by Gavin Reese
May 11, 11:02am
8 Rue de Corbillon. Seine-Saint-Denis, France.
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The gunshots continued to ring out, and Michael found he and the imam both tried to cover the other three, while Michael also sought to keep the pistol concealed and out of reach and notice of the other cleric.
While the fleeing crowd thinned and ran, Michael rose up to look around during a lull in the gunfire. A hand grabbed and pulled at his left shoulder of his shirt.
“Get down!”
Michael looked toward the unexpected voice as he fell, and the imam focused on his wounded left arm. “We have to get you out of here! Help me move them!”
Michael shook off the man’s grasp and rose back up to see across the hood of an adjacent parked car. Several panicked people ran north toward him, and Michael saw the top of a black pistol bouncing up over the roofline of the parked cars two dozen yards away.
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The muzzle flashes and cordite smoke accentuated the gunfire, and Michael knew the unknown gunman was running toward the apartment building as he held the weapon up. Toward me, clearing the street of innocents as he moves! Michael needed to be close to disarm the gunman and fleeing with the imam would only get him shot in the back or beaten to death when the mob resurrected its anger. He looked back at the imam, who ushered the grandmother to her feet.
“Come this way,” he shouted at Michael, “help me get her out of here!”
“Someone has to stop the shooter, no one’s safe until that happens! Take her now and come back for him!”
“You’ll die out there!”
Michael turned toward the oncoming threat. “I’d rather be shot in the face than beaten to death from behind.” He crept forward to the next car as more panicked victims rushed past. The suppressed barrel of his still-concealed pistol pressed into the inside of his right thigh. After withdrawing the gun from its holster, Michael grasped it tight in both his hands and pointed the barrel to the ground. A quick glance around confirmed no one had noticed.
Distant we-ahh we-ahh police sirens echoed off the tall, closed-in buildings and announced the imminent arrival of authority. Michael put that problem aside for the moment. Watching the street on the other side of his cover car, he waited until a shadow hurried toward him. He inhaled a deep breath, brought the gun up, and slid his right index finger toward the trigger. Michael stood up in a solid combat stance, and squarely aimed the assassin’s pistol at the center mass of his target. Catching the glint of steel, he began pressing the trigger but suddenly recognized the source was a police badge and not a weapon. He yanked his finger from the trigger guard and plunged the weapon’s barrel toward the asphalt at his feet.
Gerard shuddered in surprise and briefly began to bring his pistol down before realizing Michael had already lowered his gun. A Police Judiciaire – SDAT badge hung from a metal dogtag chain around his neck and glowed in the sunlight, despite the dusty haze that still permeated the air.
Michael struggled to understand the cop’s presence and actions. “You’re supposed to be--”
“I know, you asshole! You sent me away, and now I have to clean this up!” Gerard hadn’t yet holstered his semi-auto. “Am I now to arrest you, shoot you, or die here in the gutter beside you?”
“What do you think?” Michael held his breath and waited.
“I think we have to get you off this street if either of us wish to understand what happened. Follow me! Now!” Gerard held his pistol in a low-ready position near the center of his torso and pointed it at the ground in front of his feet. He turned and jogged southwest toward the back entrance to the parking garage.
Michael did the same, and hoped that keeping his pistol out would lead everyone around to believe he, too, was a cop. He glanced back at the sidewalk, and the imam and both grandparents had disappeared.
May 11, 11:05am
13 Rue de Corbillon. Seine-Saint-Denis, France.
Michael ran behind Gerard toward the parking garage office He remained unsteady on his feet. No one else was inside the structure, but dozens of people flowed by on the adjacent sidewalks. Michael glanced around, thankful that no one challenged him or showed interest in their escape.
Gerard led him back into the small office and locked the door behind them. “What the fuck happened over there, Father Andrew?!”
Michael shuffled to a desk chair and plopped in it. “I never told you I was a priest.”
“And that’s the most important thing to discuss right now?! How do I know that?! You go first, and tell me how the goddamned building blew up, and I’ll--”
“Abrini. He used the chemicals to make T-A-T-P, it's an explosive--”
“I know what it is! How do you know that?!”
“I confirmed the explosive presence in his apartment two days ago, and I found his lab this morning. I didn’t know he packed eleven backpacks full of the stuff. He intended to hit eleven targets in the city today, probably all at once, and I expect that’s where his soccer players came into the picture. We contained him to one building and a pretty small number of casualties.”
“Where is he now?”
“Dead, I guess. He was still tied up in the apartment when I climbed out the window, and I don't think he cared to even try escaping. This was his last checkbox to get into his fucked-up idea of heaven.”
Gerard paused and stared at him a moment. “Are you sure you’re a priest?”
Michael grimaced as increasing pain set in. “What happens now, between us, I mean?”
“I have to go back out there and help anyone I can. I want you to stay here and answer every goddamned question when I get back.”
“Are you willing to make me?”
Gerard stared at him a moment. “No. I hoped for what I think you American cops call ‘professional courtesy.’ If you’re not here when I get back, good luck, Father Andrew. Peace be with you.”
“And also with your spirit.” Michael watched him leave, and the door lock clicked shut behind him. He wanted to follow Gerard out to the rubble pile and help where he could, but the increasing pain and dizziness convinced him he would soon be a casualty himself.
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Michael sat up and looked to the noise coming from the outer office door.
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“Andrew! Are you in there?! Open up!”
Michael thought he knew the heavily French-accented voice, so he stood on unsteady legs and stumbled over to the door. “Who is it?”
“Alpha.”
He unlocked the deadbolt, pulled the heavy metal door open, and Alpha stepped in just in time to help keep him upright. This was the first time Michael remembered seeing the black Frenchman without a bright white smile on his face. His friend and former training partner wore a gray tracksuit that would easily blend into most crowds, and Michael felt a pistol concealed at his right hip when Alpha propped him up. He reflexively checked to make sure his own suppressed .22 remained in place inside his right front waistband. “How did you find me?”
“Later. Can you move?”
Michael pondered the question for a moment. “Yes, but I might need a steady shoulder.”
“I can be that, but we have to leave. Emergency services are closing the area, and the street is filling with a mob. The Saint Denis Cathedral is an eight-minute walk from here, and we should try to get you inside that sanctuary in no more than five. Moving.”
Michael stepped forward in response to the common team-movement vocabulary they’d used at John’s training camp. “Move!”
May 11, 11:13am
13 Rue de Corbillon. Seine-Saint-Denis, France.
Michael leaned on Alpha's right shoulder, and they scanned the garage and rushed to avoid the growing crowds.
“We could boost a car.”
Michael weighed the option and its potential success, given their training in the art of theft and evasive driving. “No, it’ll connect the bombing with the cathedral. We have to go on fo
ot. I wish I could change clothes, though, I can’t deny being close to the building when it blew.” He tried to wipe concrete dust and soot from his clothing as he fled.
“Your clothes won’t matter as much as your white face. I can blend in anywhere and hide in plain sight in this neighborhood, but your best hope is that they only assume you’re French.”
“That’s ironic, coming from a Frenchman, and more than a little racist.”
Alpha scoffed. “Call it what you like, but it’s our present reality.”
They soon emerged onto the sidewalk at the south end of Rue du Corbillon, just a few dozen yards below the epicenter. Gray concrete dust still hung in the air and continued to fall on everything in the vicinity. The approaching sirens grew louder, but Michael didn't see any emergency vehicles on the street itself. Everyone around them was fixated on the demolished building, and Michael thought few took notice of them. How long can a tall white guy lean on a short black guy and run away from a crime scene?
As they hurried east, the crowds inbound to the site grew denser and slowed their progress. Alpha moved over to walk in front of Michael. So far, no one had challenged them.
“Tawaquf! Arrêtez!”
The shouted Arabic and French words halted the crowd in front of them and prevented further escape. Imam Siddiqi appeared to the immediate left, and Alpha swung around to put himself between the cleric and Michael. Everyone's suddenly realized we don't belong here, and they're waiting for his command.
Siddiqi pointed his thick right index finger at Michael. “What were you doing in the building?”
Michael swallowed hard and chose his words. “Trying to talk someone out of doing exactly what they did.”
“Abrini?”
He had no real choice but to be honest. No more than a few around us understand what we’re saying. “Yes.”
“I knew that man was a snake from the moment he walked into my mosque and pretended to accept my message of reformation and tolerance!”
Michael breathed out his relief and leaned close to Siddiqi despite fearing his answer. “Are the grandparents okay? The ones from the sidewalk where I last saw you?”
“They are, thanks to you. His recovery is now in God’s hands, but he owes his life to you. They both told me you saved everyone in the building. Ali, the grandfather, he said you tried to evacuate the deserted apartments, and he had to convince you to leave with him.”
“That was the second time he saved me. How many are hurt?” Michael looked around and felt the immediate crowd grow less tense as they spoke. The still-inbound sirens can’t be more than a few blocks away.
“Very few, and no one is yet missing or killed. You saved much of my congregation today. What of Abrini? Where is he now?”
Michael smiled. “Judgement.”
“I don’t think it will be what he expected.” Siddiqi looked around as though having just noticed the sirens himself. “You must go and let Abrini alone answer for his crimes, yes?”
“We agree,” Alpha injected.
Siddiqi pointed to the closest four men to Michael’s right and spoke to them in Arabic. All four nodded, exchanged a glance with Michael and Alpha and then turned east as the crowd parted before them.
“They will get you beyond the crowds,” Siddiqi explained. “These men are all imams who believe as I do. Thirty of us gathered today to begin a great schism, for all the reasons that Abrini made this happen above and around us at that very moment. They will escort you to sanctuary. There is a cathedral nearby that will allow you to rest and acquire whatever aid you need.”
Michael didn’t have the mental capacity to come up with a believable lie. “Yes, that will be helpful.” The best un-truth I can manage at this moment.
“You have will have no troubles from my congregation. I fear there are more Abrinis, though, who may want to hold any outsider responsible. Peace be with your spirit.”
“And with your spirit, as well.” Michael and Alpha both offered the common reply, and then pressed on behind their four appointed guardians. A police car turned onto the street and moved toward them with its European whee-aww siren blaring. Michael ducked his head behind their Sherpas and picked up his pace. The whole area will be cordoned off soon, and we still have a half-mile to go.
May 11, 11:31am
Saint-Denis Cathedral. Seine-Saint-Denis, France.
Michael and Alpha continued east toward the historic cathedral when their escorts stopped two blocks back at Rue de la République and Place Jean Jaurés, the same intersection from which Michael had fled north only a few nights ago.
He followed Alpha into an unmarked entrance where he used an old iron key to unlock a heavy door. Alpha led Michael into the rectory’s living area, the same place where he’d heard Father Luc’s confession only days before. Michael reclaimed the same seat and exhaled a portion of his stress. I’m away from the epicenter, but I still have to escape the neighborhood and the country.
“I’ll let my friend know we’re here,” Alpha offered. “Can I get you water while we wait, or anything else you need?”
“Yeah, maybe water will help, unless there’s whiskey handy.”
“I don’t recall seeing a bottle here, but I’ll keep a lookout.” Alpha stepped into the kitchen, retrieved a glass from the first cabinet he opened, and poured water from a pitcher in the refrigerator. He handed Michael the glass and frowned at his injured partner’s suspicion. “What?”
The door behind him opened before Michael could answer, and Father Luc burst inside. His surprise at their presence was obvious. “Oh, merci mon Dieu!” He rushed forward, grabbed Alpha in a tight hug, and quickly released him. Luc saw Michael and his relief turned to concern. “Oh, my God! Father Andrew! How did you, I mean—”
Alpha answered first. “He’s with me, Luc.”
Luc rattled off something in French, but Alpha insisted they use English in front of their guest. “Wait. With you, Chasseur, how can that be? Did you also know he was here, and what about—”
“There is much that I cannot discuss, but Andrew and I are old friends.”
Luc nodded his acceptance but remained exasperated. “I was so worried when I heard it, and then news came in from the street, and now, you are here and injured! What kind of help do you require? A doctor, yes?! Oh, no, what of Gerard?!”
Michael shook his head. “He’s fine, Luc, and I don’t need a doctor yet. We do have to discuss a few things.”
“Of course, I expected you might return for me to hear your confession, and then the explosion hap--”
“How do you know Gerard?”
Luc’s expression showed deception and nervousness. “He’s a friend, a parishioner.”
“I assume you told your friend, about me and that we had discussed his case, because he knew too much about me, including that I’m a priest.”
Alpha’s mouth fell agape, and he stared at the parish priest. “Luc, what have you done?”
“Rien, peut-être quelque chose.” He shook his head. “Sorry, I mean, perhaps nothing. It is possible, maybe--”
“You told him about me. You gave him my name, Luc.”
Luc bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Perhaps we both have things to confess to each other, Father Andrew.”
Michael stood and stepped in front of Luc until he’d deeply invaded the priest’s personal space. “Bullshit. I have nothing to confess to you, and I can’t trust you with it, anyway. I didn’t do a damned thing to that guy back there. I didn’t even make him suffer when I probably should have.”
“Please,” Luc’s voice trembled, “please forgive me, I--”
A distant scream from inside the massive cathedral grabbed Michael’s attention and all three men briefly stood in place. He and Alpha glanced at one another, and Michael realized his training partner had heard the same thing.
“Allah Akbar!”
“On me!” Alpha leapt toward a second scream and Michael sprinted right behind him.
His pain and
suffering now made a distant memory by the magic of renewed adrenaline, Michael waited to draw his pistol until he could move more cautiously. Alpha led him through the sacristy and to a small doorway that required him to simultaneously step up and duck down to quickly pass through it. An explosion of panic and mayhem echoed through the massive central corridor of the cathedral, and Michael now led Alpha toward it. He didn’t understand what the victims and civilians shouted around them, but the repeated frantic shouts of Allah Akbar propelled him on faster.
Alpha shouted at him as they ran. “They are yelling about a knife, a man with a knife that’s cutting people!”
The two-man team moved in concert and shouted at bystanders to flee as they rushed through the long nave. Up ahead near the entrance to the cathedral, a young man stepped in front of a woman and a child who had fallen to the floor. Michael lost sight of him while the mother and child frantically crawled away, but the man quickly re-emerged with fresh cuts on his forearms and dark red blood streaming to the stone beneath him. The Good Samaritan slipped and fell backward, and, in a panic, flailed his arms and kicked out with his legs to keep the unseen attacker at bay.
Alpha ran along Michael’s right side, and everyone now moved themselves from the priests’ obvious path. To their right, an elderly man struggled to get his wife out of a pew and made eye contact with Michael. He shuffled closer to their vector and held his cane out for them like a relay baton. Alpha veered right and accepted the tool without slowing. Michael wondered if his French colleague had ever before swung a baseball bat with precision at a dead run. An early twenties, able-bodied tourist stood near the end of a pew on Michael’s left and recorded the horror with his cellphone. Michael swatted the device away as they sprinted past, and it shattered on the stone floor behind him.
