The Sketcher's Mark (Lara McBride Thrillers Book 1) by Chris O'Neill Page B

loaded.  They smelled of cologne and body odor.  She’d seen the SWAT teams in Los Angeles. They were professionals but often struck her as having something to prove.  The French team moved with a mechanical nonchalance that came across as though tonight was just another day at the office- that made her feel like she was in safe hands.
     
    The Tactical team’s leader, a tall, tanned man with close cropped hair and an impeccable moustache, was briefing his men.  Lara understood little of it since her French hadn’t improved in the last few days.  Brouchard sat across from her, chewing on a bag of pistachios.  He offered one to her but she was already nauseous and shook her head in polite refusal.
     
    The Kevlar vest they had given her was uncomfortable, cutting up in to her chest.  A small price to pay if it saved her life.  The Tech Officer finished attaching a button camera to the front of the beige overcoat they’d given her to help hide the body armor better.  He had also fixed a small mic to her lapel.  They were thorough and she appreciated not having to tell them what needed doing.
    “I’d like a gun,” she told Brouchard.  He smiled and shook his head.
    “You won’t need one.  This is the best armed response team in Paris.  They have plenty of guns.”
    “That’s what I’m afraid of.  We need to take the suspect alive.  If he dies, we might never find out where he’s holding Janelle.”
    “They know, Detective.  Shoot to wound, not to kill.”
    “No shooting at all if possible.”
    “This is not our first rodeo, ma’am,” the Team Leader said.  She looked at him- he had piercing brown eyes that were trained on her like weapons.  She didn’t doubt his commitment and she needed to keep him and the rest of the team on her side.
    “Just be careful.”
    “Of course.”  The Team Leader stepped over to the Comms Officer, sat at his station checking the visual feed being relayed from Lara’s button camera.  He had two screens, one showing her feed, three other small windows showing the real time view of the CCTV cameras in the area whose lines he had cut in to. 
    “And the GPS on her phone?” the Team Leader asked.  The Comms Officer gave a thumbs up.  The Team Leader turned to Brouchard. “We’re set, Inspector.”
    “Ready, Detective?” Brouchard asked her.
    “Ready.  But I’d still like a gun.”
     
    Lara opened the back door of the van and stepped out in to the cold, wet night.  Brouchard was right behind her.  It was raining hard and they were parked across the street from the Quayside.  Traffic raced by, headlights blinding.  The van door closed behind them.
    “I have eyes on you.  Where’s your earpiece?”
    Lara tapped her right ear where the Tech Officer had gently placed an ear receiver, flesh colored so as not to draw attention.  From a distance it would pass but up close the game was up.
    She saw two of the Tactical Team members get out of the front of the van.  They were wearing raincoats, plainclothes, but she assumed they had an arsenal concealed beneath.  These were to be her guardian angels.  They crossed the street and took up position overlooking the river.
    “Off you go, Lara.  You’re going to be fine.” Brouchard assured her, then started walking down the boulevard.  She crossed the street, hurrying past the oncoming cars, hearing horns blare at her.  Damn, the drivers here were crazier than back home.  At least they could drive in the rain, though.  Somehow, when it rained in Los Angeles, traffic stopped in confusion and came to a crawl, everybody losing their minds.
     
    She looked down at the river, the rain spattering across the water in a crazed dance.  The tall street lights and those of the pleasure boats drifting in both directions along the river provided pools of amber light here and there.  The walkway below was covered in a sheet of flowing water flooding back in to the Seine and she saw people running to get out of