by Brian Drake
“Nice shooting, jackass,” Dane said before he ran out after the other man.
The courier sat there gasping.
Dane pounded down the hallway after McFadden. “Stop, Sean!”
McFadden crashed through the stairwell door. Dane reached the door as it swung closed. He shoved through, starting for the steps. A swoosh of air behind him. He turned just as the baton flashed past where his head had been. He brought up the .45, but the assassin struck with a backspin kick. Dane, who had nothing but the steps behind him, tumbled end over end. He crashed hard on the landing below, the wind knocked out of him, his head spinning, his whole body screaming.
McFadden plowed past him. His pounding boots echoed up and down the stairwell, faded away.
Dane stared at the brown spots on the ceiling for a long time. When he could breathe normally again, he climbed to his feet. Using the banister for support, he climbed the steps back to the hallway and returned to the courier’s room.
The mousy man remained sitting on his bed. He blinked when Dane entered.
“Are you positive you don’t know anything?” Dane said. “You’ve never seen the Duchess before?”
The courier shook his head.
“Grow eyes in the back of your skull, Einstein,” Dane said, and left again. He kept a hand on one wall so he wouldn’t fall over.
“I’m not pleased,” the Duchess said.
“The odds changed, luv,” McFadden said. “I haven’t survived this long by being stupid.”
The assassin sat in a leather chair on board a Lear jet, a private plane owned and operated by a front company owned by the Duchess. A glass of Bushmills, no ice, sat on the table beside him. The low hum of the engine did not overpower the woman’s words.
“Just get to Paris,” she said. “Instructions await you there.”
“What’s the problem?”
“We have an issue. Its name is Nicholas Daudet. I’d like the problem to go away. Sean?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Don’t miss.”
9
Bad Night in Paris
Two days later, Paris
The reception for the new season of the Paris Opera, held in the Grand Foyer of the Palais Garnier, one of the largest and most beautifully built opera houses in all of France, was in full swing. The three-tiered Grand Staircase overlooked the festivities, the guests surrounded by the gold and marble and long tapestries. The ceiling above, painted blood red and white, was as dazzling as the rest of the foyer. The guests of honor and the attendees were in for quite a night.
Dane, decked out in a black tuxedo with a jacket that had not been tailored to hide a gun, wasn’t a fan of the opera. He knew better than to say so to Nina, who was dressed in a strapless blue gown that hugged her figure but left her shoulders bare. Her long black hair was tied back; the ponytail dangled just below her shoulder blades. Only her tiger eyes, which scanned everything and missed nothing, suggested that she was not one of the lesser mortals in attendance. Nina’s mother had often brought her to the Moscow opera when she was a child; as an adult, she never tired of the spectacle.
“What do you think?” she said to him.
“I think the client is too exposed.”
“I meant the show.”
“What show?”
She shook her head and drank champagne. “One of these days I will teach you to appreciate fine things.”
He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him. Her big eyes widened. “Not here,” she said.
“I already appreciate the only fine thing I need.” He nibbled her earlobe. She shoved him away, glancing around, brushing the side of her gown. Dane laughed.
The pair stood within earshot of the client.
Dane said, “We’re out a fee if this is a false alarm.”
“Daudet,” Nina said, “is convinced somebody wants to harm him.”
“He’s the president and CEO of a cosmetics firm who can only afford a Porsche Turbo and the 996 variant to boot. It’s not a real car. Who would want to shoot him?” Dane had read Nina’s impromptu file on Nicholas Daudet on the flight from Istanbul. The magnate spent his money on a big house and a relatively cheap car for somebody in his income bracket. Most of his contemporaries were driving Italian exotics. “It’s not like he’s a major VIP or anything,” Dane added.
“He probably saves most of his money, unlike a lot of people,” she said. “Besides, maybe the Porsche is all he wanted. A corner of the moon instead of the whole thing.”
“Why does he think somebody is out to kill him?”
“You’ll have to ask the person who shot at him.”
“When was that?”
“Last week. He was out for a drive in the country and somebody fired at him. Twice.”
“Lousy shot.”
“After that he started making inquiries as to who might be able to protect him, and our names came up.”
“You mean your name came up.”
One of Nina’s former contacts in Russian intelligence, who now worked as an independent broker of information to interested parties, had called to tell her about the Daudet situation.
“Are you jealous?” she said.
Dane looked over at Nicholas Daudet, a man who stood proud but whose eyes reflected an inner melancholy. About six feet, with white hair; he stood with both hands behind his back while chatting with a fat lady in a poufy gold gown. Dane noted that it wasn’t the fat lady who closed out the opera.
Next to Daudet stood his oldest son, Alexis, who displayed a cocky grin as he addressed Nina. “Are the expensive bodyguards bored tonight?”
“Not at all,” Nina said, “we had a lovely time.”
“I’m so relaxed I dozed off halfway through the show,” Dane said.
“I told my father it was a waste to hire you and now I am sure of it.”
“Let your father decide that,” Nina said.
“He’s not spending your trust fund, kid,” Dane said. “Relax.”
“Americans,” Alexis Daudet said.
“I’m Russian,” Nina told him.
“And I only play an American on TV,” Dane said.
Alexis glared and moved away.
“We should really behave,” Dane said.
“Speak for yourself. I was polite and professional.”
“He’s been a smart-ass since I got here.”
“Wasn’t any better when I got here. His sister over there seems to be the only sane one in this family.”
Dane followed Nina’s gaze to a young woman joined at the hip to her male companion. The woman’s lush black hair, dark eyes and creamy complexion were her most alluring features. She had squeezed her rotund body into a black cocktail dress. The strap over her right shoulder had slipped off, yet she made no effort to correct the malfunction as she basked in the gaze of the young man who held her hands and seemed to be leading her in some sort of dance, the music for which seemed to flow from their fluttering love-struck hearts.
Dane wanted to gag at the sight.
“That’s Solange,” Nina said.
“And the man thing?”
“Fernand Martel. Works at a bakery. They’ve been dating for about two months.”
“So a rich man’s daughter hangs out with a wage slave?”
“He doesn’t like the boy.”
“I don’t like him, either. Too slick,” he said, noting the designer shirt and slacks, his greased hair. Skinny, with prominent cheekbones and a jutting chin. “Looks like a crook. He doesn’t belong here. He belongs in an alley with a switchblade waiting for a sucker to walk by.”
“It’s the twenty-first century, honey. Muggers use stun guns nowadays. He’s okay.”
“You sure?”
“I checked him out. He has a birth mark on his rear end.” She grinned and nudged Dane with an elbow.
“Sure he does. What about the youngest son?”
“That would be Gerard. He’s over there by himself. He hardly says a word to anyb
ody, ever.”
She pointed at a young kid who stood against a wall holding a glass of champagne that, judging by the fluid level, he had not sipped; he looked around with a glazed expression. Blonde hair, about twenty pounds overweight, one hand in a pocket. He kept shifting his weight to one leg or the other.
“There’s a kid,” Dane said, “with a lot on his mind.”
“He’d rather be home playing video games,” Nina said.
Dane looked around at the party guests. “Do any of these people look like assassins to you?”
“Not one.”
He excused himself and wandered through the crowd, checking out the scene from different sides of the room. Nobody paid attention to him; nobody had the eyes of a hunter stalking a target; a look over at Daudet revealed that the fat lady in her gown was still babbling and Daudet was shooting pleading glances at his son Alexis, who was too tied up in a conversation with a skinny brunette with a tattoo down the center of her back to pay attention to the old man.
Presently the party finally broke up and the crowd flowed out into the cool night, some to waiting limos, the rest to the valet garage across the street. Dane led the Daudet family down the steps, with Nina bringing up the rear. He scanned the crowd but saw no threat. Cars in the street crept by. A shooter could fire from one of those cars, but there was no promise of a clear line of fire. The Daudets’ driver had the rear doors of their limo open, and Dane steered them that way. He looked at the garage across the street, scanning the levels and rooftop. That’s where he would hide were he a sniper. The rooftop was unlit, so no silhouette showed against the night sky. But then a flash winked in the dark. Dane tackled Nicholas Daudet as somebody behind let out a yell. The echo of the shot came next.
Dane pressed the older man into the sidewalk. Daudet’s wind whooshed out of him. The man squirmed underneath Dane and tried to push himself up; Dane forced him back down. “Stay!” More screaming, people rushing, shoes and heels scraping the pavement; somebody started yelling for police.
Nina shouted, “Gerard’s hit!”
Dane looked back. The rest of the family had dived for cover behind the front pillars of the opera house, but Nina lay atop Gerard, who was bleeding, his face twisted in agony.
“Get in the limo!” Dane shouted, hauling the elder Daudet to his feet, forcing him to stay bent at the waist as he shoved him into the back seat. He helped gather Gerard while Nina ushered the others forward. As Dane loaded Gerard into the limo, he noticed there had been no follow-up shots. Nina went in last. She pulled the door shut. Dane jumped back as the driver screeched into traffic.
Dane ran across the street, dodging stopped cars, and raced up the stairs of the parking structure. Once on the roof he saw a dark figure running. He ran after the shooter, his shoes crunching the loose gravel strewn across the roof. The rooftops of the surrounding buildings resembled an oddly shaped alien landscape. The sniper turned and fired from the hip. The bullet whined over Dane’s head. The sniper leapt from the edge of the roof to the neighboring building. Dane pounded across, jumped, and the hard shock of the landing jolted up his legs. The sniper turned again. A mask covered the shooter’s face. He fired another round, the projectile kicking up gravel near Dane’s right foot.
The sniper threw down his rifle and drew a knife. Dane’s momentum carried him into the sniper’s body, and they crashed flat in a tangle of arms and legs. Dane rolled and lashed out with a kick, his foot swishing through air as the sniper rolled away and came up slashing, driving Dane back. Dane punched the other man, following up with a roundhouse kick that the sniper ducked. The sniper dived head first into Dane’s midsection; the air rushed out of Dane’s lungs as his back took the force of the landing. The sniper rose, jumping back. He held the knife in front of him but made no move to strike.
The sniper said, “We can do this all night if you want.”
“Sean,” Dane said through gritted teeth.
Sean McFadden pulled off the mask. The sweat on his face shined in the lights from the street. “I could have shot you all down there, you know.”
The assassin laughed and took off running again and was gone.
Dane stood up, brushed off his clothes. His whole body hurt. He started back the way he came.
The Duchess again. McFadden again. Daudet the target. What did the man know, and why send somebody to kill him?
The answer would not be far away.
He made his way to the edge of the roof and looked down at the street. Police and emergency crews now dominated the boulevard. He could probably slip through the coverage, but just in case, he needed to be sans firearm. He unhooked the belt-clip holster from behind his back. The holster contained his Detonics Combat Master, and he could not be caught with it. He did not intend to be caught, but one had to plan for bad hands as well as good. He placed it in a corner. Not the best hiding place, but it would do for now. Taking the stairs back to the sidewalk, he reached the street and had started to turn and walk away from the commotion when the beam of a flashlight lit him up.
“Stop! Hands up!”
Dane let out a long breath and raised his hands.
“He’s bleeding all over!” Solange said.
“Keep pressure on the wound!” Nina told her.
“I can’t!”
The limo jolted over a pothole. Gerard cried out.
“Hold it like this!” Nina clamped a hand on the bundle of handkerchiefs she’d bunched together from everybody’s outfits and Solange’s purse, using the wad to try and stop Gerard’s bleeding. The sniper had shot him between the neck and shoulder, just beneath the collarbone, but that didn’t mean the collarbone hadn’t shattered from the force of the impact. Nina wasn’t an expert on wounds—all she knew for sure was that the boy was bleeding and needed medical attention fast. He couldn’t stay still, and twisted his body back and forth on the leather seat.
“Take it!” Nina said, removing her hand. The girl did as Nina had demonstrated. Nina glanced out the back window. Nobody was following them. The driver pressed the pedal to the floor and shouted that they were mere minutes from the hospital.
The elder Daudet sat against the door, his knees and elbows scrunched together, staring at the carpet. Not quite catatonic but not present, either. Alexis at least tried to keep his younger brother’s body still while his sister covered the wound.
The driver screeched the limo to a stop in front of the emergency room. Nina jumped out and started yelling for a medic. When an orderly saw the blood spatter on her gown, he raced out. Nurses and a doctor followed. They unloaded Gerard and, placing him on a stretcher, wheeled him into the hospital. Nina guided the family inside, literally pulling Nicholas Daudet by the arm. Once inside, she shuffled them into a corner of the waiting room that wasn’t occupied; other visitors across the room looked at them oddly. She could survive the looks but could not, alone, protect the group from another attack. But now that they were all inside the hospital, she could relax a little. Only a suicide attacker would dare a strike, and she didn’t think their opponents were that type.
She found a seat and slipped off her heels and rubbed her feet. She wondered where Steve was.
The policeman set a cup of coffee on the table, but Dane did not touch it. Black coffee wasn’t his thing. Especially police station black coffee.
He sat in a white-walled interrogation room with a single light burning above, handcuffed. He’d been there for three hours.
The man wore a navy blue suit and dark-rimmed glasses. He was older than most of the station cops Dane had seen so far and carried a weariness about him that he didn’t bother to conceal. He said, “Mr. Dane, I am Inspector Jean-Louis Ambard.”
“Good evening.”
Ambard lit a cigarette and sat at the table. He blew a smoke ring. “I know your record, Mr. Dane,” he said. “Interpol sent me some interesting tidbits, too. They think you’re a criminal.”
“Sure.”
“But I don’t.”
“What
gives you that idea?”
“There was an incident in Brussels last year. Something about a policeman’s fiancée being kidnapped; did you hear about it?”
“Maybe.”
“Perhaps I am a friend of the family. You never know; it’s a small world. I heard rumors…somebody helped the family, got the girl back, they lived happily ever after, all that. The family was very grateful. Maybe the policeman said something about it to me. I’m getting old, so I forget the details about things like that.” He blew out another stream of smoke. “Listen. The Daudet kid came to me a few days ago and said that somebody wanted to hurt his father. I pressed him but he had no details; when I insisted he tell more, he turned white and clammed up, as you Americans say.”
“You want something from me, Inspector.”
“No, I simply make suggestions. You don’t answer to me. But I do wield influence.”
“Meaning?”
“You know how it is.”
“Uh-huh.”
Inspector Ambard said, “Daudet has given a statement through his lawyer.”
“And?”
“He has confirmed your employment as a bodyguard because of threats against his life.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Mr. Daudet’s lawyer further demands that you either be released or charged. Charged with what, I really don’t know. If somebody had fired from the roof, you would be perfectly within your duties to investigate. We have some very eager rookies today who want to be famous cops and have movies made about them. I don’t understand them.”
“Okay.”
Ambard shrugged. “You are free to go, Mr. Dane.” He unlocked the handcuffs and placed the steel bracelets on the table.
“I’m sure I’ll see you again,” the French policeman said. “And I hope it’s not at the morgue.”
Dane, rubbing his wrists, did not hide his grin. “You and me both.”
