Reckless

“What the hell was that?” Antoine de la Court asked.

“Probably somebody’s car backfiring,” said Albert Dumas.

Then came the second and third shots, in quick succession, followed by loud screaming from the street below.

“That’s gunfire!” Pascal dropped Tracy’s hand like a hot stone and dived for the panic button on the far wall. “Everybody get down!” His voice had shot up an octave with fear. Despite this, everyone in the room flattened themselves to the ground as commanded.

Everyone except Tracy. Moving calmly to the window, she pulled back the curtain and surveyed the street below. A man dressed in black and driving a Ducati motorbike roared past and out of sight. The shooter, presumably. But had he found his target?

At first it was hard to tell what was happening. People were running everywhere, scattering in panic, screaming. But Tracy’s trained eyes swiftly settled on three individuals amid the melee.

The first was Major General Frank Dorrien, standing in the street yelling into his telephone, gesticulating wildly.

So MI6 knew Drexel would be here! Interesting that they never said a word to the CIA.

The second was a blond man who appeared to be trying to hide a limp. Tracy couldn’t ma

ke out the man’s face from this angle but she saw his muscles tense in pain as he attempted to run in the direction of the river.

The third individual who drew Tracy’s attention she could only see from behind. This man was tall, well dressed with dark curly hair, and he was the only person walking, rather than running, toward the metro station.

Tracy’s heart sank into the pit of her stomach.

I recognize that walk.

Just then, a hand grabbed her roughly by the waist and manhandled her down onto the floor.

“Mon Dieu, Mary Jo, have you lost your mind?” Pascal Cauchin hissed in Tracy’s ear. “Stay away from the window. It could be a terrorist attack! The police are on their way but you must stay down.”

“Sorry, Pascaaaal,” Tracy drawled. Decades of practice had taught her never to slip when in character. “Ah guess ah was just curious.”

Lying on Pascal Cauchin’s parquet floor, Tracy’s heart and mind raced.

I must have made a mistake. It can’t be him.

It just can’t be.

HÉLÈNE FAUBOURG ALMOST JUMPED out of her skin. A handsome, blond man with wild eyes and a terrifying expression on his face stepped right in front of her Renault Clio, practically hurling himself across her windscreen.

“Help me,” he panted, wrenching open the passenger door and climbing inside once Hélène screeched to a halt.

“Get out!” she screamed. “Get out of my car!”

She had pepper spray in the glove box, but would have to reach across him to get it.

“Please. I won’t hurt you. I’ve been shot. See?” The man pulled up the leg of his pants to reveal rivers of blood.

“I’ll take you to the hospital,” Hélène said. “The one on Rue Ambroise Paré is the closest. You’ll be OK.”

“No,” said the man. “No hospitals. Please. I need to get out of Paris. Just drive.”

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out what must have been tens of thousands of euros, maybe more, in cash.

“Take it,” he wheezed, wincing in pain. “Please. Just get me out of here.”

Hélène looked at the money. Then she looked at the man’s face. And made a decision.

What the hell. You only live once.