That Time in Paris
A Wolfgang Pierce Novella
Logan Ryles
Contents
Also by Logan Ryles
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Wolfgang Returns in…
That Time in Cairo
Ready for more?
About the Author
Also by Logan Ryles
End Page
Copyright © 2021 by Logan Ryles. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
THAT TIME IN PARIS is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Control Number:
Published by Ryker Morgan Publishing.
Cover design by German Creative.
Also by Logan Ryles
The Wolfgang Pierce Novella Series
Prequel: That Time in Appalachia (coming soon)
Book 1: That Time in Paris
Book 2: That Time in Cairo (coming April 23)
Book 3: That Time in Moscow (coming May 7)
Book 4: That Time in Rio (coming May 21)
Book 5: That Time in Tokyo (coming June 4)
Book 6: That Time in Sydney (coming June 18)
The Reed Montgomery Thriller Series
Prequel: Sandbox, a short story (read for free at LoganRyles.com)
Book 1: Overwatch
Book 2: Hunt to Kill
Book 3: Total War
Book 4: Smoke & Mirrors
Book 5: Survivor
Book 6: Death Cycle (coming soon)
Book 7: Sundown (coming soon)
Visit LoganRyles.com to receive a free copy of Sandbox.
The Wolfgang Pierce Novella Series is dedicated to:
Abby and Naomi, my original super fans, and two of the coolest people I know.
Thanks for keeping me inspired.
“Paris is not a city; it’s a world.”
- King Francis I
1
June, 2011
Horace Artemus Hawthorn IV stumbled down the sidewalk fifteen yards ahead of Wolfgang. In spite of the stiff breeze that ripped through the city, sweat streamed down the polished face of the fourth-generation Chicago aristocrat, outlining his red-rimmed eyes. Every few steps, Hawthorn caught himself against the glass face of a high-dollar storefront. He dropped his briefcase and wiped his forehead, dislodging the eight hundred dollar Gucci eyeglasses he wore as he struggled for balance.
Wolfgang stopped on the sidewalk and passed his own briefcase to his free hand, giving Hawthorn a moment to collect himself. The briefcase was identical to the one Hawthorn carried, albeit empty, and Wolfgang felt a little conspicuous carrying it.
Who even uses briefcases anymore?
Crowds of bustling Chicagoans surged around them, passing Hawthorn with no more notice than if he had been a panhandler. Wolfgang adjusted the light jacket he wore, feeling the weight of the package strapped to his lower back. It bit into his skin and chafed with every stride, but the close proximity to his body kept the package invisible to the naked eye. That was lucky, because if any one of the half-dozen cops he had passed in the last half hour detected the package, Wolfgang would have earned a one-way ticket to prison faster than he could sneeze.
Hawthorn swabbed his forehead with a handkerchief—something Wolfgang figured only truly rich people carried—and then adjusted his glasses. He recovered his briefcase from the sidewalk and started forward again. His shoulders squared in the resolute stature of a man who believed himself to be self-made, regardless of the silver spoon he was born clutching. With each stride, he stared directly over the heads of the meaningless worker bees that surged past him—mere pawns in the game of empire of which he was a key player. But in spite of Hawthorn’s confident stride and condescending glare, there was a tremor in his knees and an uncertainty to his steps that couldn’t be hidden. It was an odd dichotomy to the strange and unexpected euphoria that Wolfgang knew Hawthorn had experienced over the past three weeks.
Heroin is a hell of a drug. Especially when you don’t know you’re taking it.
Wolfgang hurried after Hawthorn, checking his watch as he slipped among the bustling pedestrians.
It had been seven minutes since Hawthorn left the coffee shop. Each morning, he left his thirtieth-story penthouse in the Millennium Centre tower and took a private car to his favorite coffee shop, where a dark roast with two creams and one sugar awaited him. He sat near the window, where all the peasants of the world could stare longingly at his sculpted jawline and premium Armani-clad physique, and made a show of reading the Chicago Tribune.
Wolfgang doubted whether Hawthorn could read at all, but for a rising star in the powerhouse world of business, appearance was everything.
After consuming the coffee, Hawthorn trashed the paper and walked two blocks to the office suite of Hawthorn and Company, a multi-billion-dollar real estate firm founded by his great-grandfather over a century before, now located on the eightieth floor of the Willis Tower.
And there, encased in an oak panel office, sitting behind the Rolls Royce of desks, the young master of the universe planned the development and destruction of a real estate empire worth more than a small country.
That was a typical day for Hawthorn, but today was anything save typical. Today Hawthorn was destined to spearhead his very first major deal—the eight-hundred-million-dollar acquisition of a rival firm based out of Houston. It was young Hawthorn’s first foray into the serious business usually managed exclusively by his father, Hawthorn III, and it marked his initiation as the future CEO of the company.
This was why Hawthorn plowed on toward the Willis Building, in spite of the chills that racked his body and the dizziness that sent him stumbling into walls. After all, heroin is a hell of a drug, and you can’t just blindly ingest it for three weeks and then cut yourself off two days before the biggest meeting of your life.
Too bad Hawthorn didn’t know he’d been ingesting it. The doses had been
