men were only twenty feet away. Two were about the same size as Nate, while the third was a few inches shorter. Nate had seen them all before. He’d watched from across the street as they’d come rushing out of Liz’s apartment building with Julien the previous afternoon.
“
“You’re French?”
“Of course.”
“You live around here?”
“
The one doing the talking smiled, while the other two stared at Nate. “Not lost,” he said. “And I’m willing to bet you’re not from around here either.”
“I think you do.” The talker looked at the other tall one. “What did Julien call him? Nat? No, it was—”
Before he could finish, Nate’s foot slammed into the man’s stomach. The talker flew backward on his ass, doubling over as he lay on the sidewalk.
The other two were quick to respond, but not quick enough. Even as he was kicking, Nate had switched his phone to his left hand and had reached under his jacket with his right, grabbing the Glock he’d gotten from Julien.
The short one was pulling his own gun free, so Nate shot him first. The second guy didn’t even try for his gun. Instead he rushed forward before Nate could aim at him.
They crashed to the sidewalk, the attacker landing on top of Nate and nearly knocking the breath out of him.
The man reached for the gun, gripping Nate’s wrist with one hand and going for the barrel with the other. Nate rolled to his left and threw the guy’s weight off him. A movement beyond the man caught Nate’s attention. It was the first guy, the talker. He was pushing himself to his feet, a pistol already in his hand.
The guy on the ground didn’t see this, so Nate let the man twist his arm until the barrel was pointed at his partner. Nate pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the talker just below the neck, dropping him to the sidewalk in a heap.
The shot, having gone off less than a foot from the ear of the guy struggling with Nate, stunned him. Nate wrenched his hand free and pushed himself away along the ground. As the man clawed at his jacket, going for his own weapon, Nate shot him in the chest.
Three dead, and enough gunfire to wake up several blocks’ worth of potential witnesses.
Nate scrambled to his feet.
He spotted his phone and picked it up, but it was immediately apparent he would never be able to use it again. The display screen was smashed in and the frame was bent. Not wanting to leave it behind for the police to find, he stuffed it in his pocket, then began running down the street.
There were no sirens yet, but they’d be coming, and soon.
Nate headed back toward the Peugeot. As he passed it, he realized there weren’t three dead. There were four. “I’m sorry, Julien,” he whispered.
He ran as fast as his one and a half legs could carry him, circling around the neighborhood so that he’d approach the Metro station from the opposite direction. Ahead he could see the police had already arrived at the crime scene, the flashing lights of their cars reflecting along the buildings down Rue de Sully.
Nate again looked at his watch. He was ten minutes late. If Liz had done as he’d asked, she should have already called Quinn, and he would have told her to get the hell out of there.
He was just about to descend the stairs when she called out to him. “Nate!”
She was across Boulevard Henri IV, standing near the entrance to a small park. He waited for a break in the traffic, then jogged over to her.
“Why are you still here?” he asked.
His tone made her pull back a couple of inches. “I didn’t know—” Her voice faltered.
“Did you call Quinn?”
“No,” she whispered.
“Why not?”
“I heard the gunshots. I thought they’d killed you. I didn’t know what to do.”
He pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her. She resisted only a second, then grabbed him tightly. She’d been as concerned about him as he’d been about her.
“It’s okay. I’m fine,” he said. “But we need to get out of here.”
“Those
“Yes,” he said. “They tried to kill you?”
“They didn’t try hard enough.”
“Will they come after us?”