The Whole Truth (A. Shaw 1)

“She’s not a little girl, Frank.”

“Did you tell her you weren’t retiring? That any second your ass could be grass?”

“What the hell do you care?”

Frank looked uncomfortable and shrugged. “She seems like a nice lady. You ever stop to think about what you getting killed might do to her? Or if one of the wackos we deal with on a daily basis gets wind of her?”

“I would never let anything happen to Anna.”

“But you’re not in control of that, are you? You’re not an accountant, Shaw. And in our line of work, you make a mistake, you get dead real fast. And maybe she does too.” He paused. “So with all that you don’t think she had a right to know?”

Shaw didn’t say anything, because more than a little bit of him was arriving at the conclusion that Frank, the hated Frank, might be right.

Frank rose, grabbed his overcoat, and headed to the door. “Good luck, Shaw. And if I don’t see you again, well, I’ll have to find somebody else, won’t I?”

“You’ll never find anybody as good as me.”

Frank considered this as he slipped on a battered hat. “You’re probably right about that. But I’ll settle for almost as good. And if they do end up killing you, right before the bullet hits you

in the brain, just ask yourself one question: was the lady really worth it?”

Frank slammed the door behind him, leaving Shaw alone with only his thoughts.

“Yes,” Shaw said to the empty room. “She is.”

CHAPTER 39

SHAW WAS ON THE MOVE. The warehouse was in an area of Paris where people who liked to avoid violence never ventured. This small patch of French earth wasn’t controlled by the police; it belonged to others who called it home. And they did not encourage visitors.

Four skinheads came out of the darkness toward Shaw, who stood at one end of the warehouse, a few dim bulbs overhead the only illumination. The young men encircled him; they didn’t even bother to hide their weapons. They probably ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner holding them closer than any woman they’d ever bedded.

Three of them wore tank tops though it was chilly outside. They were all white, though it was actually hard to tell because their torsos were so blackened with tattoos. The skin engravings were all different, except for one that appeared on the right triceps of each man: a swastika. One of them, who looked about twenty, had an entire dragon wrapped around his upper body, in black, green, and salmon colors, the fangs spreading across the bottom part of his face. He was carrying a pump-action twelve-gauge in one hand with “I don’t give a shit about nuthin’” attitude awash in his brown eyes that stared at Shaw with a convincing mix of hatred and contempt. He loaded up and sent a wad of spit an inch from Shaw’s foot.

Your mother must be so proud.

Shaw turned to another man who was walking up to him. He wore a jacket, pressed jeans, and tasseled loafers instead of black cammie pants, muscle shirt, and head-busting combat boots. But his attitude mirrored his men’s. He moved with a conceited swagger that just made you want to reach for a gun or ball up your fist and squash him for the good of humanity.

He couldn’t have been more than thirty but his scarred face and expressive features intimated a far greater experience level than three decades normally provided.

He shook Shaw’s hand and motioned him over to a small table set up in one corner. Only when he took a seat did Shaw follow. The skins now encircled the table. They were pack animals, Shaw observed, always waiting for the order to kill.

“Je suis Adolph, monsieur. And you go by?”

“Nothing,” Shaw said. “I have all you need.”

“The price was never mentioned,” Adolph said. “Unusual, yes?”

Shaw leaned slightly forward. “There are some things more important than money.”

“Most things are more important than money, but you need money to accomplish all of them.” The man smiled and lit up a cigarette. “If only Sartre were still alive, he could give us the precise philosophical analysis, or perhaps he would simply answer, ‘C’est la vie.’”

“You want to kill President Benisti,” Shaw began. “That will throw France into near anarchy.”

Adolph shook his head. “You overestimate the French love of politics. You say I want to kill Benisti? That is your opinion only. But even if I did, it’s only one dead president. They will simply elect another idiot.”

“This is the land of political revolution,” Shaw retorted.

“Au contraire. This was the land of political revolution,” Adolph answered. “We have been truly Americanized. All my fellow citizens care about now is whether they have the latest iPhone. But we are the real revolutionaries, mon ami.”