by Michele Hauf
I pride myself on superior performance.
I worked for Max four years, taking jobs without regard for the danger or the morality. I’d been young, and had only wanted to please Max. But after countless rounds of cleaning blood and other body parts from the backseat, I’d had enough. I tired of the criminal element Max worked with and six months ago, finally summoned the courage and told him so. Seems he’d known all along the criminal life was not for me. Max suggested I continue to drive, but for the other side. He knew of a covert rescue op that might be the thing—the Faction.
But Max had never gotten an opportunity to introduce me to the hard life. (That’s what we of the criminal persuasion call living the straight and narrow—the hard life.) Two months ago—the morning following my twenty-fifth birthday—Max died in a car accident. I still suspect it was a hit by the Network. It had to be. Max was the best driver on the road. And the Network wasn’t something you simply left.
If I had insisted Max spend the night celebrating my birthday, instead of allowing him to leave early for “business,” might he still be alive?
That was the question I tossed over and over in my brain. He’d been antsy and wired that evening. Had I been paying attention, I might have noticed he hadn’t drunk a thing. But I had found my own birthday celebration—sex with a handsome stranger—and hadn’t thought about Max until I’d gotten the phone call from Fitch the following morning.
The fact I hadn’t been marked as a suspect was a blessing. La lapine was a ghost—a quick ghost. Luck had a thing about following me. I didn’t mind at all. But I’ll never get cocky. My profession requires a hard edge, calm head, and in-the-moment thinking. Business is business.
But the rush had died after seeing Max lying on that cold steel morgue table. I’d felt like a little girl that day, waving goodbye to something that meant more than the world to me.
Two months later, I was now feeling the need for a bit more. Actually, it’s my pocketbook that’s been yawning widely of late, in need of filling. That’s why I’m behind the wheel today. The first job I’ve taken since Max’s death.
Makes me feel good to know I could help people simply by driving them away from the bad guys. It is a small repayment for the four years of illegal activity I’d happily engaged in while learning the ropes from Max.
I ran a palm over the charcoal paint curving toward the taillight. This car had belonged to Max. It’s all I have left of him. Save the few photos I had snuck out from his dresser that morning I’d met Fitch to search Max’s place for clues.
An airplane cut the sky in the distance. I guessed, from its downward trajectory, it headed into Charles de Gaulle. I followed the flight until it crossed over the steeple of Notre Dame and buzzed the little island of Saint-Louis. The Seine rippled with the wake.
Max had always told me to stop and see the beauty. Like the silver ripples on the Seine or the rosy blush of a sunrise. Max had been good folk. Just because he worked for the bad guys didn’t mean evil ran through his veins. Born into a family that ran weapons in dozens of war-ravaged countries, Max had known nothing else and had been looking to leave the criminal element, as well. He’d once said to me, “This is all I know, but you, you can be better.”
Max would send out a hooting cheer from his grave to know I had taken a step in the direction that called to me—legitimacy.
And Ewan MacAlister just might smile.
Chapter 3
Friday, 11:14 a.m.
“Location?”
One of two male passengers who had slid into the backseat relayed the correct drop-off location outside the city. The other—shorter, but dressed in the same unimaginative black business suit—remained stoic behind matching black wraparound sunglasses. The sky was overcast. Sunglasses were de rigueur for my clients.
I checked the rearview mirror. The men had exited a plain brick business building nestled between a glass-fronted cheese shop and a pottery store. Understated elegance, this neighborhood, it sat across from a large cemetery shadowed by lush ash trees. The risk of gunfire was just that—a risk. And yet, the hum from the nearby freeway could mask nefarious deeds.
There didn’t appear to be anyone sidling covertly down the cobbled sidewalk. No rain of bullets. Could this be an eventless pickup? How delightfully refreshing after a morning dodging bullets.
I gave a cursory glance over the suit coats of each of the men in the backseat, looking for visible weapons. I wasn’t about to become complacent in my new role. Even the good guys packed heat, because there was always a bad guy willing to take whatever they had away from them. The small black case held in the hands of the one who hadn’t spoken couldn’t hold anything larger than a good-sized dictionary.
I smirked at my straying thoughts. I doubted either of these two even cracked open a book, let alone a dictionary.
“Let’s go, conducteur!”
“Keep your trousers on, messieurs,” I calmly stated.
A tilt of the rearview mirror did not reveal any detractors. No bush snipers, not even a covert agent walking an inconspicuous dog.
Then, without missing a beat, I asked, “Payment?”
I never asked until arrival. But this time…something made me prompt for it up front. Call it intuition.
A thick white envelope landed the front passenger seat. The paper conformed to a shape that matched the euro banknote. I didn’t touch. But I didn’t enter the Paid confirmation into the laptop either.
Another glance in the rearview verified the quiet surroundings. What did I expect, sitting outside a graveyard?
Satisfied for the moment, I shifted into gear. “We’re good to go. Messieurs, buckle up, s’il vous plaît.”
Even with no noticeable tails, I would not yet count my chickens. The enemy always lurked, either around the corner or as a sniper on a rooftop.
Fitch was jacked in to the Audi—I knew the way—but it didn’t hurt to have backup should I gain a tail and my attention be distracted.
The road to the drop-off was a straight shot beyond la périph to an abandoned construction site that fed into the Marne River. What the passengers did from there was not my concern. I had merely to drop them off and drive away. Likely, they had another car—or perhaps a boat—waiting.
Twisting the silver dial on the dashboard, I adjusted the air-conditioning. It was too chilly, even with a long-sleeved blouse. Shuffling on my seat, I then stretched my left foot between shifting from third to fourth. Something distracted my focus. I felt…antsy.
I quickly dismissed the notion to turn up the tunes; I never played music with a client in the car. Besides being unprofessional, it kept me from hearing any whispered comments. My clientele was elite, but that didn’t mean I let my guard down. After feeling a few surprise gun barrels to the skull, a girl eventually learns.
As I approached the freeway on-ramp, my uneasiness did not subside. The men in black were quiet. Too quiet. They didn’t even talk among themselves. I thought to jostle them a little as I sped onto the on-ramp. I overtook the far right lane with a deft twist of the wheel. The passengers’ heads swayed to the left.
Not a complaint.
Ah well, they were probably nervous. Though what about, I could not guess. Not a single offensive vehicle had been spotted. We were not being followed.
So, why the need for a driver?
Must be academics. Yeah, I’d driven a few legit rides in the past. Max had all sorts of connections. I have learned that sometimes the show had to go on, so long as the cash sat right beside me. Scientists, especially, loved the drama of the getaway scenario.
The freeway traffic flowed easily and I released a held breath. Why was I so uptight? Sure, I’d been out of the game for a few months, but I wasn’t rusty. Just chill, Jamie. It’s like riding a bike—at one hundred kilometers an hour.
I smirked at my thoughts. That’d be fun to try, riding a bike at that speed.
Twenty minutes later, I exited and took a two-lane through the suburb of St-Maurice.
My passengers remained silent, their focus out the side windows. I hate passing through the suburbs, so many stops and lots of pedestrian hazards.
Soon enough, the countryside appeared. I turned onto a road that paralleled the Marne River and took us away from the clutter of traffic.
“Stop!”
Alerted by that sudden command, I eyed the men in the backseat. One of them clutched his gut and didn’t look well at all. Sweat beaded his forehead. Motion sickness? Of all the bloody—Worse things had occurred, but I was so not going to let this one get sick inside. I hated cleaning duty.
I shifted down and pulled over to the side of the loose gravel road.
“Merci,” the other man said. “We will take some air.”
They exited, the silent one towing the black case out behind him. The tall one leaned over the graveled ditch and began to gag.
“Lovely.” I closed my eyes, but shouted out the window, “Stand far away from the car, will you?” Palm caressing the stick, I prepared to shift into gear—when a familiar sound made the hairs all over my body prickle.
Gunfire? Way out here?
I remained in the car. Yes, my passengers were my priority, but so was my arse. The driver never leaves the vehicle; it’s a good rule to—
Another shot sounded and I saw a brief spark flash in the rearview mirror. I swung my head outside and looked down the rear of the Audi.
The silent man still held a gun pointed at the shattered left rear taillight.
“That was not necessary! What the—?”
I went quiet as the gun found a new target. Me.
Chapter 4
“Out!” The thug with the gun opened my door and gestured with his weapon. When I balked, he pressed the barrel above my left ear, none too gently, and shoved.
“Fine.” I swung out one leg, and then the other, slowly straightening to stand. I hated being forced to go against my instincts. But new instincts were kicking in that screamed, Be careful, play along, so I did.
Instinctively splaying my hands near my shoulders, palms facing out, I assessed both men. Both were nondescript, with receding brown hair. Neither was thin; one was a little pudgy in the jaw. Both worked out, to judge from their bulk, but not excessively, for no muscles bulged beneath the black suits. They wore long black leather coats, so Matrix five minutes ago. Black pants and shoes. Not polished, the shoes.
Thing Number Two had had a remarkable recovery. He hadn’t even been sick. The only idiot here was me.
And I’d had such a good start today.
“Step this way.” A wave of the gun prompted me to move to the left toward the back of the car.
I hate having a gun pointed at me. It had happened twice before in my notorious career. A dead stop in the middle of traffic—police or gun-toting tail close behind—usually took care of that problem. This was the first time it hadn’t occurred while I was driving.
I am not stupid. I know a gun wins over no weapon at all. But I wasn’t close to giving up.
The silent one leaned in to the front seat. Behind me, the boot popped open with a powerful thunk. My heart dropped with the same thunk.
Now Thing Number One casually walked around and placed the black case upon the open boot.
“Watch the paint,” I warned.
He then opened the case and took out a lasso of white rope. Nothing else inside the case. He tilted it to the ground and kicked it across the dirt.
Gaping at the slide of the empty black case across gravel, I took a step back. The Audi’s cool steel quarter panel melded to my thigh.
There was no package? This could not be happening.
Less then three steps behind me, the driver’s door hung open. The keys were still in the ignition. I could get far with a shot-out taillight. But I wouldn’t get nearly as far with a bullet hole in my head.
“What is this?” I asked. The silent one approached me, rope dangling teasingly. “Who are you? Who do you work for?”
The click of the trigger, ready for business, alerted me. The hard round barrel pressing into my skull silenced further protest.
Could I bargain with them? My life for the car? Easy getaway for them. Had they plans to abandon me and take off with the Audi? Go for it! The car was worth fifty thousand euros. Merry Christmas!
“Hands down,” the one with the rope said.
“But—”
He gripped my arm and roughly spun me, locking my wrists together behind me back. I barely had a moment to gather my wits. Wits, come together! Yeah, we’re right here, but we don’t like this situation any more than you do.
A mantra Max had taught me zinged through my thoughts. Always be prepared for the worst. A driver had a blind spot—his or her back. That’s why he should always be armed. And yet, this greatest day had seemed so promising that I’d foolishly left my apartment this morning without even considering a weapon.
The worst had not come for years. As a result, I had become complacent. I could throw a great left hook and also kick, scream and defend, thanks to the rough crowd I had hung around with in my teen years.
Right now, I was too surprised to consider defense.
And what would I pay for that lack of surety? Rape? Murder? Both?
“There was no package,” I muttered as Number Two shoved me around the back of the car. No, not in the boot. Would they shoot it full of bullets? I dug in my heels. The gravel crunched. “Tell me what is going on!”
Male grunts seemed sufficient exchange as the man with the gun pocketed his weapon and bent to grab my ankles.
“Where are you taking me?”
I managed a kick, but the angle was off and the rubber soles of my Vans did little more than smudge the knee of his pressed pants. I began to squirm, but a thought—conserve your energy—overcame me.
“Tell me!” I protested. My last bit of confidence left with that shout, but I did get an answer.
“Back to the city. Now, shut up, demoiselle.”
The nerve of him, to address me like a snooty waiter trolling for a tip. Back to the city? Really? Why?
I didn’t care. I could work with back to the city. I relaxed my tense posture and sunk into the rough hands of my kidnappers.
Dumped in the boot, I landed on my shoulder and let out a yelp. Instinctively, I stretched out my legs to a semi-bend, but couldn’t move them straight. If the backseat were down, I might stretch out completely. Could I get into the backseat from here? What good would that do me? Without a weapon, it was a ridiculous option.
The slam of the boot lid ratcheted my heartbeat to a thunderous pace. I winced and realized I’d bitten my lower lip. Blood tasted bitter on my tongue, but not as bitter as the situation. I thought I’d scream, but kept silent. And listened.
No conversation on the outside. Completely dark inside. Save for the shiny illumination of the release tag dangling above my head.
“What luck.”
I rolled my shoulder across the heavy felt floor of the boot and eyed the fluorescent tag. God save the Queen. Unless the Queen’s hands were bound behind her back and she couldn’t reach the bloody tag. What good was a release tag if one couldn’t touch it!
Relax, Jamie, my wits soothed. They are taking you back to the city. Just wait it out until the time is right.
The red glow of the brake lights seeped through the felt lining. If I could kick out a taillight, I might stick out a toe and attract attention as they drove me to some undisclosed location. If they were being honest about returning to Paris, my chances rose measurably.
If they were being honest. When did I start trusting the bad guys?
They hadn’t shot the boot full of holes. One thing to be thankful for. Maybe they were drawing straws to see who would do the deed. Had I been singing that this was my greatest day only hours earlier?
Poor choice of theme song.
Now I heard footsteps crunch the gravel outside.
The passenger door opened. I angled my head toward the rear seat. Muffled voices echoed f
rom inside the car. The ignition—I hadn’t switched it off—suddenly revved. The shift of gears ground horribly. Bastards. I’d get them for touching my car. Max’s car. I’d never gotten a chance to say goodbye to him. This was the only piece of Max Montenelli I still had.
Without this car, I was alone in the world.
A sickening rock of movement notched up my panic mode—but just a tad. Never let them take you to crime scene two. Unless, that place is in a populated city. I closed my eyes, praying my intuition would get me out of this mess alive.
The force of movement rolled my body and my face smashed against the scratchy felt covering the taillight. “Ouch.”
Now to wait. Twenty minutes would place us back in the city. Situation? Grim. New theme song? Queen’s “I Want To Break Free.”
Suddenly the radio began to blare. A few stations crackled as they sorted through various easy listening songs and finally landed on a raucous beat by Ministry. “Jesus Built My Hotrod.” Oh, the humiliation.
The sudden notion to slip my bound hands under my feet made me smirk despite the rattle of my teeth as the vehicle peeled across loose gravel. Prepare for opportunity. Right.
With a painful squeeze of my shoulder blades, and by sliding one foot back and over my wrists and then the other, I managed it.
Hands now in front of me, I reached for the tag. Should I pull the release, the boot would fly open. The Audi had picked up speed. We’d returned to la périph, if my guess was right, but it was difficult to determine with the frantic music blasting my senses. If we were on the freeway, now was no time to jump out. I’d be crushed like a pain au chocolat on the tarmac, or worse, splattered onto the hood of a semitruck.
Was that a worse scenario than being crushed? Why did my mind even want to compare gruesome to grim?
This music was too loud! My fingers shook and I wanted to scream.
