Chapter 8

The trill of my cell phone dragged me awake. I checked my watch; three-thirty-five A.M.

“Yeah?”

“What the Hell is going on, Lightfoot?” Mike yelled.

Confused, I informed him, “Nothing.”

“Did you do it? No. I know you didn’t. SHIT!” he exclaimed. “You need to get the Hell out of there NOW! And I mean NOW!”

As sleep fell away, I asked, “What the fuck is going on, Mike?”

“General Hollister’s dead.”

“Shit! How?”

“Heart attack.”

Now really confused, I said, “I’m sorry to hear it. Callie’s going to be devastated. But why do I have to leave now?”

His answer shook me deeply.

“He was tortured. His heart failed. A warrant is out for your arrest.”

“Me? Why?”

“You’ve been identified by a witness as the person that abducted him.”

“That’s crap! I haven’t left Paris since he visited!”

“Listen, Lightfoot. I know you weren’t involved, but they have you on security cams in Brussels. Every agency has been alerted, including Interpol. The American Embassy is sending people over to arrest you and pick up Callie. There’s a real shit-storm erupting. He was America’s highest ranking General in Europe for Christ sake!”

“I...” for a moment I was at a loss for words.

“Just get out! We’ll figure it out later,” Mike ordered and cut the connection.

Moving suddenly, I jumped out of bed and dressed. Three minutes later I had my duffle packed. Then I stopped dead.

General Hollister’s words of warning came back to me. Lightfoot, if anything happens to me, you have to keep Callie away from the American Embassy and all American agencies for her own safety.

What’s going on?

I made an executive decision and went to Callie’s room, entering without knocking. She was sound asleep. Shaking her shoulder, I ordered her, “Get up. Get dressed. Pack some clothes. And don’t ask questions. We have to leave. Now!”

“What?” she asked rubbing her eyes.

“Move it!”

I had to give her credit. When she saw the look in my eyes, she exploded into action.

Ten minutes later, with Callie pulling a small, blood-red overnight case behind her, we left the apartment. I guided us to the stairs, grabbed her case and led us down. Should we take the car? It would be faster but it could be tracked, the license plate known. The Metro? No. Too many security cameras. Car it would be.

Callie jumped into the Mercedes. It was obvious she was confused and now scared. As I drove away, turning right towards the autoroute, two blacked-out Suburban SUVs raced past us heading towards the apartment.

Twenty minutes later I turned into a residential section on the outskirts of Paris and cruised the dark homes. It took ten minutes to find what I wanted - another silver Mercedes.

Five minutes of quick work and I had the plates switched. It wouldn’t last, but it would misdirect for long enough for us to leave Paris.

“What’s going on?” Callie asked as we cruised away.

“I don’t know.”

“Bull! You know. Tell me,” she insisted.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell her her father was dead. Not here, in a car, on the run. “We’ll talk as soon as we’re safe, Callie. Right now I have to concentrate.”

Back roads out of Paris were serpentine and slow. However, there were few, if any, traffic cams; not like the hundreds on the autoroutes.

Dawn was breaking when I pulled into a gas station in Ludon, a small village south of Paris. With the gas tank replenished, I paid cash. It reminded me I’d need more cash. Credit cards were out of the question.

Two blocks down, I parked at a closed Intermarché, one of the smaller chains of supermarkets. Turning in the seat towards Callie and, not knowing any other way to break the news, I said, “Your father is dead. He was killed.”

Callie’s eyes opened wide, washed-out blue, shocked. A cascade of emotions passed through in a heartbeat; shock, disbelief, comprehension, and, as pain arrived, her beautiful eyes brimmed with tears. She shook her head as if denying it.

“No,” she whispered. “No. Please, tell me you’re lying.”

When I didn’t, Callie covered her face with her hands and sobbed, her whole body shaking. It hurt me seeing her in pain, yet I had no idea what to do, how to help, how to comfort. I sat and watched her cry, my heart aching for her. It was the longest half hour of my life.

Eventually her tears passed. Red-eyed, she turned and looked out the window.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

She shook her head.

Starting the car, I eased away from the supermarket. For the rest of the day we headed south. Callie was silent, not uttering one word, not looking at me. She watched the passing scenery and every so often her hand would brush away tears from her cheek. She ignored the stale ham sandwiches I bought at the next gas station.