Chapter 12

Miles of French countryside slipped by in companionable silence. The Peugeot was a feisty little car I enjoyed driving. It gave me time to think.

Callie was a distraction. Not good given our situation. But I couldn’t help it. In the middle of last night she’d woken me, moaning and tossing, signs of a disturbed sleep. She’d rolled away from me earlier at some point. I tried placing a hand on her to calm her. When her moans turned into quiet whimpers, I rolled towards her and hugged her, spooning her from behind, whispering, “Hush, Ayasha.”

I’d woken up in exactly the same position and, for a few moments, found peace. She emitted a sleep-muted aroma of jasmine and plums. While tall for her age, she was slender in my arms, petite but not. She felt good against me, a warm, female body.

When she shifted, I closed my eyes so our position wouldn’t embarrass her. But, once she’d eased herself away from me and headed to the bathroom, I watched her.

Her T-shirt had rucked up exposing an exquisite ass in pale yellow cotton panties - a developing teardrop with dance-toned buttocks that moved sensuously. Being an ass lover, I’d admired, unashamed, then shook myself. I was here to protect her, not take advantage of her!

As the miles melted away, I had the image of her incredible butt in my mind. I couldn’t get rid of it.

Just before five in the afternoon, we entered the outskirts of Paris. Twenty minutes later we were parked on Boulevard Haussmann, the American Embassy a hundred feet away.

“This guy you’re after works at the Embassy?” Callie asked, fidgeting in her seat.

I nodded.

“Do you know where he lives?”

I nodded.

“Then, why are we here?”

“I need to make sure he’s in town.”

“Why don’t you call him?” Callie asked, a reasonable question.

“I don’t want him on alert. There!” I pointed at a mid-thirties man, well dressed, short brown hair well coifed, clean-shaven. Russell Kirk. Officially Press Officer for the Embassy. Unofficially, the Paris CIA liaison.

Starting the car, we eased back into the traffic, heading away.

Forty-some minutes later we were parked in a residential street. Eventually, Russell appeared walking along the sidewalk as if he didn’t have a care in the world, briefcase swinging. He entered an apartment building, one of many lining the street.

“Now what?” Callie asked.

“We wait.”

“Boring. So... How can you throw a ball as hard as you can and have it come back to you, even if it doesn’t bounce off anything, there is nothing attached to it, and no one else catches or throws it back to you?“

I pondered it. “Throw it straight up in the air.”

“You’re no fun, Lightfoot.”

It was time to move. “Stay here,” I ordered Callie. “Don’t even open the door.”

“How long will you be? Is it dangerous?”

“Fifteen minutes or so. There’s no danger. While I’m gone, figure this one out. If you feed me I grow. But if you give me a drink, I die. What am I?“

With her preoccupied, I walked up the street to the apartment building. Security wasn’t great. I could have picked the lock if I’d had the tools. I didn’t.

At the intercom, I pressed 3B.

“Oui?”

Raising my voice one octave and giving it a southern accent, I responded, “Courier from the embassy, Mr. Kirk,” imitating Justin Mackie, a known Embassy messenger.”

The door lock clicked.

Pushing through, I took the stairs. I didn’t want to run into any other tenant. At Russell’s front door, I knocked.

When it cracked open, I shoved hard, throwing Russell back. Three steps and I had my left hand around his throat and slammed him against the wall, holding him pinned.

“You!” he exclaimed, eyes wide with sudden recognition.

“Why was I set up?” I asked.

“I have no idea.”

Without warning, I slammed my fist into his jaw, his head bouncing off the wall, his lip splitting. “Why was I framed?”

Russell’s eyes regained focus. “I swear! I don’t know!”

This time I hit him harder, snarling at him. His eyebrow split, blood cascading down the side of his face to stain his shirt.

“Okay! Okay! Enough!” he yelled.

“Talk,” I snarled, still holding him by the throat and pressing him to the wall.

“They wanted you out of the way.”

“Why?”

“To get to the Hollister girl.”

Tightening my grip, choking him slightly in anger, I asked again, “Why?”

“She has information.”

“No. She doesn’t,” I informed him. “Who set me up?”

“I don’t know. That’s way above my pay grade, Lightfoot.”

I could see his lie. Why was he playing for time? A blood soaked smirk emerged. He withdrew his hand from his pants pocket and opened his fist.

Shit! A small panic fob rested in his palm.

“You’re too late, Lightfoot. They’re on their way. You can’t get away this time. Where’s the Hollister girl?”

Infuriated at my lapse - I should have remembered the fob, I slammed my fist into his cheek. Russell’s head snapped back smacking against the wall with a loud thud. The whites of his eyes showed. He slumped. I let him fall limp to the floor and raced out.

Running out the front of the building, I turned towards the Peugeot. As I reached it, in the distance, two black Suburban SUVs tore around the corner.

“Get your seatbelt on,” I ordered Callie, starting the car. Five seconds later I tore out onto the street with a squeal of rubber and floored the accelerator, the tach hitting red before I up-shifted into second gear.

Watching the rear view mirror, my fears were confirmed; the Suburbans passed Russell’s apartment building giving chase.

Another gear change and we were barreling down the narrow residential street at over eighty kilometers an hour, engine screaming, Callie hanging on to the door handle.

The Peugeot was a racy little car, but its small engine, GTI or not, was no match for the big V8s following us. They charged forward.

“Hang on!” I yelled as we were rammed from the back, our rear wheels leaving the road. Callie screamed. When the wheels hit the road our rear bumper fell off. The Suburban swerved to avoid it giving us a slight gap.

The rear window suddenly exploded, glass fragments flying. Callie screamed again. Fuck! They’re shooting at us!

Ahead to the right was a side alley. Without thinking, I slammed the brakes on and yanked the steering wheel to the right, the Peugeot slewing into a four-wheel drift, the front left crashing into the wall and bouncing off, metal tearing, headlight glass tinkling. Accelerating hard, the car straightened and we barreled down the alley. Our side mirror swiped a garbage container leaving a spray of sparks and the mirror behind us. They didn’t follow, the alley too narrow.

Peeling right at the next street, parked cars on both sides of the street suggested I was going the wrong way on a one-way road. I made an immediate left, into another alley, tires squealing to maintain adhesion. The car bounced over drainage dips in the center. A main road appeared ahead of us, traffic passing. Slowing, I turned right onto it and held to the speed limit, eyes peeled for the Suburbans.

“What happened?” Callie asked, her voice raised.

We had an hour or less before the make, model, color, and license plates of our Peugeot were broadcast to the French Gendarmes. Forty-five minutes to disappear.

“Hunter! What happened?” Callie yelled.

“He had a panic button that alerted the Embassy security detail.”