“Still headed down Pasteur. The target appears to be turning left onto Vaugirard.”
“When?”
“Less than ten seconds.”
Thankfully the light changes at the intersection and we’re forced to stop. As people cross in front of us, we watch the cars turning left onto Vaugirard. We both make the black Mercedes SUV as it turns. Philippe and Nova continue down Pasteur. I see Nova in the passenger seat, making a furtive glance our way.
Reed: “They’re all yours.”
“Copy,” Boylan says, and once the light changes, he presses down on the gas and we shoot through the intersection.
The SUV hasn’t gotten far in the time the light cost us. We catch up to it within seconds, then follow as it makes the turn onto Avenue du Maine.
Philippe: “Boylan, your location?”
“Headed south down du Maine.”
“Copy that.”
Right now Philippe is speeding through the city, headed in our direction. Reed and Nova have fallen back but are keeping pace a block or two away.
After a couple blocks, Philippe has managed to catch up and he takes over the tail as we turn off. Philippe follows them the entire way down the Boulevard Saint-Jacques until they come to Place d’Italie.
“Shit,” Philippe mutters in all of our earpieces.
Place d’Italie is a traffic circle that interconnects eight streets. At least this is what Boylan tells me.
Philippe: “The SUV’s stopping.”
By now our car and Reed and Nova’s car have converged on the location. We’re just within a block.
Philippe: “Gramont is exiting the vehicle with two bodyguards. They’re headed toward the fountain.”
Beside me, Boylan murmurs a curse. He shakes his head. When I give him a questioning look, he says, “They’re hiding in plain sight.”
Thirty-Five
Alayna Gramont stands with her back to the fountain, watching traffic. She wears one of her smart pantsuits today, something that probably costs half a year’s rent for me. Her blond hair is pulled up in a French braid, which I think is a little too cliché. Because it’s almost noon and it’s clear and sunny, she wears designer sunglasses, probably worth more than my car.
Beside her are two of her guards, both dressed in suits, both wearing shades. Even though I can’t see weapons on them, I know they’re packing.
Alayna stands completely straight with her hands clasped in front of her. She holds a briefcase. In that briefcase, presumably, is the code.
I’m positioned on the southern end of the circle, Nova on the northern end. Reed dropped him off just as Boylan dropped me off. After all, we couldn’t keep circling around the fountain until the buyer made his move. So here we are, each at separate spots, trying our best to blend in with the rest of the people walking the streets.
Only it’s hard to blend in when you’re stationary.
Because Alayna might be on the lookout for me, I’m wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses.
Philippe’s voice in my earpiece: “Anything yet?”
Nova responds. “Nothing.”
That’s right. For fifteen minutes now nothing has happened. She’s just been standing there, holding the briefcase, watching the traffic. If she was the target and all that was needed was her assassination, the job would already be done. Leaving herself out in the open like this, completely vulnerable, all someone would need to do is drive around the circle, lean out, place two in her head. Or take a position on one of the rooftops with a sniper rifle.
But Alayna knows she’s in no danger. The target is not her life, but rather the code she has inside the briefcase.
Another five minutes pass and still nothing happens. Philippe and Reed and Boylan have all parked somewhere close by or are circling around a nearby block. If something goes down, they’ll be here in less than thirty seconds. Which, when you think about it, is an eternity.
Nova clears his throat. “I’ve got movement.”
From my position, a few trees by the fountain are in my way, but yes, I can see someone approaching Alayna Gramont and her pair of guards. Someone small. Someone that looks like …
“It’s a kid,” I say.
Philippe: “Repeat?”
Nova: “Holly’s right. A boy, no older than ten, is approaching the target.”
The kid is dressed in baggy jeans and an extra large T-shirt that drapes down to his knees. He has on a red baseball cap that’s tilted toward the side. He looks like a punk, like a poser, and it makes no sense why he’s approaching Alayna now, or why Alayna turns to him.
The two guards haven’t moved at all. They watch the boy who stands only a couple feet away, saying something.
Philippe: “What’s happening?”
Nova: “The target and the boy are talking.”
“Repeat?”
“It looks like they’re having a fucking conversation.”
The boy turns away slightly, jerks his thumb at something over his shoulder. Alayna nods. She speaks. She steps closer, extends her hand, and fuck me if the boy doesn’t take it and they shake like they’re finishing a business transaction. Then all of a sudden the briefcase is in the boy’s possession and he’s turning away and walking quickly toward the metro entrance.
“The briefcase has switched hands,” Nova says. “I repeat: the briefcase has switched hands.”
Alayna Gramont and her two guards have turned away. They now walk to the edge of the circle where the black Mercedes SUV pulls up. One of the guards opens the back door. Alayna disappears inside. Then the two guards climb in and the SUV screeches away.
The boy has already disappeared down into the station entrance.
I’m moving before I even know it. Tires screech. Horns blare. People shout. I barely notice as I sprint across the street toward the circle, toward the metro entrance. I can see Nova on the other side, doing the very same thing.
“I’m headed after the second target,” I say to no one in particular because I’m certain right now all three cars are speeding toward this location right this instant.
I have to fight past people coming up the steps. I reach into my pocket for the
