by Seeley James
I said, Beats getting killed. But, yeah, I see your point.
One guy flanked me. The other two spread out by five feet. Shooting all three without hitting innocent bystanders would require more luck than skill. I considered using the razor-sharp knife hidden in my belt buckle but chose to hold it in reserve.
“Two guys exercise their right to bear arms, and you execute them for it?” the leader asked. His dilated eyes bounced around me. He squared his shoulders and faced me. On his forearm was a tattoo the size of a large watch, a thick circle with an equally thick triangle in the middle of it.
My guess was crystal meth. Not exclusive to Americans, but his dilated and darting eyes, combined with the second amendment phrase, summed up his nationality for me. That didn’t exactly tie into Zack Ames’s warnings about violent racists, but it was suspiciously close.
I kept still.
The flanker took my blindside. They didn’t appear armed, so any escalation to hand-to-hand violence would work out in my favor. Three-to-one I could handle. More than that—no matter what they do in the movies—is impossible.
The leader charged me with a right hook.
I raised my elbow and turned to my left fast. The leader’s fist glanced off my cheek, while my elbow took out the guy trying to grab me from behind. He went down with a broken orbital socket and a concussion. The leader came back with a couple quick jabs, one of which landed in my throat. The second guy hesitated a beat before jumping in.
My uppercut sent the leader back three steps. It only gave his lieutenant an opening to land four fast blows in my midsection. That took the wind out of me. When I planted a combination on his face, the leader came back with a haymaker aimed at my head.
I ducked in time, but not low enough. His fist hit the back of my skull hard. A church bell rang between my ears.
The second guy recovered enough to try kneeing me in the balls. I twisted just in time. His knee slammed into my hamstring, which sent jolts of electric pain surging through my body.
The third man must’ve regained his senses because his arm slipped around my neck. He was shorter than me, but stout and had a leverage advantage. He pulled me back, using his belly as a fulcrum. I couldn’t breathe much after the throat-punch. With the headlock, I was airless and struggling.
“I hereby sentence you to—” The leader cut off his words as his eyes widened and focused on something behind me. “Hey, we’re doing this for you.”
I heard a hard thud before the headlock loosened. The guy holding me slumped to the ground. The leader in front of me and his lieutenant had distinctly surprised looks on their faces. A fist flew over my shoulder and slammed into the lieutenant’s nose.
I wasted no time in taking advantage of the situation. I slammed my open palm into the underside of the leader’s jaw. His head snapped back, he stumbled. The lieutenant took a swing at me as the blur of a man came from behind me and tackled him. The leader came back, telegraphing a right. I twisted, letting his fist skim my back. My elbow came back and caught him in the temple. He landed on the ground in a heap.
My new sidekick turned to me. “You OK?”
He was made of bricks with a chiseled jaw and a fifty-megawatt smile. A wave of black hair topped a sleek fade.
“Fine.” I brushed off my jacket sleeve. “Thanks for the assist.”
He patted my shoulder as sirens wound up a nearby street. “Anything for a hero—and trust me, you are the hero. I saw the video.”
The three masked men got to their hands and knees, spitting blood and shaking some sense into their heads.
“Better beat it, punks,” my new friend said to them. He cupped an ear in the direction of the sirens.
The three thugs staggered to their car and took off.
“I know guys like that.” The new guy turned to me with that unbeatable smile. “First thing they think of is violence. They don’t have anything meaningful in their lives, nothing to make them proud of themselves. People like you piss them off because they know you always do the right thing. They’re misdirecting their jealousy.”
“OK.”
“Gotta run. I’m not a favorite with the locals. You sure you’re good?”
“In the last two hours, I’ve been vilified by the authorities and dumped by my girlfriend.” I shook my head. “But otherwise, fine.”
“Sucks, brother.” He gave me another award-winning grin, squeezed my shoulder, then took off running down the street.
“Hey, what’s your name?” I called after him.
But he was around the corner and gone a second later.
Mercury looked at me. Yo, you believe in random acts of kindness?
I said, I do.
Mercury said, Do you believe that’s what that was?
I said, Not for a minute.
CHAPTER 8
Mercury straightened his toga. May as well keep wandering the streets. Why go back to that first-class crib and drink twelve-year-old Champagne?
I said, If the French want to believe that crap Pavard and Hugo are putting out, they can just shoot me now. I don’t care anymore.
Mercury walked alongside me. Quit yer whining, boy. Everybody gets dumped. Most people dust themselves off and go back for more.
I said, Thanks for understanding. Not.
A mile later, my boss, Pia Sabel, sent a video chat request. A long time ago, she made me confess my relationship with a certain mythological god and—against the advice of her wise and seasoned counselors—determined I was a perfectly normal divinely-guided asset. As far as divinely-guided assets go. There was also the fact that I’d saved her life a couple times, tipping the balance in my favor. In return, she confessed her struggles with reality after her horrific and tragic childhood. We established a sibling relationship from then on. Many others tried to imply that ours had more “benefits” than met the eye because of the special treatment she afforded me. We ignored them. No matter what anyone thought, we were like brother and sister.
I accepted her call.
“Jenny called me.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“OK, I’ll do the talking then. You’re probably wondering why she called me. We grew up together, kinda. Her father and mine were besties. She was a bit older. Her parents got divorced when I was about ten. She took her mother’s side. I didn’t see her much after that. We were never close. But she knows you and I are, so she wanted to make sure I understood what happened.”
“I still don’t want to talk about it.”
“That’s OK.” Her gray-green eyes never blinked. “I’m calling to let you know you can take all the time you need. Keep the room or move to another hotel. Keep the tickets to the Moulin Rouge. I’d tell you to go out and have fun, but I know that won’t happen. I’ve been there.”
I couldn’t imagine any sane man dumping a twenty-eight-year-old, world-class athlete, and billionaire. I let it go. “I’d really rather not talk—”
“Just one more thing and I’ll change over to the next topic. She’s in a bad place, and she’s punishing herself. Well. I guess she’s punishing you too. Anyway, it’s not about you … oh, that’s so cliché. Um. But it’s true too … actually, it’s not, is it? If it’s about her, it becomes ‘about’ you too. OK. I see why you don’t want to talk about it. I’ll shut up now.”
That’s what I liked about her.
“What’s the next topic?” I asked.
Mercury kept pace beside me. You know there’s a hottie on your tail, dawg. Not more’n two hours since you got dumped like trash in a landfill and you’ve already attracted a stalker because you’re a whack-job-magnet.
I stopped and checked my reflection in a shop window. Paris streets are busy. There were lots of people behind me. One was a slight young woman in her mid-twenties; the term pixie came to mind. She stopped and looked away when I stopped.
“Congratulations on becoming a hero,” Ms. Sabel said. “I underst
and the President of France is considering receiving you.”
“Considering?”
“Maybe you haven’t heard, but certain aspects of the situation have yet to be resolved.” She never brought up negatives like the authorities lying about me. “I’m sure they’ll sort out the narrative and recognize your bravery. Then you can expect a call from the President of France.”
“If it’s the same to you, I’d rather not. Some haters already showed up. Nothing I can’t handle. But an evening with dignitaries will add some pure lunatics to the mix.”
“I’ll let the ambassador know.”
I switched the phone camera to look at myself instead of Ms. Sabel. I raised it a little to see who was following me. To Ms. Sabel I said, “Thanks for the pep talk.”
“Sorry it didn’t work.”
“You get points for trying.”
She laughed self-consciously and clicked off.
I held the phone’s camera over my shoulder and watched a young woman with hair that reminded me of Tinkerbell from Peter Pan. Only without the bun. And black, not blonde. OK, not a lot like Tinkerbell. But she was small and slight, and her hair was cut short with the same mischievous bangs parted on the side. She wore a ladies’ Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black leggings. She moved like a kitten, a combination of natural grace and youthful awkwardness.
Mercury said, Do you find it strange that the first two days in Paris all you met were Parisians, then today, freaking Americans are coming out of the Catacombs? What’s up with that, bro?
I said, I’m not sure. Why don’t you tell me?
Mercury said, And force you to miss out on exercising your brain? Why don’t I tell you everything, like what’s beyond the edge of the universe?
I said, Wait—what is beyond our universe?
Mercury laughed so hard he had to bend over and slap his knee. The gods have a nasty sense of humor.
Since I’d been wandering aimlessly, I kept going and made the next four right turns. In any normal city, that would return you to your starting point. Which would prove the pixie was following me. But this was Paris. I was a mile from my original position and lost. Not-Tinkerbell was still following me. In another block, I wound up staring at the Café de la Mairie. Back to the scene of the crime. There were other ways to get a look at the young woman.
Mercury said, Did I tell you she’s a hottie? Check her out, brutha. She could take your mind off Jenny tonight.
I said, I don’t want to take my mind off Jenny.
But I did want to know why I was being followed. I took a chair at a sidewalk table.
When the woman walked by, I said, “Join me?”
I pushed a chair into her path.
She blushed while she tried to ignore me. She walked around the chair and kept going. A few paces away, she looked over her shoulder to see if I was still watching her. I crooked my finger to beckon her back.
She stopped and thought and stood still and looked at the ground. Her hair moved to reveal a tattoo on her neck. Two old-fashioned skeleton keys crossed with the teeth facing away from each other. She came back and took the chair.
As she adjusted herself and her purse, I took her hand and looked at her fingernails. Not long, not chewed, not shaped, no polish. I dropped her hand and met her gaze. She had a funny look on her face. I had done an odd thing.
She wore no makeup. She didn’t need it. A smattering of freckles crossed her nose. No lipstick. No pierced ears. She looked chic in that confident, no-frills Parisian manner.
“The Converse gave you away as ‘American,’” I said.
She looked at her scuffed, no-longer-white sneakers. “Next paycheck.”
“Are you with the press? Brynn perhaps?”
“Just an admirer.” She blushed again. “I don’t care what they’re saying; I believe you did the right thing. Besides, I’m feeling a little scared in the big city. My brother’s gone now and …”
Her voice trailed off and she looked away. A small, frightened young woman far from home.
From her dialect, I placed her as coming from a place somewhere between Fargo and Madison. A stretch settled by Swedes, Germans, and Norwegians who left deep vowels in their English pronunciations.
“Zack Ames. Know him?” I asked.
She didn’t blush; she didn’t flinch. If it was an act, it was good. So far, her blushes had given her away when she didn’t want, which meant the CIA would never put her in a clandestine operation. And that told me she didn’t know Zack Ames.
“I saw you on TV and a few minutes later—there you were, walking down the street.” She blinked in a poor attempt to look bashful or sexy. “I thought it would be nice to know a guy who protects people.”
I was about to call her a liar when a Renault Twingo, a car about the size of my left shoe, shredded to a stop at the curb. Like a clown car, four guys jumped out. I put one hand behind my back, ready to pull my pistol.
Two of the men wore GoPro’s strapped to their foreheads. Far too nerdy a look for agents of evil. Another held a recording device with a directional microphone attached. They ran to my table and surrounded me.
“You are Jacob Stearne, oui?” one asked.
Instantly, one of the GoPro guys asked, “Official are saying you overreact. Ehm. You kill-ed two innocent men.”
“Which officials said that?” I asked.
“There are the statements of the witnesses,” a third man chimed in.
Not to be outdone, the fourth said, “They tell of two tourists, unaware it is illegal to carry weapons in public, yet frightened of the terrorism which plagued our city in the past, who are carrying the weapons for self-protection.”
“And fire them on full-auto in a church full of people?” I asked. “If it was self-defense, it was criminal.”
The waiter from breakfast came out of the café, shouting in French and shooing the reporters away. They looked at him for a second. Then back at me and continued, unfazed.
“Have you murdered the innocent?” one of them asked.
“They were the opposite of innocent.”
“How did you know this?”
Mercury stood behind the pack with his palms raised and a big smile on his face.
I said, I am not telling them the ‘messenger’ told me they were terrorists. They’d lock me up, not sacrifice pigeons to you and your pals.
Mercury looked hurt. Dude. How many times I gotta tell you? Doves. Not pigeons. Doves.
I said, Doesn’t matter. They’d lock me up if I told them I get messages from the gods. I thought for a moment. Tell me the truth, they were terrorists, right? Zack Ames didn’t set me up for this, did he?
Mercury shook his head. He don’t have that kinda imagination, bro.
I said, You got that right.
The reporters looked at each other, a bit confused. One of them said, “What was it we got right?”
“That they were terrorists. The Beretta AR70/90 is a specialized rifle built for the exclusive use of the Italian military. It’s not a personal defense weapon. If you care to look a little deeper into the facts, there are a bunch of other indicators proving they were not there for the bread and wine.”
A cop car slammed into the curb. Two men popped out with clubs raised and charged at the reporters. The journalists scattered around their car and jumped in as quickly as they’d jumped out. With a chirp of tires—from the weight, not the horsepower—they sped off.
My new companion looked at me. She said, “Did you kill two innocent men?”
CHAPTER 9
The cops conferred with the waiter, who thanked them profusely.
Then everything returned to a tranquil afternoon. Except that a strange woman sat at my table, trying to make eyes at me. And a long-forgotten god wanted me to sex it up with her.
Talk about awkward.
The waiter returned with a bag of complimentary macarons to go. It was a subtle hint. My morning stunt had filled his street with cops and ambulances for hou
rs, killing his business. Now my notoriety was killing what little traffic they were getting in the afternoon.
I thanked him and rose.
Holding out one of the macarons to the young woman, I said, “I just managed to tank a great relationship, so I’m not interested in your fake attempts to seduce me. But I’m feeling a little lonely, so walk with me. Tell me any story you want.”
She started to protest, then decided not to. She rose slowly and took the confection as if it were a loaded bear trap. “You’re one weird dude.”
I said, “Tell me about Minneapolis.”
“How’d you know I’m from Minneapolis?”
“All your O’s are long. You said, ‘I DOH-n’t care what the POH-lice say,’ which makes you a Minnesotan at a minimum. If you try to deny it, I’ll make you say ‘donut.’”
“DOHnut.” She laughed. “You’re from the Midwest?”
“Iowa.”
She decided not to lie about her background and prattled on about fleeing a big city full of what she considered hicks. I tuned her out. I didn’t care about her childhood or her hometown. I just wanted to hear a human voice talking about something other than me, terrorists, or Jenny.
We strolled across the street to the large plaza. She ate another macaron. I took a bite of mine. I could taste nothing. It may as well have been cardboard.
I tossed it to a nearby pigeon. That was a mistake.
We kicked our way through the arriving flock of birds to the middle of the plaza and arrived at the same fountain where I first spotted the would-be mass shooters.
Mercury jumped in the ground-level basin, toga, sandals, and all. I ignored him. He splashed water my way.
The young lady asked, “What did you mean when you told those guys there were other things about the terrorists?”
“I don’t know your name.”
“Nema.” She held out her hand. “Just Nema. I’m an artist. At least, I want to be an artist. So. I’m going with one name.”
Mercury splashed more water. Pay attention, homie. You never know what people toss into a fountain.
