Paris is a Bitch

I glanced behind me. The two men Delilah had dropped were still down. I glanced the other way. The truck was quiet. Either it was empty, or whoever was inside didn’t realize what had just happened to his buddies. I strode over to the back door and gave it two brisk raps with my knuckles. “Open up,” I said in French. “There’s been a problem.”

I heard movement inside, then the door started to swing out. I grabbed the handle and flung the door wide, and the guy who’d been opening it spilled out onto the street with a startled cry. As he came to his knees, I grabbed his hair with both hands and shot a knee into his face, then a second time, and again. By the third shot, his arms had dropped away and I was supporting dead weight. I let go and he slumped to the street, his head smacking the fender of the truck with a theatrical clang along the way.

As I used the hem of my jacket to wipe down the handle I’d grabbed, the driver’s door blew open. I immediately moved counterclockwise around the truck, buying myself time and distance in case whoever it was had a weapon. But then I heard the sound of feet and saw the guy’s back as he turned left on Rue Poulletier, and I realized he was running away. He would have been better off driving, but maybe he’d thought I was the police, or maybe he’d just panicked.

I went after him. It wasn’t carefully planned, just an impulse, born of cold rage at what would have been happening in that truck if things had gone the way they’d planned. And it wasn’t as though I wanted to stick around the crime scene anyway.

He headed west on the Quai d’Anjou. I thought he would break right over the Pont Marie, but he didn’t, he just kept going, I suppose thinking he could outlast me. He wasn’t much of a runner, though, and it wasn’t long before his pace was slackening. By the time we had reached Rue Le Regrattier, he was going not much faster than a man who was running late for an appointment, which, other than his loud panting, he might in fact have been. I could have overtaken him there, but wanted a quieter place, somewhere we might have a moment alone.

On the short riser of stone stairs that led to the Pont Louis-Philippe, he stumbled and collapsed. I circled around him as I approached, watching his hands, making sure they were empty. There were a few people around but not so near as to present a problem.

“Okay, okay,” he said in French, coming to his feet. He was panting, doubled over, his hands on his knees. “Please. Okay.”

I looked around again to ensure we were alone, then smacked him in the side of the head—a blow to establish dominance, not inflict damage. “You know who you fucked with tonight?” I said. “GIGN.”

He blanched at that. The Groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale was the French Gendarmerie’s elite counterterrorism unit. GIGN operators had a reputation for toughness, and were especially feared in the Parisian slums. If you were an illegal, and I was betting this guy was, a GIGN operator was just about the last person in the world you wanted taking a personal interest in you.

“I didn’t… I didn’t…” he stammered between gasps. “But your face—”

I smacked him again. “Idiot, you think I’m supposed to look like GIGN? What about the woman, did she look GIGN to you? You think we should wear signs, maybe, so punks like you can identify us?”

An oh, fuck expression stole across his face, and I knew he believed completely. And why not? How else could he understand how a defenseless woman and her innocuous date had mowed down his entire crew?

He panted and shook his head. “I didn’t know.”

“You’re part of a cell? This was a terrorist hit, yes? You know what we do with terrorists who attack GIGN?”

His eyes were bulging in exhaustion and panic, but I knew a part of his brain was still reasoning, thinking, we’re talking, if we’re talking, I can talk my way out. I wanted to encourage that sensibility.

“No!” he said. “Not a terrorist. I swear, I didn’t know.”

“Who are you working for?” I said. “Al Qaeda? Yes, this is a big night for me, to break up an al Qaeda cell. Come on, we’re going to Satory, GIGN headquarters. I have two partners, we all lost friends in Afghanistan. They’ll want to interrogate you themselves.”

“I don’t know any al Qaeda!” he said. His breathing was becoming a little less labored. “Please, this was a mistake. I’m not a terrorist.”

“No? You’re not a terrorist? Then you’re what? What was tonight?”

“A mistake. I’m sorry.”

“You were trying to kidnap my partner. Why?”

“I was hired.”

“By whom?”

“One in my crew knows a Saudi. But not al Qaeda! One of the royals, he said. The Saudi hired us to kidnap the woman. That’s all I know.”

It probably was all he knew. I doubted anyone who hired a bunch of street toughs would have shared more than that. But it couldn’t hurt to try for a little more. So I smacked him again. At this point, the smacks would be almost comforting, maintaining my dominance, which he now accepted, and implying that if he played his cards right, this was the worst he might receive. “That’s all you know? A Saudi? Listen, you want to avoid disappearing in Satory, you better stop insulting me with this bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit. My boss told us the Saudi wanted the woman to be hurt. He gave us five thousand Euros, with five thousand more on completion.”

“You believe that? Your boss took probably twice that. He played you for a chump. And what were you supposed to do?”

“Just… look, I’m giving you cooperation, all right? I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t know she was GIGN. That she was your partner.”

“What were you supposed to do?”