in the nearly empty bakery, his bleary eyes recognizing McCarter instantly. “Oy. Three unsavory chaps like you blowing through my door? It’s a bloody good wager someone would think you’d come looking for guns. Lord knows you’d draw a touch of interest from John Law.”
McCarter looked around the bakery and saw a lone man, disheveled with a jaw covered in stubble, take a sip of coffee. The reaction on his face told the Briton that whatever he had just drank ranked with Aaron Kurtzman’s worst pots of brew. The coffee drinker was a local Frenchman, and from his state, McCarter could tell that he was an armed, undercover police officer. McCarter glared at Mittner, making his look as dirty as he possibly could.
The Frenchman took a bite of a scone that crunched as if it were made of plaster.
“What? Just because we came in here with a dumb American Southerner…” McCarter began.
Manning tapped McCarter on the arm. “You’re being redundant.”
Hawkins nodded. “And wrong. I might have been born in the dirty South, but I was raised in Texas. There’s the South, and then there’s Texas. Never the twain shall meet, got it, hoss?”
McCarter rolled his eyes at the interruptions. “Sorry. Just because we have a redneck idiot—”
“Redundancy,” Manning interrupted again.
McCarter gave Manning a scowl. He looked at Hawkins, who merely nodded in approval over the latest appelation the Briton had given him. Presumably after the faux pas with stereotyping the French, he was accepting pennance for his Texas cliché.
“Just because we have a Texan with us does not mean we’re gun-obsessed morons with no sense of awe and wonder,” McCarter finished. “Can’t a bloke walk into a bakery for biscuits and tea?”
Mittner nodded at the lone patron, who nodded in return as he stood. “If you will excuse me, I must retire to the men’s room. This coffee runs through a man as if it were a flood tide.”
“You know where to go, Bertrand,” Mittner stated.
Bertrand nodded to the counter man and walked down a hallway.
“We don’t have much time,” Mittner said. “He’s paid well to ignore certain things, and he doesn’t agree with the current administration of intelligence services in this country.”
“So he knows, but he can’t say what we’re doing here if he’s in the loo for the bulk of our conversation,” McCarter concluded.
“Makes things a little simpler,” Hawkins said, standing in the hallway leading to the washroom. “You know him, David?”
“No real names, Texan,” McCarter cut him off.
Mittner nodded in agreement. “He knows the type. A no-bullshit officer. You’ll want locker FP5.”
Mittner slid a key onto the counter that McCarter took, exchanging it for euro notes with numbers written into the margins. Mittner looked them over. “You’ll inform me of the replacement code when you’re satisfied?”
“I’ll be satisfied with combat Tupperware?” McCarter challenged.
“I told you, finding a Hi-Power in France at this time is like trying to find a public official who takes a shower,” Mittner returned.
Hawkins stifled a snort of laughter at Mittner’s comment.
“Which package did you provide?” McCarter asked.
“Your first option,” Mittner told the Phoenix Force commander.
“Well, can’t be too bad, then,” Manning said. “If it’s your first choice—”
“It’s not locked and cocked and made of steel, but it’ll do,” McCarter cut him off. “Thanks, Mittner.”
“Whatever you do, don’t get caught. It’s all well and good being an outlaw to do the right thing, but the French government doesn’t have much patience for outlaws,” Mittner warned.
“I promise not to kick their asses too badly,” McCarter replied.
Mittner handed the trio a small plate of almond croissants and three lattes. “On the house.”
“Thanks,” McCarter replied.
Hawkins took a bite of his pastry reluctantly, after remembering the condemnation Bertrand had given to Mittner’s cooking. He was surprised at the flavor and freshness of the croissant. “Where does Bertrand get off insulting his cooking?”
“Bertrand is on a budget, and he can’t justify spending money on Mittner’s good cooking, so he’s forced to eat the day-old baked goods,” Manning said. “Besides, if Mittner were to start making good stuff for the French agent hanging out at his shop, watching for arms deals, his supervisors would think that there was some form of collusion between them.”
McCarter took a sip of his latte. “Which there is, but the appearance of propriety makes up for a lot in terms of French collaboration.”
“Collaboration sounds pretty negative,” Hawkins noted.
“Not in this case,” McCarter said. “Mittner informed us directly that Bertrand was on our side. If we do happen to get nicked by the gendarmerie, we can call on him for a voucher. Though, if that does happen, we’re shit out of luck.”
“In other words, since we’re cheating, we better not get caught,” Hawkins mused.
“Precisely,” McCarter said. “We scored pretty well. I had Mittner pull a set of Steyr AUG A-3 rifles with Aimpoint scopes and a selection of alternate barrels. For side arms, we have SIG-Sauer SP-2022 pistols.”
“Ah. Plastic pistols with hammers.” Hawkins spoke up. “Why not a Heckler & Koch USP?”
“The French don’t like German guns,” McCarter said.
“But SIG-Sauer is…” Hawkins began.
“Once more, the image of propriety,” McCarter returned. “Plus, the SP-2022 is the new side arm of choice of French law enforcement. We can score ammunition and magazines easily if we have to.”
“Point taken,” Hawins affirmed.
“Now, we’ve got leads to check out,” McCarter continued.
“You’ve been getting updates from Barb?” Hawkins asked.
McCarter tapped his phone. “Of course. Plus, Gary used to do business with some chaps in France’s nuclear power security back when he owned his own company. We’ll tap them, as well.”
Hawkins looked at Manning. “Man, I wish they’d picked someone with more real world contacts than a silk jumper and ground pounder like me.”
“Don’t worry, son,” Manning replied. “Stick with us, and you’ll get a real education.”
Phoenix Force hit the streets to pick up their weapons.
A
