The Final Cut (A Brit in the FBI 1)

Nicholas shoved the man backward, and as he lost his balance Mike shot him in the leg. He howled in pain, and his leg buckled. He was too close to the edge of the roof. Nicholas saw him stumble and fall, and grabbed for his wrist, but his palms were slick with blood and he couldn’t hold on.

With a scream, the man disappeared over the edge. His body struck the dormer window frame, then toppled down to the sidewalk onto the Place Vendôme below.

82

Nicholas and Mike looked over the edge. The man had landed facedown, arms spread-eagled out on the concrete, his neck clearly broken. She didn’t want to see his face.

Nicholas slid down the wall, breathing hard. Mike eased down beside him, reached over and swiped the blood off his nose and mouth. She picked up his hand, saw the torn knuckles. “Not too bad.” There was blood all over his chest. “You’re bleeding!”

“No, no, it’s his blood. Sorry I couldn’t keep him alive, Mike.”

“I wish I’d shot him in both knees.”

Nicholas laughed, couldn’t help it. He got up and pulled her with him. “Damnation, woman, you’re the one covered in blood. Where did he hit you?”

She blinked at him, mute, then stared down at herself and passed out without a sound.

He eased her down onto the roof. Her nose was bleeding, and she had a cut lip. He ripped her shirt open and pulled it down. The man had shot her in the arm. A bullet to the biceps, through and though, into the meat of the muscle, not the bone, thank the good Lord above.

He ripped the sleeve off and used it as a tourniquet, then ran his hands over the rest of her body. No more injuries. She’d be okay. He pulled her against him for a moment, thankful and quiet, then stood up and hoisted her over his shoulder. He heard a whisper of a laugh.

“That tickles.”

“Stay still. I need to get you down the stairs.” She relaxed against his back, and he carried her down the stairs to their room.

Their suite looked like a war zone. At least the sofa was still in one piece. He laid her down, and she looked up at him and smiled.

“Aren’t we a pair? Do I look as bad as you do?”

He smiled back. “I don’t want to look. Stay still, Mike. I hear the sirens. We’re going to be crawling with cops any second now. Did you call it in?”

“Yes. Before I went up after you to the roof. Let me sit up.” She realized then she had a split lip from the man’s fist in her face when she first opened the door.

“Now who’s being the tough one?” he asked, but helped her up, loosened the tourniquet, happy to see that the wound was bleeding only slightly.

He said, “We’re going to have matching stitches.”

She wanted to tell him she would have more fun checking his stitches than he would hers, but she didn’t. She said, “Who was that man?”

“I don’t know. He’s dead. Look, it couldn’t be helped. I still can’t believe he wouldn’t give up.”

She couldn’t believe it, either.

“I’ve never seen anyone fight like you do. It’s brutal.”

Nicholas said, “It’s Filipino Kali with a bit of karate thrown in. I’ll teach you, if you’d like.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Maybe you’d better wait to see some of my moves first.”

83

Ritz Paris

15 Place Vendôme

Saturday evening

Hotel security wasn’t happy to have a shootout on their roof and a dead man on the street at the front doors. The local flic from the commissariat de police, who introduced himself as Monsieur L’Agent Foulard, insisted on interrogating them for twenty minutes, despite their badges. It was only Menard’s arrival that put a halt to it.