured Greene charging along as if on the last lap of the Monte Carlo Grand Prix, disregarding all manner of traffic regulations, and leaving angry or — very likely — envious drivers in his wake.

  “Never been this close to a Lambo before,” said a young man who grinned and posed in front of Greene’s car. “And look at all the other whips in this one spot — three Ferraris, a Maserati, and a Rolls! Just crazy man!”

  “God, I wish I could live here,” said the young woman who snapped pictures of the fellow with her cell phone. “Must be like waking up in a dream every morning.”

  The Russian glanced at the couple as he headed back toward Beausoleil. In their early twenties, he figured. He shook his head. They should have been old enough to realize that all that glitters is not gold.

  A dream? The place ran on the greed and treachery that made his chosen profession viable.

  And in little more than forty-eight hours — if granted the opportunity — he would become the worst nightmare of someone at Villa St Eustace.

  Chapter 2

  Daniel Greene stepped into Le Bar Américain.

  His rather prominent nose cast a shadow on a just barely perceptible scar, which bore testimony to years of seemingly endless surgeries to correct a cleft lip. His light green eyes searched the room.

  From his wheelchair, parked at a table behind the unoccupied piano, Mahler had a clear view of Greene. He had long felt sorry for the young man. He imagined those childhood years spent in and out of hospital must have been rough on Greene, especially given the circumstances which caused the boy to battle his medical challenges practically on his own. And he knew growing up as Isaac Greene’s son would not have been any walk in the park, either.

  But the one thing Mahler would not endure from anyone was intrusion into his turf at Magrelma Mines. The whiff of competition that he had caught from Greene was enough to wipe out the smattering of sympathy in Mahler’s breast for the younger man.

  For three decades, he had slugged, schemed, and schmoozed in order to steer the company to the plateau of success. His partners had learned early to bow to his sway; the kid would have to learn to fall in line, too.

  Over the past few weeks, Mahler had disregarded Greene’s calls and emails. And now, here was Greene, his eyes searching the room, his face telegraphing his determination to no longer be ignored.

  Two companions at Mahler’s table helpe
d themselves to a platter of wafer-thin potato chips. The company and the glass of cognac he had already imbibed served to heighten Mahler’s natural congeniality. He began on his second drink and made up his mind not to let the inevitable encounter with Greene kill the spirit of the evening.

  His eyes met Greene’s when the younger man finally turned in his direction. Mahler waved him over.

  “Daniel, you haven’t met Richard Pimms and George Crawford have you?” Mahler said above the din of the bar. “Richard, George, this is Isaac’s boy. Taking up at Magrelma where his father left off.”

  The men got up and extended their hands toward Greene.

  He, however, kept his stare firmly on Mahler.

  “I didn’t come to socialize.”

  Unfazed by the brusqueness of youth and warmed by the extra old elixir, Mahler dismissed his companions with a tilt of the head. He motioned Greene to sit.

  “Did you remember to stroke the horse?” Mahler said.

  “What?”

  “The statue out front. They say stroking the horse’s knee brings good luck.”

  Greene said nothing.

  Mahler continued. “Your father and I used to do it almost religiously. Except he only did it if he was going to the Casino afterward. But I stroke the horse every time I pass through those doors. Been doing it since the first day I moved here. Sure has worked for me.”

  “I make my own luck.”

  Greene’s eyes were cold disks topped by thick eyebrows and underlined by dark lower lids. There was no goodwill there, Mahler thought.